Amazwi

Randomness

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Tue, 5 Jan 2010 03:28:00 +0530

I have my memories around the dawn of the New Years.

On the eve of the millennium i stood in a neighbors terrace and the sky was alive with colors around us.I was a kid then, and there were the two of us. Me and a guy with whom i grew up. I was excited then to imagine a thousand years unfold before me, it was like spreading a unending red carpet and let you walk on it. I was walking all around their little terrace to see those little flames flare up into the sky and burst into colors, mostly red, green and blue. When it was 12:00 we did hear cheers in the air around the distant suburb. I wished him and we smiled at each other. Then for some more time i sat with him on the stairs and was carried away by the sky, by then that night was the longest i had spent outside my roof. Then came a lot more ceremonies for cutting down the umbilical cords, for yet another new year to fall on the ground with pink blood and flesh. Apart from a few other indifferent midnights, there was this midnight when we were on a high and dancing madly to the tunes on a dimly lit floor, the midnight where i left my friends early and came home to begin the year by blankly looking at the countless stars, the midnight at beasant nagar beach where i was having a bowl of fish looking at the sea, as the crowd erupted with joy, the midnight when we threw a bash at the mansion house, honked the car in the middle of the streets, played stupid music and greeted everyone with cheers, and the midnight of a new year where i walked with a friend of mine in search of the adobe of his lady love.

This new years eve, i fell sick. The plans for the pub or at least even a dinner with my brother looked remote. I took my pills, covered myself with two sheets of blankets and held a book on top of my chest. Of Human Bondage by Somerset Maugham. The book moved very slowly, at times it pulled my hands and took me into it and at times it let me stand at a distance and observe. Time moved, on angular movements on the clock which i hid behind the pillow. I was reading this page, where an unhappy orphan kid sits alone with pain. His care taker, a barren elderly women who has never had a kid tries to console him. The kid loses his mind and shouts ”I hate you, i wish you were dead”. The poor lady who has never had the privilege of been treated like a mother breaks down at her failure of not able to be one. she sits down, she breaks down to tears. An odd silence fills the room. The kid feels sorry for her, he goes out and kisses her. She takes him in her arms and weeps her heart out. Her tears were now partly of happiness, the strangeness between them is gone. I kept reading and i came across these lines quoted here verbatim “She loved him now with a new love because he had made her suffer”. I closed the book here, those line felt spiritual. Doors kept opening inside me, one after another, deeper and deeper and at last there was this goosebump felt beneath the skin. That may just be a line up of few words, but it took me far beyond from the meanings it professed. It kept pouring with new meanings, i related my universe with those lines. I travelled back in time to the place where Maugham sat in a corner room filled with solitude and wrote these lines on a brown sheet of paper while the smell of dark ink still lingered in the air. The book had given me a moment, a pure literary moment, a reason for which people still write and read. I may now even stop reading the book. It felt good, divine. When i closed the book it was a few more minutes to midnight. The new year was standing backstage waiting for its moment to open the screens and walk into the stage. I was feeling great, elated and very clear. I slid myself into the blankets, it was really cold beneath the tiled roofs of my village house. I lost track of the minute leading to midnight and was slowly fading into the night. Sleep floated across the eyes, then Arun, my brother slowly opened the doors, came near me and said in a feeble voice Happy new year da. I smiled in the darkness. Cuddled myself like a kid fighting the cold, and slept.

On a different note, my parents are building a new house. They are generous enough to let me have a room of my choice in it. I have never had a room for myself, i have always shared my rooms or lived in rooms built for other people. I had always fitted me inside stranger’s walls. It was quite an experience for me to figure out how i want my living space to look. To sketch out the boundaries of your wilderness within the walls. I took into account the time of my life i live in, the interests and passions of my life, my character, my intuition, my solitude, my laughter and my tears. I close my eyes and the walls get erected in the glowing light. I see a wide room, not a square one, a heavily sun lit rectangular room. A rectangle one with compartments in it, compartments into which i can segregate my dimensions. As i enter comes the one for the everyday ordinary me dresses, office cards and a couch, then for the me who indulges in life my PC, a bed holding my secrets and the third is the most aspirational me filled with a weird stand holding all the books i have secured till this point, poster of a most beloved movie and a philosophical tree with no leaves standing in pot. This is how it looks in the glare, with lots more to fill in. On the other wider end the room has this wide life sized balcony. A balcony which is as wide as the room, a balcony which can be sealed off by a sliding glass door, a balcony which cuts an arc with the compartments of my life, a wide balcony, like a widescreen monitor placed just opposite to my bed. A balcony which opens me to the world and lets the light of the world sneak into my living. I imagine going to sleep with the wide and clear sight of the rain slashing down from the sky, i imagine waking up to sunlight as a songbird sings sitting on a corner of the room. It sounds very romantic. I know, but that is how i vision it. But there are no Roark’s around to let the vision come true. Architecture here is about building rooms where anybody can live, its more about the techniques of it than the purpose of it. I wish this room gets built, and i live at least a little part of my life inside the walls i envision now.

One last thing. I have not written here for long. Blame me, i think i became very prejudiced on what i shall write, the problem comes when you overrate yourself. Which i did. I wish to write more, yeah the wish happened as I was walking through my alley and saw myself confined in different chambers. In one where i was keenly looking at some still art, in one where i stood holding the bars and staring at myself, in one where i heard myself chatter and laugh, in one where i was hiding myself in a corner of the dark room. maybe weeping. As i walk down my alley i see this unoccupied narrow chamber and its windows are open. There is this huge beam of light that intrudes, almost blinding me from a distance.

Now, i start walking towards the light.

W.

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 03:19:00 +0530

“Mapla can you swap with me for next weeks night shift?”. He asked me, and he looked anxious. For he knew I preferred coming in night shifts, he knew I loved the precious solitude i shared with the empty cubicles while working in the midnights, he knew I loved to disappear with a glass of tea into the roads which led me far away from work. He then opened up almost in tears. “Having a function at home next month, we are supposed to do the customary spending for my sisters kid and her in laws keep pushing us for more. Running short of money da, and appa is already broken I somehow have to make up for the rest. I need the night shift allowance. Can you swap?” He looked at me, and he looked anxious. For I knew he was the only earning member of his family, his father has had a neural failure and his sister is married as a helpless house wife. We swapped. While working in night meant peace for me, it meant hard earned money for him. Not just for him, but for a hundreds and thousands of people who are sarcastically branded as the IT crowd, who are termed to have no real purpose or maturity and who are accused to bloat the society with their easy fortunes, it means hard earned money.

My perception of the industry i work for has changed over the times, not that i am going to stand in the frontline and fight for its worth. But I am not going to accuse it randomly. For i have had first hand evidences of its potential to change lives. My once team lead shared, over a drink of whiskey in the sloppy hills of Moonar, that he almost lost his hope for life before he got this job. It was the mid 90’s he was a very average student at college who had an extra load of arrears to carry at the end of each semester, he had a delayed degree, he never got a job and roamed around with drinks and dope and after losing precious years if his early twenties he at last knew he was going no where in life. Someone made him take an software course and then he joined a startup as a programmer for a meager 3000/pm. He worked hard and then harder, he shifted companies, he travelled across continents and finally he, someone who could have ended up as a hopeless suicidal young man, or a rapist, or a suicide bomber destroying lives in the name of God, instead became a man who is deeply respected. Same applies to me, the guy who sits next to me at work. This industry has redefined the old world and parpanaric views of who can be given the opportunity, of who can be successful, it has brought wealth and dreams into very ordinary households, it has empowered a generation to be independent, it has turned many a boys into men, it has not only turned many girls to women but also made young women to stand up and live without dependence. It stands as the gateway to a more self dependent and open minded future. For me? I wonder what would i have done if i didn't have the smooth transition from college to work, for all the rebellious speeches i give, and the assumptions i proclaim- i would have suffered and be shamed. It has personally made life easy for me, just like taking the next step in the staircase, like has been easy. Money flow has never stopped, I am now able to feed myself, pay my internet bills, and buy my own perfume and razors every month, it has taken care of my everyday life while i wonder about which Ingmar Bergman movie to download next.

