Meiyazhagan - My Best Friend's story

Disclaimer : Could contain spoilers for the movie Meiyazhagan. 

I just finished watching the movie Meiyazhagan and my heart is full. No romances or tragedies, no long drawn battles or great fables, just a simple story of reminiscences. Still the movie had my eyes locked on the actors through the entire duration, drinking their performances in, not needing to pause or look away. 

Lately I've been feeling calloused and disconnected as I was not feeling connected or empathetic with the characters in recent movies that I've been watching. I feared if this was a sign of me getting older! Thank God for this gem of a movie for making me emote with onscreen characters again.

Aravind Swamy and Karthi's performances touched my heart so deeply with their own uniquely natural performances, that I couldn't help my eyes tearing up every once in a while. And it wasn't only them , though Karthi's innocent, heart warming smile gets me every single time. The uncle, the niece, Karthi's wife in the movie, even the flower seller, I'm moved to believe that they genuinely should be such simple and emotional human beings to be able to heart-warmingly portray that village innocence that almost suffocates you. 

The reason why words tumble out of my mind now is also because the movie took me on a very personal journey down memory lane; through the sparkling smiles of my childhood best friend Paru. My Meiyazhaghi. She was exactly the same way as Karthi's character is portrayed, excessively talkative, overwhelmingly affectionate, always by my side eating my ear off with her nonstop laughter and chatter. Just like in the movie, I had also placed a bet with her to see if she could remain quiet for the duration of a day.  The similarities are uncanny. And like Aravind's character I have also been ridden of guilt when I have pushed her away several times because of my own nature. I just couldn't keep up with her affection and pure love.

Memories flashed in front of my eyes as I watched the movie. As Karthi follows Aravind Swamy to the bathroom, I remembered a hilarious incident that happened when we were in the fourth standard. She was as usual chattering away happily by my elbow, stuck to my side, as I told her I need to go to the bathroom. She continued to follow me and happily chatted on and she even almost entered my bathroom stall not realizing where she was! We laughed loudly and she went back out with an "Oh! sorry!". 

I still remember her lunchbox with lovlolikkas and her small bottle of yoghurt. I still remember her singing the song "Manjakili, Swarnakili" everytime a new teacher came to class and asked the children to introduce themselves. And I remember her saying during lunchtime one day, under the big arch in front of our school, that she did not have the money to buy a Sip-up everyday like me. My heart melted for her and I bought her one. She was such a simple soul that she cried loudly when she realized I had bought it for her. 

My school memories are filled with her affection and simple love. Her laughter and her tears. As Aravind Swamy told Karthi in the movie, I should have told her - Don't ever change. 

I never told her that. Life happened over the next few decades and we have both changed - we are stronger and bolder today. Though no matter how old we get, that sparkle and laughter of her love will always remain. 

Love is not enough

Is Love enough?

One of the short stories we had to study in school was "Love, Love, Love Alone" by V. S. Naipaul from his collection "Miguel Street". The story is about Mrs.Hereira and her abusive husband Tony. Every time she runs to her neighbour, bruised and crying, her neighbour advises her to leave Tony. And every single time she defends him claiming that he loves her deeply. Teenage me believed in the transformational power of love and was confused when love wasn't enough for them and she finally leaves him.

The first time, though, that I seriously considered the question "Is love enough?" was when I sat along with my (now ex-) husband in front of our marriage counsellor. I said plaintively at some point "But we love each other so much!" . She calmly and quietly replied, "Love isn't as important in a marriage as you would think!" Being a true romantic till that point, I was quite disappointed by her statement. I listened on quite sceptically. She said " You have lived together for 9 years. Love will automatically happen. There are however three main pillars for a healthy marriage. Respect, Trust and Care."

I gradually realized that my marriage was a 0/3 with respect to these three aspects. And that was why we were doing so poorly. Of course, if either of us were to suddenly collapse and fall to the floor, the other would be filled with worry and would rush the other to the hospital because we loved each other deeply. But was that enough?

If you have no intrinsic respect for your partner, contempt will creep into your words and actions. Contempt rings the death knell in any relationship, especially so in marriage.
If you don't have a trusting relationship with your partner, you cannot be your authentic self with them. That means that you cannot even heal and grow as human beings.
And without care, there can be no real intimacy between two souls and bodies. What sort of a relationship is it, that you have to collapse on the floor and be dying if you have to be touched with care ?

Caveat - This is of course no reason to give up on a relationship, if both partners are committed to growing and healing. Respect, trust and care can grow too with commitment.

We need to ask ourselves this question "Is love enough?" with respect to all our relationships. I recently spoke to a lady whose brother was showing zero interest in her well being. She was hugely pained by his lack of care for her but she continued to initiate conversations with him, repeatedly wishing him "Good morning" everyday. Seeing her pain, I told her to give him space to understand her role in his life and to let him come back to her if he really wanted her , to stop sending him any more "Good morning" s until he showed any real interest in her. But she refused to stop, because he was her own blood and she loved him no matter what the case was. She failed to realize that with each Good morning, she was stooping lower and lower in her own self respect and in turn, his respect for her too plummeted.