It has been almost two and a half years I started wearing tags and started entering into large buildings embellished with glass facades, I have met the most interesting people in these building. From the guy who could discuss Dostoevsky's literature to the guy who can detail me on how the Nasdaq operates on a daily basis. From the guy who pings me every time our mutual crush comes in a revealing top, to the guy who would call me over a midnight to ask for a shoulder in the rough times. I have earned people. I have outgrown my shell, i have amazed myself. But all these have not brought love for my job. I do not find enough comfort in my place i have chosen in it. I respect the Industry as a whole but not in parts, for i have also met with the most pretentious people on the planet within the same buildings, i have punched walls with the over flowing hate for bosses, i have witnessed the worst inter personnel politics, i witnessed slavery in its most meanest forms, i have seen someone else stealing my work in front of my eye, i have witnessed enough stabbing on the back as it bled but anyway all these are universal. But for most part i am just spiritually un-involved in the work i do, for most times i have seen myself only as a misfit. Yes, this is not what i wanted to do with my life. I always knew that. That doesn't mean i wanted to study middle English literature and arts in an old European University, or plainly become a bearded hippie look-alike filmmaker, or become a rebel preaching communist values, or someone who wanted to spend rest of his life serving the starving children in West Africa. I always wanted be into the business, of illusions and branding. A different kind of corporate. For i always knew i had more patience and love looking at typefaces and doing designing than looking at the computer generated code and developing modules of software.Anyway.

Sometime in the summer of 2007. I entered the Tidel park for the very first time, it was my first day in the company and a bunch of us were being officially inducted. After document signing and hours of lecture by the corporate heads. I knew i was caught in the wrong place, with time i turned really restless and bored. Sometime in the noon the pretty HR girls with their totally made up smiles came in and screamed “IT’S TIME FOR SOME GGGAMEES”. I was like what the fuck?. Some other rebel(?) joined me and we came out for a smoke. We crossed the road and found a tea shop on the road between Tidel and Thiruvanmiyur. The sun was right above us.The traffic was maddening. I had my tea and i didn’t feel like getting back into the building. I hated the formalities, and the fake wave of happiness and security they bestowed on us. I wanted to be free, get back to my room to my senses, forget the mess and get some real sleep. I walked to catch the train, and got my tickets. Standing on the cemented platform of the station and waiting for the train i saw Tidel park at a distance, it was glowing in deep blue.

A few minutes later I crossed the road and was walking again into the grand entrance of the big, blue building.

Cries and Whispers

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 16:58:00 +0530

Where does a tear emerge from? is it from tiny pores of the eye or from the thousand invisible pores of the mind? does it drop off from the shivering body like wind shattering the water on the tree or does it ascend down like rain when the grey clouds of solitude cover the soul? does it seep from the floors of the spirit drenching the mind or does it break the walls of the eye and collide into the being? Where does a tear emerge from? a tear emerges from truth. Yes truth. We cry at the moment of truth, the truth of an intolerable pain, the truth of an unbearable revelation, the truth of an irreparable loss, the truth of an irreversible moment. When left alone in the dark room with just a candle of truth we all cry without being able to handle the brightness of that tiny candle. I am an atheist, but I believe truth is god, crying is a prayer and tears are an offering. And whisper? whisper emerges from our most secret chambers, any whisper is an indulgence with a secret, a whisper is the wind which blows into the keyhole of a guarded room, a whisper hides more than what it reveals. Ingmar Bergman made a movie in 1972 called Cries and Whispers (Viskningar och rop- Swedish) which has become the benchmark of art that cinema is, and for years people have interpreted it with a hundred emotions. My interpretation literally translates Cries and Whispers into Truths and secrets and its infinite possibilities. A behavioural study of the human mind with respect to reality and disguise, a peep inside the well of the dark emotions, relationships, hypocrisies and insecurities. An artist’s impression of the human mind. A tale which takes you a ride into the complexities but teaches more about the path left behind. A fable amidst all its morbidity proposes selfless love as the only virtue to sustain life.

The film opens with Agnes a middle age spinster who is on the verge of death, a disease is slowly eating her insides, causing moments of tremendous pain and agony. She is cared by her two sisters Karin, Maria who have come taking a break from their daily lives to be with their sister. Then there is the fourth women who completes the circle, Anna a long time servant who takes total care of Agnes in her hour of pain. The story is the exploration of the insides of these four women who live together in a old Swedish manor house. We slowly learn about the human beings they are, for Agnes pain is an everyday suffering she requests comfort in the presence of her sisters, but her sisters Karin and Maria slowly we learn, are women with shallow and pretentious traits. They are physically and mentally distant from each other and except for their sorry faces there is nothing they feel from the heart for the sufferings of Agnes. Karin is in total disgust with others, she has lost the belief in love or touch, she loathes herself and everybody around her in secrecy. Maria too distains herself from her sister but she is very obvious and weak, not able to care for others because of her self-centeredness, she is unable to sympathise for anyone. But the drama of love and care unfolds in between them everyday with Anna being the only true soul in the house who reaches out with the warmth of love. In non linear sequences we slowly learn about these three women who are somehow are the observers of a gradual death. Maria has been infidel to the man who truly loves her and Karin has a painful history of a disturbed childhood and a fruitless married life. Anna a mother who lost her child, lives with the sisters taking care and giving out love. With the plot firmly set, Bergman slowly reveals the human mind which dwells in the constant battle of love and hate. The characters break to tears, not able to handle the pain both physically and mentally. The intrusion of the thinking is so close that we are not able to handle such realities that are usually not discussed or agreed upon. The death finally happens after enough revelations, screams, cries, whispers and pain. The house is closed down and the inmates leave back to their false lives and Anna the only true soul who expected nothing takes only the diary of Agnes which reads or paints the climax where the three sisters are seen happily on a swing on a perfect autumn day. Agnes being comforted by the presence of her loved ones, and looking at the distant green meadows, says “I feel profoundly grateful to my life, which gives me so much." The screen closes as our heads drop down, down enough to look inside ourselves.

This is not a movie, this is an experience. Not entertainment but enlightenment of some kind. It should be watched with the indulgence of someone looking at a piece of art hanging on the walls of an ancient museum. Or like reading a very intense literature. Never before a movie was so intruding, never before it explored the dark state of human condition, at times becoming tough for us to endure it. Bergman chose women as his subjects as the women mind always has deeper kept secrets, there are men in the movie but not as intense as its women. The performances requires the weirdest emotions to be portrayed on screen. In a scene Karin and Maria enter into an confront, Karen reveals how she hated Maria right from her childhood, the most intense scene of the movie. The reactions that Karin gives out after revealing a truth disturbs you than words ever can describe. The movie is set in a house which is filled with blood red walls, carpets, and in a set up which actually replicates the bloody vacuum of the human mind. The vision of the movie is claustrophobic that at times you need some breath. The cinematography captures very very deep close-ups trying to capture every single emotions through the face. The film projects itself into the insides of the eye than the outsides. Later you understand that the film was not even made for you to watch, but it was the work of filmmaker whose vision in life was to capture everything that he believed to be documented. Ingmar Bergman, is a phenomenon who for decades has inspired all those filmmakers who wished to take the art to a greater level, to a more profound and honest level.

For sight the movie looks like a very bleak tale, then you think of Anna the poor servant who knows nothing but simple, straightforward, and selfless love. Not the selfless love that we show to the people around us and the people whom we already love, but the spiritually selfless love on every human. Anna would have cared for Maria and Karen too, because she is made only by love. Anna is the soul of the movie, and she silently proposes love as a remedy to all the misfortunes of the mind. Anna is an ideal image that we don't get to see around, because selfless love on every human is tougher to practice than said. There is this dream sequence where the dead Agnes wakes up and calls for her sisters to hold her hands and give her the warmth, but the sisters refuse and scream at the corpse and run away in disgust. Anna comes to Agnes. Anna makes Agnes sleep on her naked bosoms, giving the sufferer the warmth of the human flesh. The corpse of Agnes is shown lying down on Anna’s breasts in comfort and love. It is in this particular scene we understand the magnificence of the movie, for the movie reveals more than it hides, it cries more than it whispers, for the movie not only locks you down in a room filled with darkness, but also lights a candle.

Bus no.36

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 18:21:00 +0530

The summers of the early 90’s were hotter than what they are today. I still remember those particular days where a women would stand with her little kids under the sun, waiting for a bus which would take them to her native. The women was Mom and her two little kids were Arun and I. I remember them like looking through a framed photograph. The day, the bus stop under the splendid sun, those brown sarees that Amma wore, those bags which travelled with us, the flowered slippers and "irumbu-kai” mayaavi comics that I would have just completed during the travel. I remember them because that is the way that particular day unfolded, summer after summer, year after year.The first day after school closure, we would have travelled from our home in the sub-urbs of Madurai towards my mothers native home in a village distant from Coimbatore. In the last leg of our journey we would stand there in the bus stop, waiting for our bus. Arun and I would make a cushion with our bags, calling names, cursing and fighting. The bus was the only means that we had those days to reach our village. The bus had its own timings, so we had to wait for hours at times. My eyes would have been frozen on the road, looking at the distant vehicles to find our bus in their midst. I would be looking at the name boards from a distance and updating their numbers to Mom. A hundred busses would cross my eyes then 2, 47B, 62, 28, 31A each had their own numbers and their own routes. The bus was my only hope to take me to a place where i loved being. My little village. My escapade of school days. Hours would pass, and sometime in the evening when the sun drops down, I would see the bus at a distance. I would shout “Amma, namma bus ma”. And the moment would come to life. The wait for a bus to arrive has its own share of surprises. As we lift the bags the bus sporting the number 36 would float towards us. When we get in, I would know i am going nowhere else, but home. I would go sit near the windows with a grin which overflows my lips. I would hold those iron rods of the window and sit there like I shared something special with the bus. As if the bus bus belonged to our ancestors, as if the bus was a car that my family never had. For my mom, getting into the bus was like getting into a neighbours house in the village. For she had travelled in it from the day it started visiting her village. It was this bus she would have left her village after marriage.It was in this bus she would have brought me and Arun when we were born. She would sit there in peace as if she was speaking with an old friend. People in the bus would be those she knew from childhood, smiles would be exchanged and greeting be shared. The bus was a part of my village that travelled on roads. I would feel safe in there, and sitting in the lap of mom i could see it travel through the same village roads, the same groves, same cactus grown lands, same moon lit nights, and stopping exactly the same stops every time. We would be the last to alight. I would run down to hug Mama who would be waiting for us, and when i look back the empty bus would honk its good bye and would be slowly fading in sight.

The world was a more closed place then, we all lived like drops floating in the bottom of a glass bottle. There were imaginary walls built around places and we stayed inside the warmth of those walls. I spent my summer inside those walls that were built around my village. And the bus was like a magical dragon which took us through the city. The bus came to the village fives times a day, twice in the morning and night and once in the noon. To catch another bus the people had to walk at least for 3kms. the bus no.36 was the lifeline of the place, from taking people to work, affording distant learning to the village children, bringing raw materials to agriculture, bringing grooms to the possible brides, transporting the aged and the sick, the bus was their only way to keep up with the world. We were not so rich then, we only had our grandpa’s old cycle in our place. So we only had the bus to move around. I still remember every time i came home i would prepare a timetable of the bus timings and stick it in the back covers of my comic books. We left the village once a week. Arun and i would dress at our best and stand with Mama on those sand ridden bus stop by the village temple. Then it had a very silvery white paint with thirukkural written on all the possible curves, there were some happy looking conductors and drivers. We travelled a lot sitting by the window seats, to parks, to temples, to doctors, to hotels, to get seeds to plant, to get chocolates for our birthdays which fell in may, towards distant relatives, to those summer exhibitions, to travel in giant wheels and eat masala pappads, to movies which were a craze for all the three of us. I remember the day when we travelled back from watching Jurassic park, i was excited like hell jumping and making dinosaur movements in the pathways. Telling to people how huge those animals looked and how big and sharp each teeth was. A part of life happened in those journeys. The sense of belonging the bus gives you and takes from you cant be explained. The toughest of journeys happened every year on the last day of summer hols, when we would be reluctantly taken back to Madurai. I cried a big deal then, i would lock myself in a room for hours believing that they may let me stay. I would never want to go back then. I would go hug patti and bleed my heart out to her “naan pogala patti, ill stay here and join the village school” and all those childish cries. But after hours of threatening and pleading I would be standing at the bus stop to catch the last 36. When the bus leaves, in the distance i would see either Patti or Chiti wiping their eyes. I would with a long face, lie on the windows of the bus. The moment I had to get down fro 36 would be the toughest, like all the strings of the holidays were cut down, like i am no more inside the warmth and love, like bidding goodbye to a very dear friend. A huge pain would plunge the heart to see the bus move away from sight, for it would take one more year and one more day under the sun, to see the bus again and to step back into it.

Years of the same cycle passed, I came to the same village to continue my graduation. To a college located in the busiest roads of the city. The first day when i went to college no one came with me, but i took the bus .That day was exciting, to dream of the next phase of your life sitting in the same old bus which has seen you grow up till day. When i got down looking at the huge arch proclaiming the name of the most sought after institution, i stepped down from 36 and it felt like there were hundreds who came with me to drop me at college. Before i left for the stint at hostel, and before i got a bike to roam around, the bus took me to college. To wait for the bus with those single books in hand, to cling at the footboards challenging life and death, to seat three or four school going kids in the lap, to start behaving like a grown up, to get home with a heavy heart after getting my first arrear, to hear a romantic song on the FM playing in the bus and to think of the girls who disturbed sleep then, the windows of the bus opened up to a lot of dreams. The bus was a very part of all those transformations. Then with time i got my own bike and the dependency on the bus became minimal. We have had enough cars and bikes at home then, the bus was only a way of alternate transportation. But, whenever i found a chance to be in the bus, i could see that it gave me the same warmth like when it gave me in my childhood. Now, the bus is no more the life line of the village, but it has not lost its love to the people it still visits the place five times a day, still transporting them in its huge rusted compartment. I have not travelled a big deal across the world. I may or I may not, but a journey i would want to take all my life would be the journey again sitting near the painted steel grills of the bus and looking through the window as the age old breeze scatters around. Through the same windows of 36 i would look at the way the landscape has transformed, the way the little tress have grown in those distant grooves, the way the cactus grown lands have started hosting houses with little children, and in the soothing closeness that the ambience of the bus gives, in my aesthetic loneliness i would be lost in the thought of those thousand little journeys which i had in the bus. Journeys which began in the insides of a little bus, journeys which have ended up becoming the most cherished memories of my lifetime.

PS: Sometime last week when the night slowly opened up to another morning and as the first rays floated around the village, i left the house for work. At a distance from the village i saw the bus. After months i saw the bus again. The driver and conductor should have left for a cup of chai. The bus stood there, empty. I parked my bike nearby and stood there looking at the bus. The same old bus. The same old friend. I didn’t go up to it, but we both kept looking at each other for a long time. A very peaceful moment passed in between us. Then I left, and from a distance i could see the bus slowly fading in sight, honking its way into the village.

On a nightfall

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 03:03:00 +0530

And the night fell on me, like a woman trying to spread on me with her wild kisses, like being immersed into a dark ocean of stars, like the sky breaking the roof and colliding into my sleep, the night fell on me, and i was awake. I was still lying alone in the gloom, on a cot of wires. Around me the limestone walls which aged a century glowed meekly in the dark. The tiled roofs patterned a series of dark brown lines, hiding in them were a few wooden lizards which usually creak a sound which always fell into my loneliness. Today they were quiet. People were asleep so was the village around. The house was still breathing, and i could feel it on my skin. I reached my hands to a little pot of water beneath my bed. It looked chilled by the breeze that was roaming around the walls. I quenched a thirst that never was, and again I lied down in silence thinking about the dark and moist night that was filling in the room. Yes!, the night is as moist as a tear, the night is as dark as our depths. The day begins from the sky but the night begins from the land. I looked at the floor around me and wondered if the night was slowly seeping from the million invisible pores of the land. I tossed around the wired bed and a beam of brightness fell on my eyelids. It was the moon on the other end. Through a glassed tile in the midst of the sand ones, i could see the moon floating on the sky. Usual sight for me to be waken up to the sight of the moon. We kept looking at each other through the blur of the glass. We had witnessed each other enough that only a silence prevailed to fulfill the distance. The lonely moon floated on the sky as a lonely man floated on his bed. The moon is the perfect symbolism to solitude. It has been there with its precious solitude, dreaming alone in the night when the rest of the universe is still asleep.The moon is not the source of the night like what the sun is to the day. A moon is just a companion to the night, a shepherd who guides the herd of stars into the wilderness of the night. He lets them feed on the night and rests himself on the shadow of tree and dreams as he always does. The night is the habitat of the moon.But the night exists without the moon for the night is not just the absence of light but the uncontrolled glow of the dark. The night is a huge vacuum pot into which we throw our secrets. The night like a faithful guardian has safeguarded the secrets of humanity, the night still has stories about Adam's first kiss.