Does being born to the same set of parents automatically amount to respect and care in a relationship? We also need to learn to respect ourselves before we can expect others to respect us. In recent years, I myself have adopted a 3 strike rule. If you don't show the same amount of interest as I do in our relationship, I will try three times - which could mean, initiate a conversation three times in a well spaced period. And if the other person doesn't initiate a conversation even after the third try I let it go. I don't compromise on this for the sake of my own self respect. Sometimes it is also a matter of adjusting the frequency of our catch ups to a more convenient pace for the both of us based on our schedules. No resentment or grudge to be harboured when people don't mean any harm personally, but, there is just a mismatch in schedules or expectations. This is also where we need to give them time and space, so both parties know their place in each other's lives.

The question "Is Love enough" applies even more with respect to our love for our children. I saw this reel the other day that said "Everybody says they would die for their kids but would you - work on your marriage for them ? Get healthy for them ? Learn new hobbies for them ? Heal past traumas for them ? Stop smoking or drinking for them ? Fix your mental health for them ? Be the person that God intended to be for them ?" Love alone will not make them healthy, happy, confident and resilient. While each of us works on our preferred style of parenthood, one thing is for sure. We need to go beyond love, out of our love for them.

Respect

Listen to me dear man child, listen to my tale

I'd like to tell you a story, of this daughter of the Earth

Why does this world clamour for her dignity and respect?
You ask, why is she unique, what makes her rare and special?

She is thirteen or thirty three, but she has one thing in common
The canvas of her life has one vivid undertone
Her eyes may be hazel or blue or black or brown
But the fabric of her body has been woven out of Pain

What pain you ask? It only makes her human.
It is only the story of every other pair of legs
Let me tell you about this pain that only a woman holds
For it is not like any you have ever seen or ever will.

Her cheeks are still soft, almost chubby still
When she stands alone one day in a pool of her own blood
She is confused and scared but for the first time in her life
She is truly alone and she is shivering in fright

She is taught about life but all she feels is pain
The tremble of her legs and the wrenching pull in her tummy
She is too young to understand the science of pain,
but Pain itself, of course, she gets and feels deeply.

In the face of pain, final and cruel
She grapples with the questions of life
Why is life so unfair? Why is this only me?
No escape for me ,while my brother plays carefree?

Then she grows into more pain, for her life is designed so
Pain is her legacy, her birthright and her salvation.

Child, her delicate skin might seem different from yours
But remember, it is not yours to be crushed like paper
She has curves and she has curls but they are not for you to destroy
She is beautiful notwithstanding whatever she thinks of herself.

She is the vessel of procreation, what else would she be?
If not ecstatically desirable like a golden bowl of fruit?

Her eyes might bewitch you, her lips might flame fire
but remember always and forever.. her body is autonomous!
She is Queen of herself and she is beyond her own skin
She is clever and silly and she is brave and funny too!

Respect her my child, for she is Goddess divine.
Treat her like one and she will grace you for life

Every time you touch her or even speak to her,my dear
Understand well she is a product of a cycle of pain and fear
She has gone through hell but she is steel underneath
Know who you are dealing with before you look upon her

For she is formidable and brave, dont you take her for granted, no.

She dealt with blood daily when you were playing your cowboy games
She coped with lechery when you had time to study
She screams through deathly pain when she creates your progeny
And she rises back up, proper Phoenix from the flames, and then she is Mother.

Now let me ask you my child, at this end of this story..
Will you still dare touch her without thinking twice and then once more?
Will you take her for granted and toy with her feelings
Or will you fall at her feet and worship the living sun ?

Summer with Vivian

Vivian,
Sometimes I wonder where you are.

Today I remembered those warm sunny days,
Our endless summer vacation,
Two eleven year olds on our blue and red bicycles,
With wide open smiles, like our pure white hearts.

The roads were wide too, quiet and Serene.
Unexplored and rolling up and down,
New roads, by-lanes, and muddy back roads
Posed no challenge for young hearts and legs.

Our summer was busy and exciting
Nimbly scaling walls of abandoned houses
Peeping through stained dusty windows and cobwebby corridors
Holding bated breaths and jumping at imagined ghosts
And then running away finally
Hearing the beat of the watchman's stick.

Finding innovative ways to make hibiscus oil
Making new games with sticks,stones and leaves,
Reaching home giggling and dirty to find to our great joy
Two tiny little kittens, pawing at each other
Green eyes peeping from under rags in the backyard.
Sheer delight, Happiness, pure bliss.
We knew nothing, yet had everything.

Gang wars with the rowdy boy around town
Bicycle races down the block.
Setting up mock vegetable shops
With French beans collected from the ground
near the neighbourhood vegetable stall.
Being caught and then driven away
Laughing and running away in glee.

Vivian with his never dying smile and sense of adventure,
Vivian with his April Fool's practical jokes,
Vivian with his mother who died of asthma,
Vivian my hero.

"Vivian left last night" Mom said one morning.
"No! No way Vivian would leave!" I laughed,
"You fell for one of his practical jokes!" I scoffed.

I went to his house, knocked on his door,
A quiet lonely silence answered me back.
I went around the house searching for his bicycle.
And all that stared back was an eerie emptiness.