The night jumps like a blind cat leaping from the edges of the day. While breaking away from work in night shifts, and walking alone into the night, I have seen the night lying down as a tired cat with its blind eyes glowing in the dark. Then a cup of tea would taste more when it is flavoured with a drop of the night. I would stand there on the empty roads far away from work and wonder if night is just a huge dusky bird which keeps flying around the world and the darkness is just a shadow that the birds wing descents on the earth. The night bird with it pulls the strings of time, in its mighty wings it carries the globe around. The night is the invisible dark river which is flowing from the origins of time heading towards the end of eternity. The dark river on whose shores we sleep after we get back roaming in the yellow sands of the day. The light of the day drops from the mammaries of the night, like a cattle feeding on milk the light of the day feeds itself from the darkness of the night. Night is always for the awaken and soon the smell of the night slowly enters my nose and thereby reaching my inbound pores. I look around to see that the moon has left its place. Only darkness prevailed over the glass. In sometime the same glass above my head will host the sun and i would be waking up to the yellow rays. The days are always hosted on top of the nights. Night is not one container of darkness but is made up of million tiny parts which keep floating around us.I lie alone feeling the night. The night slowly crosses over like a music. I become the one acquainted with the night. Like a fountain the night keeps pouring around me in all directions, almost drowning me, then slowly very slowly I close my eyes.

The "Jatti" thieves

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Sun, 24 May 2009 17:51:00 +0530

Based on a true story.

Yesterday our village was attacked by the Jatti(underwear) thieves. Before we get into what really happened, who are these Jatti thieves? For the past week or so the villages around Coimbatore are invaded by a bunch of ruthless thieves who are popularly known as the jatti thieves(தி ஜட்டி தீவ்ஸ்). Why are they called the jatti thieves? not cos they steal the branded jattis hanging on the cloth line but cos, when they come for their mission they come wearing only their jattis. Only Jattis? yeah only cut-jattis. They also cover themselves in some kind of greasy and slippery oil so it becomes impossible to catch them by hand.They are a group of four to six men and the number changes according to the mission. People who have seen them report that they were well built, tall, dark and looked like monsters. These ruthless killing machines choose one village for a night. They carry only a very few weapons, a little knife, a rod with sharp nails and a hammer.They enter like cats clad in their dark jattis, they hide in the darkest corners of the village, they choose the lonely house which is located outside the main village and as the the village slowly gets to sleep they emerge from the darkness and break open the doors.They enter without making a noise.They wake you up with their knives, one of them catches hold of the youngest in the house placing a knife in the junction of the head and the chest, the second one collects the mobile phones and breaks them on the floor, the third one takes refuge of the people in the house as the fourth one breaks open the vaults and clutches the jewellery from the women. Finally they lock you in a room and tie your hands and mouth. When they are done, they leave the house locking it from the out and escape into the nearby grooves.It all happens like it was already written. If you play their tune, all you loose would only be your possessions. If at all if you are going to revolt then there will be blood. They have scissored the right ear of a grandma who refused to give away her ear-ring, they have pierced the head of a few with the nail rod, and one has lost his eye as the nail rod hit his face.Casualties? reportedly two till date. Nobody knows who they are.They don't look like locals, people say they speak Hindi and sometimes broken Tamil too. The worth of the stolen has crossed a few million in rupees.Police? Yeah they come after the thieves leave and they leave before the thieves come again!.The commissioner has ordered for a shoot at sight and the police has already informed the villagers to murder the thieves if they are caught.

It was just another Saturday for me.Sitting inside my brown roofed village house, I was lost in the web on my over-heated PC. It was nearing eight in the evening.It was then when my Uncle called me sayin the thieves entered the village next to us. They were hiding inside the toilet of a house when a little girl spotted them, as the girl started shouting they fled the place. The four seasoned thieves were chased by some hundred men but soon they lost track as the thieves singled out and each escaped in a direction.My Uncle said two hundred men from nearly three villages are in search for the thieves in all the grooves around. I said let me know if they are caught and i got back to my work. Hours passed and my Uncle came home, their search had turned futile, but the whole of the village was speaking about the thieves. My uncle was sayin how cruel they were to the people and said most villagers had sweared to kill them if caught.Hours passed, i sat with my Uncle as he was watching Royal challengers trash CSK. His phone rang again a voice shouted "the thieves are hiding in the common marriage hall near the temple". We ran there just to see that the whole village had come to life in the mid-night, hundreds of men with huge and round sticks were running in all the directions. A huge crowd had gathered before the hall which was located at a safe distance from the village. We went there and the search was on, the bushes were cut down, huge lights were brought in. The person who reportedly saw the thieves said, they were standing on the walls wearing only their jattis and as he approached them, they blinded his sight and ran away. Hundreds were searching in places nearby the hall, I never knew there were so many people in my village.I was never a part of the social life of this village, and many were looking at me "who is this guy". I was wondering if i go for a leak removing my trousers and if these guys are gonna sight me with my jattis then im sure they are gonna think im one of the "jatti thief" and they will beat me to death. So i stayed with my uncle and the people i knew. The place was completely scanned and it was decided that it was a rumour that the thieves were in the village, we were starting for our houses and suddenly we heard a few women scream wild somewhere nearby. The crowd rushed there, the women were restlessly shouting that the thieves just ran crossing them. A women said a man was hiding inside the bushes and when she asked he who he was, he pushed her down and ran away. Suddenly people realised the kind of mess that they were into, the brutal thieves are now inside the village and they can do anything to the innocent lives. A wave of tension started spreading across. My Uncle asked me to rush home as the people in my house were already asleep. Yeah people i was asked to be the Man of my home then. I was kind of grinning inside me cos all these are hell new to me. Came home and switched on the lights, made sure that the bushes around were safe, like the cops in hollywood movies i crawled around and spyed in our neighborhood, i started practising some punches in the air, i asked my grandmother to put a thilak on my forehead and say "vetriyoda thirumbivaa raasa". As my grandma searched for a broom i left my house, i knew its gonna be a long night ahead and i took my iPod with me. groups of young men were roaming all over the place each armoured with heavy weapons, there were faces with anger and tension . I should have looked like an asshole to sport an iPod in that crowd, anyways stupidity happens. i joined the crowd which was searching in the directions pointed by the women, teams were built and each was assigned a task. Some young men took the task of roaming around in the bikes, and some searching individual homes. Nobody took me in their teams. They knew i was not a villager.I started roaming around alone, i called my Uncle and he said he was busy somewhere else searching for them. They said the thieves were hiding somewhere in the little village and the search was getting intense. Someone would shout "Hey i saw a thief here" and before the people reach there someone from the other end of the village would call that someone spotted the thief trying to jump a wall. People started circling in and around the village and it became a Tom and Jerry story. I came home to see that my orders were not in place and everyone including my little cousin were standing outside the house.ARGH!, then I kept roaming for sometime, I kept hearing Akon's new album, I knew i was too careless, I knew i din know the seriousness of the situation, i was wondering what if he suddenly emerges from the bushes, he had a knife and a rod but I only had an Ipod and a Motorazr.I was standing in some dark corner and there were no many people around in that street, a man i knew came in his bike. He saw me alone there, he suddenly handed over a huge wooden rod which weight a few extra pounds and said "mapla, inga yaarum illa naan nayaker thatava varasolren neenga intha theruva pathukonga"(there is no one in this street, ill ask nayaker thatha(an old man) to join you, you both take care of this street). I was like are you joking, but i gladly accepted the offer. Soon the old man too joined me, we both were standing in the corners of the street. He had a larger stick, yeah people an old man/young man combo to save the village.