I took my cycle and went to the vegetable stall,
the book club and the road behind it too.
I searched for him for hours in the sun.
No, he wasn't there, or here or there too.

The sun was beginning to set
It started to rain and it suddenly got cold
and easily and without warning, the tears started flowing.
My knees started shaking and I couldn't pedal any longer
And then it finally sunk in. He had actually left.

I reached home softly wailing
at the sadness and finality of loss
Those emotions were pure too
Just like our past joy and glee.

Like a beautiful ephemeral dream, our blissful friendship had ended
Abruptly and painfully, the summer ended too.
Vivian had left our community, his dad had got relocated,
And nobody thought of telling the 11 yr old kid next door.

But Vivian, I still do wonder,
Where you and your mischievous smile are,
But wherever you are, I still do hope
That you remember me and that Summer.

Dad's Blanket

It was dark and light mustard
Not too pretty in fact
Jagged edges et al
But still a warm blanket.

I chanced upon it this morning
In and out of cupboards I was going
Foraging for a sock
Too many deadlines, too much of life .

It stopped me in my tracks, shocked me to my core
When my eyes fell upon dad's blanket
And I remembered why I'd saved it -
It had his scent, his memories and his warmth.

Everything flooded back in a flicker
His affectionate smile and caring love
His laughter and his dad jokes
His big paunch and his kind eyes

There was more of him earlier,
Shirts, ties and jackets too
One by one they'd lost his scent
And only this blanket held him still.

All these years I was deeply scared
To take this blanket out from hiding
Because if it didn't have him too
I'd know for sure, I'v lost him forever.

I slowly held it close to me
To savour an old smell once more
But I had to acknowledge what I already knew deep inside
The scent was long gone and dead.

But then! The hurt was gone, the cut had scarred
New life, healthy and supple, had washed over
Still his witty smile and the twinkle in his eyes
And his bottomless patience and love for me remains.

All that I know now is, Even when its dark
And there's no hope or happiness in sight
Even when I forget .. to love myself
His love drags me back, I'm daddy's little girl

If he could love me,
I know, So Can I.

A Day in the life of a Hospitable Housewife

This sunny school day was no different for Geetha. Chores started from 5 in the morning - starting with rice in the pressure cooker, pressing and ironing the kids' and Ravi's clothes, getting the stove to parallel process as many food items from breakfast and lunch as possible, all the while running around like a mini cargo train, lifting pieces of paper waste from the floor from little Maya's art work from yesterday, picking discarded pieces of clothing from the sofa, the dining table and the beds and finding appropriate landing spots for each item ; Geetha's day chugged along merrily.

In fact Geetha felt quite smart and confident today! She had her morning routine quite under control, everything in its place and a place for everything. Discipline is key. Who said women had to be nags and complaint boxes and perpetually in a bad mood while doing household chores. "Stupid movies always portraying women in a bad light. Hmph!" She thought. She could write a book on how to flow smoothly through the day without a single crease on her face or her clothes!

4 pm. Kids would be home soon after their tuition classes and Ravi too. All was still going well. Today's snacks were banana fritters - the kids favourites.
Just as she was smugly placing them in her fancy new casserole, contemplating how she even managed to make snacks today without ruffling a single feather, she heard the gate clink open.

A man in mundu and shirt seemed to be at the door. She half smiled courteously, mouth a bit open unable to identify the stranger but the ever hospitable host. He entered a bit hesitantly too..."Ravi... is this Ravi's house... Federal Bank Ravi..." "Yes yes...Ravi's house only..Please come..Please come" she said warmly, her body exuding hospitality and friendliness. "My name is Madhavan Pillai. I am an old friend of Ravi's...haha.. I do not even know if he will recognize me now!"  "Ohh...I see I see.. Please do sit. Make yourself comfortable please." and pointed at the cane chairs in the verandah. "You must be so tired. Quite a hot day outside.Tea? Coffee? Buttermilk?" "No no its fine.." "No please dont say that...Buttermilk? Tang?" "Uhh.. ok.. if you insist, a glass of buttermilk would be good".

Smart bustly movements in and out of the kitchen and a tall glass of cool buttermilk appeared in the visitor's hands in the blink of an eye.

He took a sip and looked up at her. She smiled broadly and warmly. "Tell THAT to your friend Ravi who says I dont know how to make guests feel welcome! " she thought and smirked. He smiled back innocently, overwhelmed. What a gracious host Ravi's wife was!

He laid the empty glass down after a few minutes and looked back at her. "You know, Ravi and me used to be best friends in school! His mom used to make lunch for me and mine for him! Because we started exchanging lunch boxes in 3rd standard itself... hahaha" "Aah is it...So nice so nice" she chuckled and replied.
"Do you know what happened once in 5th std. Our Maths teacher Menaka Ma'am..." He went on to relate story after story and she chuckled loudly and politely at the end of every single sentence as politely as was humanly possible.

An hour had gone by. The evening sun beat down on them and seemed to dry everything up including their throats. Geetha's cheeks had begun to hurt half an hour back itself with the strain of artificial laughter. Madhavan Pillai's jovial demeanor had also started to run out along with his repertoire of childhood memories. A fly buzzed lazily on top of the empty glass and flew away. For a second both of them looked longingly at the fly, wishing they had sprouted wings and could fly away too. Suddenly they caught each other's gaze and smiled ingratiatingly again, for the one thousandth time since his entry an hour back. Both grew tired, gave up soon and looked away, she at her hands and Pillai outside at the garden.

" Your garden is maintained so well by the way! I do have to say! Your hands have done nothing short of magic on the rose bushes! What a beautiful variety of colour!" "Ohhh no no no, I hardly have time for flowers! That's all Raviettan's doing. He just adores them! Built the entire garden layout with his own two hands!"

There was a moment of silence. Pillai's face seemed slightly confused. "Oh! Well. I admire his spirit then...to be able to manage so well such physically taxing tasks with the sort of disability he has... " Geetha smiled slightly in confusion " I mean.. Its a wonder how he manages to do gardening with just one hand! Lucky that he has use of his right hand I suppose!" Now Geetha was completely bewildered. " Chetta I really dont know what you mean!" Pillai replied. "My dear of course I am talking about the fact that Ravi lost his left hand in his dad's sugarcane machine at the age of 4! I used to help him with most of his tasks because of that! That's how we became so close!" Geetha was now downright insulted and stood up abruptly. "My dear sir let me assure you. My husband has perfect use of both his hands! He is in fact quite strong too let me make it clear!" 

Pillai rose from his seat, his face completely changed. A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead and his face began to flush. He looked around the room for the first time searching for photographs hanging on walls. He looked back at her and said ... "Ravi... Federal Bank Ravi..." She nodded in agreement.He continued " Raveendran Panicker...from Muvattupuzha...Father farmer..." his voice trailed off seeing her reaction. All the hospitality drained from her face, she pursed her lips slightly and swallowed. "Ravikumar Menon. Aluva. Father had a shop in the junction." she whispered quietly and defeatedly. 

There was nothing left to do. He hung his head and walked out slowly. She stood at the steps leaning on the pillar and looked at his receding figure hopelessly. Then she turned around, walked to the chair and sat on it, resting her head on her palm, contemplating the past hour and other deeper thoughts such as the meaning of life. After a full solid ten minutes she rose quietly and walked slowly into the kitchen.   

 

Memory of a Rainy Day

This little girl
Was ten years old
And this dark cosy room
Had a thin tin roof

The rain was so heavy
It sounded less like rain
And more like a drumroll
On big steel drums

This little girl
Had a book in her hands
Nancy Drew was busy
On the threshold of adventure

A big warm blanket
Loomed over her head
Big enough to bury her
Toes fingers and book

She brought an edge down
Of the warm cosy blanket
Slowly, excitedly
Anticipation peaked

The shriek of thunderous rain
As it beat the roof down
Drove her back inside
Gleefuly to her book

The memory of this day
A perfect Time capsule
Buried in the safety
Of her secure childhood

To be retrieved and revisited
When the Adult experienced rain
When there was time to indulge,
To sink deep in dark cosy bliss.

Goodbye

Our friendship died 

In a box in the past

Reeking of hatred 

But quiet at last

The pastor drenched it 

In Holy Spirit

Coz sprinkling a few drops 

Wasn't going to do it

The body had to be burnt 

Right into the soil

As friends and family 

Pitied the turmoil

So putrid was the stench 

of horrible betrayal 

So infectious the disease 

of unsettled scores

But after it was burnt 

the soil was good

Healthy saplings 

grew shy and strong

Green faith in humanity 

and firm belief in oneself

Took the place of judgement

jealousy and such hell

What was once spiteful 

hateful and bitter

Was replaced with wisdom,

kindness,tolerance and vigour

So all is well, 

You are where you are

I am where I am, 

We exist . Separate and serene. 

Candy

Little Rudra

Eyes shut for just a moment
Lips caught in a playful smirk

Toddler tummy held erect
Chubby feet wrapped around

Ashen blue against a silver moon
Little Rudra knows not His power

A single thrust of this still Trident
Could rip a hole in the open sky

The Great Lord is the immortal Yogi,
Primordial Conqueror of omnipotent Death

Let Him be, let Him play
For when He grows, He has to slay

Let the world wait for Him awhile
Let Him not open His Third Eye.

Adam

Adam's rib and half a lung.
Life without either is less than whole

The cost of new life is just the same
Of blistering attraction, love and pain.

Brown eyes hide secrets in mirthful glee
a surgeon's knife cannot cut through thee

Callous abuse and mindless neglect
Aren't easy childhoods to collect.

Eve can only sin and cry, though
Mature and lifeless Adam remains

For no love can break this rusty fortress
Built from harsh touches and mental messes

Eve looks on and sighs helpless
No serpent new, no new day hopeless.

Pain...

Pain is when you shower a thousand warm hugs and kisses
On an impassive body and heart.
Pain is hoping for a little warmth, but being left alone on the cold side of the bed.
Pain is an "I love you" with just silence as a reply.