I stood there keeping my face as stern as possible. I knew i would burst into laughter any second. The world is still believing me. I was so cool that the thatha standing near me was annoyed with my carelessness. I was like who is going to come here to this street. And my phone rang!!!. My uncle said "Vicky who is near the 3rd street", i said "myself and the old man,Y?" and my uncle said the sweetest lines ever said, lines that ill never forget all my life "i heard that the thieves are running towards the third street and they are heavily armed". The most intense moment of my life, no people i din piss out there believe me. I was motionless, i said this to the grandpa near me and he started tying his dothi up getting ready for an encounter with the beasts. What am i gonna do now!? I said to myself "No Vicky,Now you are not a software engineer who works with Steve, Matt and Davidson. You are no more the guy who visits the village for sleep and food, you are no more a guest here, you are now a part of this village, you now shoulder the responsibility to safe guard your motherland(yes! my mom was born here), you are a angry young man, you are Rambo, you are the native village warrior, you are the man that the world wants and the man that the world is searching for.Get ready for the toughest night of your life and tonight lets dine in hell". I was all charged up, i folded my shirt till my shoulders, i curved my newly grown moustach. I was like "Vaangada! vaanga! Seriyana ambalaya iruntha vaanga da"(Come thieves come to me, if you are a man and if you have your balls intact, come to me and cross me). They never came! I was waitin there for a few hours and only an old street dog was in sight. They escaped form me, the escaped from a man who was ready for a battle. I called my uncle he said "You FOOL are you still waiting there?, we enquired the people who reportedly saw the thieves and found that all was a RUMOUR, nobody actually saw the thieves, when inquired they all said that someone else had said to them and nobody saw a thief in the village, the thieves had never come to the village, YOU GO TO BED!!" No one had insulted me like this before. Go to bed? FU**! dude i was waiting for a battle. If at all they had crossed my way, if at all they had come near me... i would have looked them in their bloody eyes, i would have roared inside me once and lifted my hands, then something really terrible would have happened in that lonely dark street. The next day The Hindu would have reported "Young lad defeats thieves and saves a village" and Dhina thandhi would have reported "இளைஞர் சாகசம்!!! ஜட்டி திருடர்களுக்கு ஜட்டி கிழிந்தது".(No translation available!)

PS: Jokes apart, the village is still caught in the web of uncertainty. People are expecting that as the thieves never came to our village they may came again anytime. Dedicated police squads are asked to roam around in the villages for a few days now.

PS2: Believe me when my uncle called me to say that the thieves are nearing me, I already had my plans to tackle them. Guess what?? I would have said to him "Hey see no blood, ill give you my iPod and also teach you how to operate it, its worth 5k.You can leave without a hush. GOD PROMISE ill never tell these people the direction in which you ran". Now you all know why i took my iPod with me :)

PS3:(26/May)This post is selected by Blogadda.com as one of the best Indian(!?!) posts of this week, Click the image to view the page.

Pablo Neruda

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Sun, 17 May 2009 12:12:00 +0530

And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry

speak of dreams and leaves

and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.

Come and see

the bloods in the streets.

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

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

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

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

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

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

Bangalored again!

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Fri, 8 May 2009 11:43:00 +0530

Bidding a heartless goodbye to Arun, i started running towards the apartment.I didn't want to miss out on the Coorg trip, i already started dreaming about the trip, the mountains, the mist and the coffee estates! They said they were leaving in minutes i rushed to the room. When i opened the door, I saw a few men lying scattered one looking at the ceiling, the other clad in his brief was scribbling something on the floor and the next few were glued to the evil box. As i walked in the rest joined I looked at them and we all kept starring for a few minutes,then suddenly everyone started laughing out "Dey meesa vechurukaanda".

Me:Shut up! what happened to Coorg?

rest: what Coorg? which Coorg?

Me: assholes u guys just spoilt a beautiful day with my brother, i came running!

rest: illa da we decided two hours back that its not feasible today

Me:Then why did u guys call me 20 mins back

rest: chumma ullulaaaiku.

After sharing mutual abuses for sometime, and after making a feasibility study for a few hours sometime later in the evening someone asked "how many wants to go to Coorg?" 1,2,3,4,5 the hands kept raising. So it was decided that we do a night drive to Coorg, book some resort there for a days stay and get back to Bangalore late time next day. The two red swifts were set and we started the trip, on the car we kept discussing about the Coorg that none of us has been to.I desperately wanted to be in a hill station, to become synonymous with nature. Everyone looked excited. After twisting and turning around Bangalore somehow we reached the the outskirts, and from there we took on Mysore road. The music was loud around us, and it was fun to be a part of that drive. we were midway to Coorg.We stopped at a petrol bunk after some two hours on the road.After the refreshments and before getting into the car for the long drive, someone asked "OK how many wants to get back to Bangalore", 1,2,3,4,5 the same hands rose again and in minutes time we were back on the tracks through which we just travelled. I was not shocked, no not a bit, after all i am with my guys for some 7 years now! Its just the way we are.the trip back remains historically important cos we were LOST. Nobody knew how and we kept following the first car and after some point they said that they too didn't know the route and were following us through the rear view mirror(Yeah we rock at logic!!). It was then i saw the Bangalore opposite to the one i saw in the morning, the dull, dreaded, and lifeless Bangalore. The streets without trees and roads without peace. But the ride was, we spoke everything that men of our age speak in a car journey.Yeah we discussed the socio-economic impacts of the Obama foreign policy and which actress looked better wearing a two-piece.You speak i pull you down, i speak you pull me down. We spoke, we kept on speaking, we laughed, we kept on laughing. We were happy to be lost in Bangalore. We kept looking at the Kannada film posters and someone said

him:Dey whatever i think the kannada people are the best when it comes to loving the fellow humans?

us:how do you say that?

him:What do we do to trans-genders in our states?We insult them in our movies, in our streets, in our tasteless jokes, we treat them as degraded human beings, we make fun of them everywhere we sperate them from our society.

us:Yes but what does that have to do with Kannadigas?

him:There is a lot. You know what kannadigas do? they don't insult the trans-genders in their states, they don't make fun, they don't drive them away instead "They make them hero's in their movies", look at the posters around man what do you call all these creatures as??

yeah we laughed like our ***s popping out.(He was not kidding guys, in whatever industry karnataka goes forward there is an industry where they still compete with apes, "the movie industry"). Finally all roads drove us home, it was late night when we reached home. Dinesh made some forgettable mutta dosais, we had a house-party, and finally i went to sleep after a tired day but as i had turned into an insomniac recently i was wide awake living in my own world and sometime soon the next day had visited us!

>Sitting in the back seat and travelling through the sun-filled city, I saw them. They where caught in the middle of the road, without able to cross the road. An old man and his lady, dressed in dense rural attires these are people i see everyday in my village but they were the first people i saw wearing a dothi in that wide and big city. In the few seconds in which we crossed them, i saw a bewilderment in his eyes.He was holding the women's hand and both had no place to go.That was one of the crowded places in Bangalore, where all the new age men and women of Bangalore spend time together in their weekends, the place where a few international brands were staged, the place for the rich and the niche. Looking at the man and his women out there was like reading a crude poem in the middle of the sun. The city has travelled a long distance away from the common man. How will he interpret the metropolitan which has grown before his eyes, will he be comfortable to walk in there?, will he not feel a bit alien in that "really" alien crowd? I was wondering what made him come to the city, i said to myself that he should have come there from his village to buy jewels for his daughters marriage with a little money and he ended up here or did he come to get seeds for his irrigation?. If he had regretted a bit, or if he was not able to become a part of the place around him, blame globalisation. It was the capital of the village man some time back, but now Bangalore remains the capital of the rich, the new, and the loaded.There is no place for the village man in the streets of the city which has painted itself with pretentive colours. What kind of culture is it when it alienates the fellow citizen?. When i think of Chennai it still has the rural stint heavily in it, people from the villages of Tamilnadu still visit Chennai with the feeling that "its my capital" and Chennai has never disowned them. Chennai has had the heart to accept people. Chennai too has the rich and the niche but the attitude i find with the men and women of chennai is they try to be as local as possible.They are glad to be locals and most dont behave like they just alighted form the last flight from new jersey(i speak from the examples i saw, there may/will be exceptions). In Chennai the more you are local by heart the more you become a part of the place. I personally believe that in the long run there will be only one global culture that everyone on earth will follow, but then I am against creating alienating societies within one society.That saturday in Bangalore, welcomed me to the Bangalore which i wanted to visit, the city where everyone eats with spoon and fork(one guy was eating Paper roast with a fork!), a city where women look manly and men look delicate, a city where you can't find a stationery shop for miles but malls in every corner,a city where people wake up at 11 and go to sleep by 9, a city where the starting cost of a Puma is 3.5k, a city where you can see people fuck in closed cars i almost every corner,a city for the unusual a city where you are not worth if you are not having a girl to roam around with, a city ruled by the excess of money, a city where the sales guy speak better English than the real English men, a city which has disowned its own culture, a city in search of new masks everyday, a city which has never been, a city synonymous with Peter Keating, a city which tries to compete with New York and Paris but loses in competition to *** and ***.