Pain is also when half your soul gets lost 
In the form of a dear best friend
Trailing behind sleepless confessional nights and lost love. 

Pain is when your father dies and they tell you to be strong
And then leave in three days because it isn't their life it is yours.

Pain is when in the silence of your mind, you feel irretrievable Loss
Uncompromising Loss that you cant work your way out of

Pain.

"Acute pain has a protective function,
it motivates us to withdraw from damaging or potentially damaging situations, 
protects the injured body part while it heals, 
and avoids those situations in the future"

Pain means you are alive and healing.
It means your body, mind and soul are brave
And are rallying to deal with the reality of the trauma.

When you stop feeling pain and stop crying
Look blankly ahead, dead and empty
When you are completely lost and cant find yourself
That is when its really over.

So be glad for the sting of pain
It is the pain that lets you heal and not the avoidance of it. 

In the riot of colours that Life is, Pain is a deep mauve.
But beyond it is the blue of Freedom and Joy! 

My Pain is my teacher .. my Pain is who I am today.
So no regrets, no looking back

Just glad for the lessons learned and the strength earned
Wouldn't have it any other way!  

Pigeon Mom and Survival

When I returned from my ten day vacation I noticed something had changed in my house. We had an uninvited guest.An Athithi..somebody who decided to visit us without informing us of the Thithi.

My small city apartment balcony squeezes in my noisy washing machine (which reminds me during spin cycles of a fettered animal spirit, rioting to break free), a barely alive frigid Tulsi plant and a stronger braver money plant , the last two being attempts by my mother to make my flat a home. As I was moving through said balcony freely, I was stopped on my tracks by the sound of the beating of strong wings flurrying in panic, hitting wildly at random objects. I noticed this big mature blue green Apartment pigeon (city slick cousins of the Rock Pigeon) breaking into an escape through the narrow grills of my balcony. She seemed to be building a nest under the cover of a big green basin we had placed outside. This nest building is an occurrence that is becoming more and more common each day in Bangalore.

Over the last few days I'v been observing her.  After laying her little white egg, she sits on it smugly, slightly nervous only when we throw the balcony door open abruptly, unthinkingly. Sometimes we see her flurry out when we are up and about in the adjoining kitchen. She tries to spend as much time as possible hatching her egg in the unusually severe cold winter.

I keep thinking of the odds stacked against her. The winter coupled with our unexpected return surely disturbed her plans. Are the conditions warm enough to bring forth burgeoning life? I wonder.

It is bare survival for her and the little life within the fragile shell which, after all, has just the right amount of strength to serve its purpose. Thankfully for the pigeon, it seems emotions, anxiety, tension, worry etc. are qualities exclusive to humans!

Mothers are unique creatures. Almost anything will be done to ensure survival of progeny. Human moms are just the same too that way. Unfortunately, even when the costs are too high. In the face of domestic abuse,absence of love,respect or care in the marriage etc. , self respect,dignity and quality of life are the first to be thrown out of the sinking ship of marriage. Who needs those as long as the children are fed,clothed and have a place to sleep.

Today I felt this is where human behaviour differs a bit... in that humans get used to living like that. Long after children become self sufficient, often long after their self respect can be salvaged, the abusive chains remain. Sometimes timely help arrives in the form of good friends or spirituality.

A woman needs to learn from a very young age that all that is required is within her .. whether it is courage, wisdom or the ability to not only rear a child but to lead her own life exactly the way she wants to, without suffering a beating to her body or mind. If there is kindness,love and compassion to support you well and good.. if not? Even the pigeon trusts in itself or in the laws of the universe when it starts building its lone nest and prepares to bring life into this world. Can't we evolved humans too?

സ്ത്രീകൾക്ക് പ്രവേശനമില്ല

എണ്പത്തിമൂന്നു  വയസ്സുള്ള മുത്തശ്ശിക്കു  പത്തു വയസുള്ള  കൊച്ചുമോളെ കാണണം.കൂത്തമ്പലത്തിലെ ദേവിക്കു കുരുതി നേർന്നു.ഇനി അവൾ വരും.

വന്നു. ഇനി ദേവിയെ കാണാൻ അമ്പലത്തിലേക്ക് .അകത്തമ്മയും കാർത്യായിനിയും കൂട്ട്. എല്ലാം സ്ത്രീകൾ തന്നെ.

സുബ്രഹ്മണ്യന്റെ നടയുടെ  മുൻപിൽ തുള്ളിചാടിയെത്തി.പകുതിയെ  കാണുന്നുള്ളു .ആണുങ്ങൾക്കു  മുഴുവനും  കാണാം. കുറച്ചു കുനിഞ്ഞു തൊഴുതാൽ കുറച്ചുകൂടെ കാണാം .

ഉള്ളിൽ സ്ത്രീകൾക്കു പ്രവേശനമില്ല.

ചെണ്ട കൊട്ട്  തലയിൽ മുഴങ്ങുന്നു ...ചെറുതായ്  തല കറങ്ങുന്നുണ്ട്. നിന്ന്  മടുത്തു , പക്ഷെ നിന്നേ പറ്റൂ.

തിരുമേനി ആണുങ്ങൾക്ക് പ്രസാദം കൊടുക്കുന്നുണ്ട്. ഇനി എട്ടുപത്തു ആണുങ്ങളും കൂടിയൊള്ളു . അതുകഴിഞ്ഞു സ്ത്രീകൾക്കു തരും.

തിരുമേനി വന്നു പ്രസാദം തന്നു .ഇനി കൂത്തമ്പലത്തിലേക്കു ഓടാം !

കല്ലും മണ്ണും  കാലിൽ കുത്തുന്നുണ്ട് .കൂത്തമ്പലത്തിലെ കൊത്തുപണിയില്ലാത്ത പഴേ കുറുന്തോട്ടി തൂണ് ! തണുത്തു നനഞ്ഞ പടിയിൽ കാലു വച്ചു...താഴെ മാറിനിൽക്കുന്ന സ്ത്രീ പറഞ്ഞു "സ്ത്രീകൾക്കു പ്രവേശനമില്ല "

മുത്തശ്ശി  പറഞ്ഞു "കൊച്ചുപിള്ളേർക്കു കയറാം" .അവർ പിറുപിറുത്തു , എന്റെ  മുഖം വാടി .അപ്പൊ സ്ത്രീ ആയി! ശരി.

"കുരുതി പ്രസാദം ഇലയിൽ വെളിയിൽ വെച്ചിട്ടുണ്ട് " ആ സ്ത്രീ പറഞ്ഞു ..."ധാരാളം ഉണ്ട് . എത്ര വേണമെങ്കിലും  എടുത്തോളൂ " .അതിനെങ്കിലും  കണക്കൊന്നുമില്ല .നന്നായി.

തിരിച്ചു താഴോട്ടിറങ്ങി .മുത്തശ്ശി ദേവിയെ ഉറക്കെ വിളിച്ചു ."എന്റെ ഭഗവതി ..എന്റെ കുഞ്ഞിനെ കാണാൻ കിട്ടിയല്ലോ !". ഉള്ളിൽ നിന്നു ദേവി കേട്ടുകാണണം.

"ഇവിടുന്ന കാണാം" മുത്തശ്ശി പറഞ്ഞു . "വിളക്കു  കണ്ടോ .....അത് ദേവിയുടെ മുന്നിലാണ്" .വിളക്കു  കണ്ടു...ദേവിയെ കണ്ടില്ല .അത്രേ കാണു  ഇനി മുതൽക്കു....

ഉള്ളിലേക്കു സ്ത്രീകൾക്ക് പ്രവേശനമില്ല.

A Million Souls in Me

Image courtesy Pinterest

A million souls dance in me tonight.
A soul for every God I knew
One soul each for every thought accepted
And one for every idea rejected

Not just one soul
That escapes when cancer encroaches
from the burning pyre or the putrid worms

Not just one soul that will be reborn
Or a soul that will see heaven or hell.

A 15 year old innocent soul too
That still believes there is good in people
And a 40 year old wise soul
That knows how to be wary still

And in this dance I meet your soul tonight
A few thousand souls of mine find rhythm
With just a few thousand of yours

While a few more clash violently
Against rocky precipices
A few more flow calmly beside you
not intermingling...just observing
Staying unique, knowing their birthplace.

This is the true cosmic dance
The nature of man
His origin and his end
With no ultimate meaning but immense depth.

Nothing matters at the end of it all
Except to dance this dance with beauty and grace
Till the ebb recedes...
Till the Gods are quiet.

My Love

Aami - A few thoughts

"What can be taken away from Kamala Das's poem is this technique of poetry writing," my teacher said "To deeply observe and record the experiences of the five senses - sight,smell,hearing,taste and touch."

Upon hearing this, I looked once more at the page on my poetry textbook and visualized it as it was meant to be. Standing right there where she stood...seeing and feeling what she did... That was the first time I remember enjoying Poetry. Over the following years I read a few more of her works in English and I gradually decided that I was a fan of Kamala Das's soulful writing. 

I went to watch Aami with trepidation about director Kamal's selection of Manju Warrier for the role of Madhavi Kutty. Still, I readied myself to bear an open mind, curious to know what this biopic of the engimatic Kamala Surayya had in store for the audience. 

Her childhood years spent in the strict confines of a disciplined household in Calcutta, sweetly punctuated by vacations spent in her Grandmother's tharavadu, was quite often the theme of her writings. I felt that the film portrayed this phase quite well, house, grandmothers et al. The deep kohl of the eyes, the curly black hair, the dusky colour and the chocolate-melting sweet smile - altogether, little Kamala's casting was spot on. Among the servants, Valli was a perfect cast too though Janu and the other servants seemed a bit too plump and proudly devoid of the humble shoulder-slump one can observe among women who are used to permanently bending in the backbreaking housework involved in the maintenance of a large sprawling old tharavadu with endless "muttams" to sweep all day. Small flaws aside, Young Kamala's curious inquiries about caste and God kept me engaged.

Next came the 15 yr old Kamala who, purely with respect to looks, was the best cast with deep lovely black eyes and plump cheeks. However it did sadden me to see that the director used no discretion in shooting intimate scenes involving the uber masculine Murali Gopi and this child, her feet, her fingers and her face still not having lost its baby-ishness. I kept wondering if this itself would'nt qualify as child sexual abuse and recoiled in distaste!