But still i loved the other Bangalore, where people still lived without becoming prey to the artificiality around them, i loved the city for its natural charm and warmth, i loved the city for its trees which made evenings in hot noons, I loved the locals who were gracious hosts and guided us through the strangled roads, i loved the kannada watchman t who opened the doors for our cars without a complain even when we took it out for hundred times a day, i loved everything that connected me to the city. Yeah i did love things there after all we were not screwed, we were just Bangalored!

PS: Man, where are you leaving now? I have not done with the trip yet, did i ever say what we did on saturday after we woke up? Every trip will have a day when the epitome of all the events happen. Yes the was a place that happened to be the unforgettable during our stay and it happened on a saturday night! in this place(hey idiot click here). My heart wants to speak about it but my brain says no! So lemme leave the choice to you, tell me if you still need the last sequel.

Bangalored!

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Tue, 5 May 2009 23:42:00 +0530

(This is just another personal and ugly rant about my weekend at Bengaluru, reading is at readers risk)

I dumped my issues and bugs at office ran to the bus depot to catch my bus at 10:30. When I got into the huge white bus which was already chilling with AC, i longed for another long journey in the middle of the night, where i can sleep, think and dream. Then i saw him, the stout-bald-decent-gentleman with whom i shared my seat. He smiled at me and i smelled a rat. I settled down on my seat, covering myself with the brown blanket and watching video songs play in the LCD. No ordinary songs, i mean which other travels would have the guts to play a mid-night masala DVD right in the middle of the a bus filled with family crowd. It started with "naaattu saraku" then followed by Mumtaj and a few others, finally the hotness quotient went higher as silk Smitha came in with her iconic "nethu rathiri yamma". As the toddlers in the bus started crying some gentlemen stood up for a fight.The video was stopped, and in the silence that then filled the bus, i knew why i smelled a rat.It was not just a rat, it was a snoring rat. The stout-bald-decent-gentleman was snoring. Yeah I do hate people who snore like pigs, i do hate to be awake when someone keeps buzzing around my ears. I detest them, but on that day i wanted to stay cool. I wanted to change my attitude a bit and stop complaining a lot about people who snore. I stayed abnormally cool.Whenever his snore went high,I smiled at him.I smiled at him just like how Jesus would have smiled at the sheep, I smiled at him just like how a mother would smile at her kid. I almost became his mother. I had no complaints when he fell on my shoulders. I let him sleep over there. Whenever he snored in an alarmingly disturbing volumes i wished i could kiss on his glittering bald head and whisper in his ears "c'mon sleep like a baby". Exactly 6 hours passed. I looked around to see that the whole bus was sleeping, i went out to see that the driver too, was almost sleeping. I was the only one to pay 600bucks and end up with a red eye. When i came back, i found that i could take it no more. I knew i am no Jesus Christ, and i hated that bald asshole for making me sit awake for hours. My face then should have looked liked a pissing volcano. I threw him away with my shoulders every time he fell there, i said nasty things in his ears when he snored. I couldn take the fact that hits two mangoes with one stone 1)he sleeps, and 2)he happily disturbs my sleep. God-damn-it how i hate people who snore!. It was almost five and we had reached the outskirts of Bangalore, the guy near me woke up. He smiled at me and said "Good morning". He smiled at my dreaded face and pulp-red eyes and said "Good morning".I said "get lost you asshole, next time you get into a bus, wear a name tag crying out Warning:I do snore like a pig". You know i didnt say those, I just said "Good morning".He left the seat and i took the window by now, as the bus passed through the out-skirts of Bangalore city, a grin visited my lips. I kept looking at the waking city and in the intervals, I saw the mystery man smiling at me from the large hoardings. Everytime i saw him,he made me smile. With his sculptured physic, his mesmerising smile, his out-of the world hair-do, he was GOD! The local brand ambassador of coke, he was golden-star Ganesh, the most handsome man of karnataka, whose movies outrun even those of SRK, who is the Rajni and Kamal combine of Karnataka, who makes every kannada speaking women go sleepless, who is perfectely flawless except and he looks a bit more manly than Namitha.(Click here to have a look at the golden star). Looking at his face I knew how my trip is going to end up as!. My plans were simple, to spend a day with My brother and spend two more days with my old roomies who had come all the way from Chennai. I knew things will not be as simple. As the bus was nearing my stop, I slept. The driver then had to throw me out at the last drop point at the kalasipalayam depot. Yeah at last i slept for exactly 17 minutes and some 0-60 seconds.

The Auto halted at 17th cross street, Malleswaram. The sight which i saw then still lingers in my eye. The sky was opening up, the first rays of the morning floated above the trees. There were trees all over the road, covering both the ends. The trees blocked the light and below the tree it was still dark. Morning in the sky and still the night prevailed below the trees. Magical! was the only word. Waiting for my brother I slowly started adoring the city which i just traveled through. All the way there were tress, the roads were wide and proportional and the ambiance so peaceful. For the first time i tried shedding my inhibitions and said to myself that I liked Bangalore. I then knew why they called Bangalore a garden city, the whole city reminded me of a neighborhood garden.Arun (My bro) came then and May1:that day was his birthday. We drove back to his house.Wait a sec! it was no house, it reminded me of somethin else. A house built over acres with the porch which can hold some 10 cars. I asked if he lived there, he said the owner lives there and they live in the outhouse. The outhouse was a bit old, but on the way there was trees that were shedding white colored flowers the mist was still floating around and the air still had a tint of chill.Man i envied the place like hell. I was thinkin about the rooms that we lived in Velachery/Perungudi/Sholinganallur. Where you sweat at 5:30 in the morning and where anytime u can glance pigs bathing in the sewage. I went around the house, it was neat. Four fully grown men live there. I was reminded of my rooms in Chennai.Here each had their own bed, own PC, own internet, own dresses and even own inner-wear. ( The sight of ten foul-smelling men sharing the same room, same matress, same dresses, same *** , of whom i was an integral part did flash in my mind). My brothers room was all neat and perfect.There is a difference between men in the verge of getting married and men like us. Being there I knew i was still a boy. After a bath and a chat we left the house for some "brothers-day-out".While leaving the house, my brother introduced me to his house owner. An old man wearing his torn vests, sitting in his wooden chair and mending his pigeon nest.

Him: So where do u work?

Me: CTS.

Him: Oh! good, you last quarter earning were good! So why did u guys back out from the Satyam deal at the last minute?

Me:(What?? did we get into the satyam deal in the first point?, this old man is blabbering) No, we never were a part of the deal.

Him:Nope, your team did propose a bidding of some **, but they backed out finally.(He analysed why backing out was a good option, why he felt the deal was not worth it)

Me:Oh!

Him:So what kind of job u do?

Me:I work for a client called DB.

Him:Oh the information guys,.....( He spoke a looooot, from the history of my client to what is their current stock price, who is their CEO, and where all they have branches in India)

Me:Oh!

Him:So what is work u do for them.

Me:We as a team are responsible for managing and enhancing their severs and applications.

Him:What servers you use?

Me: Unix boxes.

Him:Yes Unix is best when it comes to bulk file transfers, Windows boxes aren't that good.

Me: (WTH???,)

Him:So you do shell scripting in unix right?

Me:(Jesus-christ! what is happening here, what is he gonna ask me do nxt? will he bring out a white paper and ask me write a shell script for him???)