Fully understanding and even agreeing with the requirement of such scenes to accurately portray (the trauma of) Kamala's early marriage,I feel, with current advancements in technology, Manju herself wouldn't have been a horrible fit here...at least for the purposes of sparing this child the obvious trauma of shooting these scenes with Murali.

And then came Manju Warrier - an actress of such great caliber and talent,  determined to give her sincere best to a role for which she was sadly and thoroughly miscast. 

As I remember Kamala Das (the name Kamala Surayya still not flowing easily on my lips), what I recollect first is the brilliant twinkle in her eyes...the twinkle that never lost shine and never failed to appear in a single photo or video of hers, notwithstanding the year or her age. Manju Warrier's eyes seemed dead mostly, her own charming spirit unable to break through the heavy makeup. At best they portrayed sadness and anger at appropriate times. But absolutely no breathtaking magnetism which was so characteristic of Kamala's eyes. 

Another peculiarity about Kamala that fans will recollect, would be her careless style of draping saris around her. As if vaguely aware of her carelessness but unwilling to shackle herself even with a practical pin, she used to tuck a portion of the sari into the neck of her blouse, temporarily and loosely holding it in place. Unfortunately Manju, having made a sad attempt to mimic this style, failed miserably, the tuck and the rest of the sari too neatly and modestly wrapped around her, never sensuously, absent mindedly, falling off her shoulder. The upright, straight forward, smart and modest Manju could not bend her disciplined bharatnatyam-trained body to portray unassuming sensuality which was the need of the hour. 

Another jarring difference was in the tone of the voice and the delivery of dialogues. Though Manju easily captured the rises and falls of Kamala's beautiful Thrissur accent, her voice was too sharp, her laughter too hard-cut to be anywhere close to Kamala's soft, sensual, mellifluous manner of speaking, words flowing smoothly into each other, the tone a strange enticing combination of directness, humour and irresistible charm. This extreme difference in styles disturbed me so greatly that at the end of 2-2.5 hrs, I decided that if Manju would laugh one more time, I would seriously consider walking out of the movie hall without much delay.

The hair and the makeup was completely inaccurate and highly disappointing considering current industry standards. Manju Warrier was greatly let down, in my opinion, by her movie crew.

Tovino made frequent appearances if only for the purpose of constantly rendering sickly sweet smiles and burly shoulders to cry on. I am quite glad that Prithviraj's dates clashed and he did not have time to act this quite ineptly written role that was a far cry from Madhavi Kutty's Krishna.  

Murali Gopi did a good job as usual, perfectly fitting the bill as a typical Malayalee husband, slowly transforming from an inconsiderate and perverted man to a quiet pillar of support and protection to the ageing Kamala Das.

I did like Anoop Menon's flawless portrayal as the late influence and attraction in Kamala Das' life - the gentle breeze that creates ripples in the placid lake that is her old age, causing yet another turn in the course of her life, this time with respect to her religion itself.

Overall, the movie viewer is at the risk of walking out with this conclusion - Kamala Das was a woman of beautiful words and many vagaries which she justified under the name of romance and naivete. She was probably even a narcissist who so greatly fell for the attentions of her admirers, that it resulted in foolish acts such as standing for elections and even converting religions at almost the fag end of her life. She failed repeatedly and consistently, finally in life itself - her epitaph unequivocally admitting that she knew not where she had gone wrong. I do feel as I walk dejectedly out of the movie hall that the makers of Aami possibly loved her... but surely never respected her. This movie is not a tribute to the memory of Kamala Das...her magnetic, bold but soft allure is still left lying in the grave with her, remembered warmly only in the minds of her admirers. 

The Nature of Criticism

Part of a discussion between a professor and a student of literature on Indian history and arts. The subject of the discussion was the story of Kacha and Devayani. It is the part on criticism that interests me.

Student : Professor, you mean to say all criticism is objective ? Professor : All criticism on historical literature is objective. The moment it becomes subjective it ceases to be authentic.It ceases to be a criticism on history.

Stud : But ... doesnt this mean that the poet who has recorded history can show no emotion, can express none of his feelings in his words?(The professor takes a deliberate reflective pause.Then resumes...)

Prof: This is almost a subject of its own.This gives rise to so many ideological questions.What is the relationship between art and science? Is criticism(vimarshanam) art or science?If it is a science what type of science is it? Is criticism a form of knowledge? Is criticism always objective or is it a form of rasaanubhuthi? The answer is then,that there are types of criticism.As there are types of science.

As you read a piece of literature, when you observe the dialogue,the ithivritham, the direction of the play,the trail of the plot,the characters and their attire, the settings and their quality, you are analyzing the play with respect to some set norms.It then becomes Normative Science.

But then you can also observe the beauty of the play.You can observe the emotion that you feel while viewing the play. You can analyze the poet and his work. You can see if the emotion that the poet wills his characters to possess has come through to the audience.In other words you can analyze yourself to understand if you have felt what the poet wanted you to feel...

The memory of a fragrance...

How do you describe a smell
Hidden in a twenty year old memory?

You think of tinkling anklets on small feet
running through dark warm wooden corridors
on a cool red oxide floor

Running in answer to the call for tea
and reaching to find sweet pleasure
in little triangular dumplings
enclosed in this leaf you threw aside without a thought

But not before getting a strong whiff
of this elusive aroma

This memory that rested on a delicate thread
now lays heavy on your palm too
Spicy and deep ,It can wake you up from sleep
It cannot be mistaken for any other
This smell of the Vazhana leaf.

Thondimuthalum Driksakshiyum

I would very much like to say that Thondimuthalum Driksakshiyum marks the beginning of a new genre of film making- because that's what it feels like when I walk out of the theatre after having watched this movie. But this quality of films has been around for a while now. Immersive, real, subtle, ugly and beautiful at the same time. Everything that life is in reality - no farce, no makeup, no drama except what real life provides. 

This movie defines what it means to be a human being. The whole gamut as they say - from the cheap, lying, conniving yet humane thief to the desperate, anxious, ordinary common man whose hidden hero emerges at the time of crisis. Thank God we are almost out of the era of the strong,capable,good looking "aadarshapurushan" of a hero who also sings and dances in impeccable style and the despicably bad villain with his trademark laugh!

Every actor in the movie delivered his/her role exceptionally well, genuinely enrolling the audience into their private story with ease, no matter how small their role was. What enabled these ordinary humans to become so extraordinary in their work? We have seen some of these actors delivering run-of-the-mill performances in the past. 

There is only one answer. The director Dileesh Pothan seems to have spent time and care on each person, drawing their talent out gently with the help of an extraordinary script and allowing them to use easy, flowing, natural language and mannerisms. Whatever his technique is, it works beautifully. One might even be justified in believing that such direction is a result of his deep insight into the human mind and its workings.  

Suraj has touched our hearts yet again and reminded us all what a fine actor he is. We feel deeply along with him and we worry along with him. We feel his stubborn desperation in his unwillingness to let go of his crocodile grip on the thief. We feel his soft, quiet love for his wife. 

The nuances of a love marriage are touched upon so realistically... his light admonition of his wife in one scene is reminiscent of an old era where husbands used to still  reprimand their wives using only the softest of words! One remembers an old "Maashe...Teachere" chemistry. Of course there is nothing old worldly about the wife's response. She is confident, strong and passionate along with being very aware and vocal about her rights. This is where the grace and the uniqueness of their relationship comes into play.  

Sreeja(Nimisha Sajayan) is definitely a one-in-a-million character. A thorny rose bush in the desert. An ordinary face with completely un-ordinary sharp,fierce eyes. Her easily awoken fury and outrage ...her final relief...are all palpable and moving.There just couldn't have been anybody more perfect than her for this role. 

In fact that is how every role appeared - perfectly moulded for each person who chose to act in this movie. Again the credit undoubtedly goes to the amazing director, for, it appears that it is not the role that was moulded to the person, it was that the person was made to live and feel the character and their life was captured in just the right angle for the sake of the movie. Just think about each policeman portrayed in the movie - we see real human beings having real conversations and doing real everyday actions. I loved each of these artiste's performances to the core!

Fahadh. This man that steals the show no matter how lowly and unrespectable his character is. He did it again. The first sight that the director provides us of him are the brown eyes between the arms resting on the support of the bus seats. His long delicate fingers wrap themselves around Sreeja’s chain with painstaking patience. This was one of the best,most perfect scenes of the movie for me. 

The second scene was the one just before the interval...the one with Fahadh’s smile.The scene that unravels the whole mystery- the one that upholds his motto - never give up till the last minute. 

With just these two scenes, Fahadh steals the show without much ado. In fact he nails almost every scene with such finesse that watching the movie becomes a truly enjoyable affair. It becomes an experience to relish and absorb into your mind and even after it is over, his smile comes back to haunt you.  

If one had to nitpick, we can find a couple of scenes in the movie where Fahadh is just unable to shake off his class.His delicate, fair, almost childish fingers and toes, his rare well bred expressions that escape unknowingly out of him, all belie his inborn sophistication which is tough to hide, even with a heavy dose of acting talent. 

For example, there is a scene of struggle between Suraj and Fahadh in a canal. Fahadh closes his eyes and purses his lips with quiet control,mustering strength to push the stubborn Suraj away. One catches a glimpse of Fahadh's real character...maybe he is even an introvert who would handled a struggle in real life with the same dignity. But it is tough to imagine a thief do this. His eyes would be large with panic and his survival instinct would make him kick and flail. Fahadh is just not able to shake away his culture in this one scene. One remembers Mammootty and Mohanlal portraying roles so far from their own natures, never ever letting their own characters seep in.

It is of course this class that makes him perfect for roles like Diamond Necklace - the role of a spoilt brat doctor. But other than these couple of scenes, he eases into his role smoother than a hand in a glove...no jarring notes or sharp edges.

With an undercurrent of subtle humour throughout, this movie can easily be watched multiple times. It can  even be savoured differently each time, much like a Marquez book.