My brother came to my rescue now, i escaped the old-man- who-knows-everything just to hear that he was an IIM-A grad in the sixties. My bro gave me a look which parodied all my MBA dreams. (Eluthi vechuko un diary-la 2012 la naanum oru MBA avendaa... ithu namba koladheivam ekidamma mela sathiyamda! sathiyamda!) Finally we left the place, driving around the city in my Bro's car. He had been there for years now and knows the history/bio-chemistry of every place out there. On the eve of his b'day we visited a temple, we went for a quiet breakfast in a sub-urban restaurant, we roamed around malls, i bought him a book, we spoke-we shared, after long time we both spent time as friends. If you had ever had a brother, the point in which you shed the tags as brothers and become real friends is special. We roamed around like friends, with a lot to share and nothing to hide. He took me to his office, as we entered I saw his security guard saluting.(In the place i work, my security shouts "Hey! you! display your ID card"). The more time i spent in his workplace, the more i felt ashamed about the place i work. It was huge and each had their own bay(I share my PC with 3 others), he had 39 colleagues while I just had some 5000 in my office.(For ppl working in IT: WE SUCK). Again after stealing some stuff from his desk we again left for the city. Hanging around in brigade road and the malls around, having lunch and roaming around I be live that day was one of the best days that we had together. (Arun if you are reading this, I really wished that the day went on!). But, my phone rang speaking on the line was my ex-roomie he shouted "Asshole(Ke**P*** in tamil)!!! Wru???, we are waiting for you here, exactly in 20 minutes we are starting for Coorg, cars are ready... come here sooon!!".In a rush then, Arun drove me to Koramangala. I bid him goodbye and walked towards the room from where we were supposed to leave to Coorg. Without knowing that a surprise awaited there for me!!(I know this the cheapest trick to stop for a sequel, pardon me ;)

coming soon Bangalored! -part II

Of the voices...

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Fri, 1 May 2009 23:43:00 +0530

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

~ Henry David Thoreau

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

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

Flames, Ashes.

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 02:02:00 +0530

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

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

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

கோபல்ல கிராமம்

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 16:29:00 +0530

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

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

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

The computer is personal again!

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 00:50:00 +0530

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

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

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

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

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

I "Pee" L

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Sun, 5 Apr 2009 13:38:00 +0530

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

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

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

The Pianist

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Sat, 7 Mar 2009 19:16:00 +0530

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

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

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

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

To visit my World Cinema series click here..

Fountainhead

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Sun, 1 Mar 2009 14:23:00 +0530

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

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

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

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

On the edge of night...

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Sun, 8 Feb 2009 18:04:00 +0530

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

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

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

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

Chennai to Colombo via Mumbai

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Wed, 4 Feb 2009 17:07:00 +0530

Departure 29 Jan 19:27hrs

Chennai, I still remember the rainy morning when i came to you. Back then I didn't know that I am gonna love you so much, Now standing here in the deserted platforms of tidel station staring at the majestic tidel park which glows in yellow and blue, I never knew that I am gonna miss you so much.I came to you with a million dreams, you gave me my first money, you gave me my first identity, you gave me all the treasures that you safeguarded inside you for years.I am grateful to you Chennai.You were a friend, a kind of friend who makes you feel complete, a kind of friend who teaches you to live.When i was in you i discovered myself, i discovered people, i discovered things i had been searching for ages.Now standing here just minutes ahead of leaving you, I look back at you.I think of all those houses which hosted me and my friends, I think about the everlasting fun that we had in you, I think about all the streets in which i drove my rusty old bike, I think about the people whom you made me meet, i think about my first day at office, I think about all the tea shops which came to life in the midnights,I think about your night sky, I think about the energy that you embedded into every soul, I think about the hot summers that you had to offer, I think about the million people who are gifted to live in you tomorrow and the day after. They say that a city is just a bunch of streets and buildings, but i knew that you had a soul, a soul which is reflected in every face that lives in you. You are a collective reflection of the people who live in you, dark, white, grey and pale in skin and soul. I had always been fond of you, when my friends made fun of me that i had never been to chennai till 21 years of living.I decided that someday I am gonna conquer you, but you conquered me.Im in awe with you.I may go places from here, I may round around the globe but I am gonna miss you Chennai, I am gonna miss everything that is you.I am gonna miss bessy, I am gonna miss OMR, I am gonna miss those long drives in east coast, I am gonna miss getting drenched in the middle of deserted mount road, i am gonna miss the clouds those collided above my head when i spent my most beautiful nights in your presence, i am gonna miss the Andhra messes, I am gonna miss the pubs,I am gonna miss the electric trains, I am gonna miss your magnificence as a whole, I am gonna miss the wheatish girls from the north, I am gonna miss the little wooden BENCHES in my office.:)But someday ill be back to you and stay with you for a lifetime ahead cos you are my capitol, cos I love you. Ill be back to you Chennai, till then take care of all the loved ones.Take care of yourself and stay the same :)

Refuelling 22 Feb 10:27hrs

Slumdog millionaire, i am glad that i watched it months back when it was just another Independent movie that craved for attention. I watched it with no real interest, but still liked it. Days passed and SDM became the talk of villages, towns, and cosmopolites. I watched it again and this time i liked it even more. No it is not the BEST film that one can make out of Mumbai, it is not the best film that suits the Oscar profile, it is not the best by any means and that is why i feel it deserves the recognition(wait a second...even i don't understand what i just typed but just let it be:)).the film never takes itself seriously, it is not too good and it is not the kind of film that wins the Oscars and this makes it the favourite at the academy's this year(wait another second...I promise you I don't understand what i just said;)).These ppl in the west are real crazy they are bored with the kind of films they make and see, and films reaching the final stages at the oscars are just the same, similar crew, similar making, similar acting so when they saw SDM it was like seeing a pig defecate in the busy streets of Manhattan, they have never seen a pig to shit in there, they have never seen something like the SDM so they are celebrating and I am sure SDM is gonna sweep. Rahman may end up holding the golden man in both his hands(but still he will be greeted by shitty indian directors who will ask him to score "Sir, hero nadanthu varan sir appo pakkathula oru ditchu, utthu patha athukulla namba namitha face theriyuthu sir, appo neenga "jajak,jajak,....jakak" nu oru bitta potta pasanga meranduruvanunga sir)Apart from all this I like the movie, it has an Indian soul, and for all those who complain about the bad light in which Mumbai was projected, plzzz the movie was not taken in Mars, those slums are real the poverty is real the cruelty is real, when we are getting used to accept the realities we will accept movies like these. Let's wait till 22nd, kudos SDM, kudos Danny(but Mr.Anil kapoor U SUCK... i hate the way you behaved at the globes, you are a a**h***)

Emergency Landing 04 Feb 16:18hrs

I don't understand what is happening in the Island nation,No i don't have a clue.I have heard stories, I don't believe in Rajapaksha(ppl just look at him, he looks so cruel, like the Nambiars and Asokans, it is tattooed on his face that "I am a villan..ha ha ha"), I don't believe in LTTE, I don't believe in the Indian government, I don't believe the jokers in Tamilnadu who keep shouting for no good reasons, I don't believe the media, don't believe in a thing all I believe is that my Innocent brothers out there are suffering and i could feel the pain here. Days back i read about a girl from kilinochi, her grandma and her mother were raped in front of her little eyes no one came to save her and the woman in her house. Damn it!! they are suffering out there and what are we doing? Leave out the Tamil factor, aren't they human as the rest of us? I feel responsible to do something but what can i do? what can we do?.And days back one of my colleagues from north asked me a question "Why are you Tamils so regional fanatic? After all those people belong to another nation". My answer for him and all other Indians who don't understand the pain we as Tamils share all i would like to say is "Fine, you say that I am Indian, yes I am an Indian and i love my country, You expect me to be a brother to all those ppl who live in this country, to the ones from Nagaland and Assam(even though they are Chinese to me), to the ones living somewhere in the distant villages of Bihar and Jammu(god damn they look alien to me..anyway), I agree with you, I agree that we are one country and i agree that we are united in diversity, but these people for whom i speak are my kith and kin, they look like me, they speak like me, they call their mothers just like the way i call mine, they belong to me. We are united not by diversity but by identity, I am an Indian, but more than that I am Tamil by birth and life and I am always proud to say that. So let us care for our brothers, they may have killed your(hmmm…ok OUR) once PM but don't forget that you guys raped their mothers in the name of peace and harmony. Pain is something distant from language and region, its paining for them, I am not pleading you to care for them, but when we do it please don't find faults. Let peace prevail, here and there. Let my brothers and sisters spell P-E-A-C-E not in Tamil, not in Singhalese, not in any other language that humans speak. Let them spell peace in their smiles, lets pray for them after all that is the only thing we can do.

Girrr...Burrr...Dirrr...

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 11:09:00 +0530

(To my roomies reading this, i know i went over-board, as always pardon me ;) )

What if you are super-sensitive to sound? i.e even the sound of a dropping pin on the mosaic floor, barking sound of a dog in a latency of 3 kms would wake up from sleep? and you live in a room with 6 other gentlemen in which 5 snore and 1 farts all night? now that's me.That is my life for nearly two years now.No i am not complaining, im just laughing at god who created me, laughing out loud, laughing out helpless, laughing out insane.There are days when you try hard to sleep and when you feel sleep is nearing you, you start hearing this sound like the sound of a grinding machine, you loose hope on life, your nerves get tighter, your blood flows hot in your veins, you run down to the PC and google for where you can buy unlicensed guns in Chennai, you find that you get it in a corner shop in north madras, you decide to buy it the next day and just blow of all the snoring heads, but the next day comes you wake up hearing the same old noise, you wake up to cry, you wake up to curse and you then google to find out what are the 10 most easy ways of committing a suicide.Now please don laugh, im serious.It is a room where bachelors stay in the morning, and at some magical point in the midnight the place i live in turns into a zoo.I open my eyes to the darkness and I start hearing these sounds, noise of a stranded whale, squealing of a pregnant pig, cawing of a fat dark crow, grump of an injured camel, gobble of a mature male turkey and the howling of a green eyed wolf.I always live with the fear that any time i may become a prey and only my skeleton would remain in the next morning.I am even planning for a night safari in the pathways of my room with an entry rate of 30/per head.Guys lemme know if u r interested, i guarantee for an once in a lifetime experience. I know my limits, ill stop here. :)In a way im getting used to it, how long can you keep worrying for things that is out of your control?.Im planning to do my thesis in snoring, "The sound engineering behind sleeping Indian men" is the title. Wow what a learning it has been for years now, how many varieties we have in a simple snore? from the loud noisy snore which travels across 3 rooms to the vibrator snore which reaches your ears like a drilling machine.The graph patterns that i depicted observing the sounds has led to graphs with sin waves, cos waves and even ocean waves.It is all fine but when you loose sleep over it, hell is not so distant.And the other aversion i have is the aversion to light, i wake up to the sudden glow of a zero watts bulb, I wake up to the glow of the TV screen on my closed eyes.In some nights where i need a lot of time with myself for solace, someone will switch on the creepy television at 4am and hear songs in the tunes of "satti suttathada, kai vittathada".I go helpless guys. And all my otherwise lovely roomies reading this, Im not blaming you guys you people have all the rights to snore after all it is your tongue and your nose.Blame my parents for bringing me up like this, blame god who created me as a naturally sensitive ***hole.Blame me.I cant sleep with sound, i cant sleep when i find a small ray of light intruding the bottom of my door, i cant sleep when the TV keeps running, I cant sleep while people speak, I need a graveyard like silent atmosphere in order to completely sleep at peace.I know i have become a nightmare for most, nobody prefers to sleep near me just cos u guys know i mouth very bad words in your ears when i get irritated, I kick at times to bring you back to normal, at times i even wake up people and say "I have no problems in you snoring hard, but please can you stop snoring like an owl and start snoring like a cuckoo bird?".I know that i have become a pest to most, I know that everybody prays for me to get a wife who snores all night,but please stand in my shoes.Apart from this you guys are the best one can find in the world and I love you guys when you don't make those quirky annoying noises. (im not saying this fearing a mob attack making me run nude in the streets, im sayin this cos i really love you guys :P).And for all those others reading this, my thesis is nearing its conclusion and ill soon give the answers for the age old question.Where does the snore come from? Is it from the nose or the mouth?

keep guessing till then... :)

இந்த மழைக்காலம்.

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 10:36:00 +0530

என் முதல் கவிதை முயற்சி...குழந்தைகள் கூட மழையை முறைத்துக்கொண்டிருந்த-உயிர்ப்பில்லாத ஒரு மாலைப்பொழுதில் எழுதியது ..

இந்த மழைக்காலம்.

இந்த மழைகாலத்தின் கடைசி நாள்.
இருள் கவிந்திருந்த இந்த மாலையில்
தூறலுடன் பெய்கிறது இறுதி மழை

காமத்தில் வடிந்த எச்சில் போல்
காயத்தில் கசிந்த உதிரம்போல்
கிழவியின் அழுகை போல்
துர்கனவின் சிறுநீர் போல்

ரசிக்க ஆளின்றி என் வீட்டு
சாக்கடையில் விருப்பமில்லாமல்
பெய்கிறது - யாவரும் பழகி சலித்த மழை

வானம் பார்த்துவிட்டு
வீட்டுக்குள் நான் வந்த நொடியில்
ஏனோ இறந்தேபோய்விட்டது
இந்த மழைக்காலம்.

Still Life

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 18:53:00 +0530

A few nights back I was there in this crowded restaurant near my place, burning with hunger, I ordered my food and waited. Time passed and i got nothing. Restless,I looked around for my waiter. It was a chaotic sight all around, people moving in and out, noise of the speaking voices, waiters rushing with the servings.And finally i found him, the middle aged man who took my orders, he was standing by the other side, he stood there motionless like a saint, i looked him in his eyes , his eyelids made no movement; they were wide open, he was staring at something across the road. It was a little bird standing in the middle of the busy road. It was idle too.My waiter's eyes were fixed on the bird, he seemed to have forgotten himself, it was just the bird and him and nothing else. Not his job, not the chaos, not his family, not his life- nothing. Time stood still for him. I have no words to bring out the essence of the moment. I left him to enjoy the moment, and closed my eyes to interpret its meanings. When i opened my eyes, both the bird and the waiter had left the place. A special moment had ended for the three of us. And chaos was back on track. In a way it is these moments that remind us the real pace of life, however maddening we make it, life moves in its own pace. One tear at a time, one little grin at a time.Incidentally i watched this movie sometime back and all through it kept on reminding me about the real pace of life. "Sanxia Haoren" (2006 Eng- Still life) a Chinese film by the acclaimed director Jia ZhangKe is the story of two people who come in search of their spouses to a city which will soon be disappearing under water.

The movie opens with a ferry travelling across the breathtaking waterways in the city of Fengjie; The place which is soon to be submerged to construct China's largest dam. Inside the crowded ferry in a lonely corner sits Han Sanming a poor coal miner who has come to the place in search of his wife who ran away from him 16 years ago with his infant daughter.He enters the city just to find that his wife is dislocated elsewhere and he has to stay there and wait till her return.He joins the local groups of workmen- slowly demolishing the remaining buildings with hand tools. He roams around in the to-be-empty streets of Fengjie smoking cigarettes and giving himself to the calmness and depression of the town.The movie then cuts to the story of a pretty young nurse Shen Hong who has come to Fengjie in search of her husband who left her two years earlier and never returned. She searches for her husband in the abandoned factories and excavated lands. She finds a friend of her husband and together they try to reconnect with her missing husband. Finally after a long search Shen finds out that her husband has become a successful businessman and also he has found a new woman. Shen who came to reunite with him finally confronts and informs him that there is another man in her life and decides to divorce her wandering husband.Again the film travels with Han Sanming who finally finds his ex-wife to be a bonded laborer and he has to pay 30,000 Yuan to cover the debt and release her.The film ends with a determined Han Sanming leaving Fengjie and walking back to his hometown to work hard and earn enough to save and reunite with his ex-wife.

The movie travels with the two souls who come in search of their loved ones, along with it the movie conveys the story of Fengjie province which has relocated more than a million people to build the massive Three Gorges dam. All the supporting characters who accompany Han and Shen in their journey convey the pain of dislocation from home.And the film is suitably divided into four section namely "Cigarettes","Liquor","Tea", and "Toffee" which accordingly classify the mood of the lead characters.Also there is the presence of some surreal elements such as a UFO and a flying buildings that add to the addiction that the movie creates in us. “Still Life” is a film which wanders throughout, and is narrated by visuals and anecdotes rather than a traditional story line. Cinematography by Yu Lik-wai is the strongest point of the movie. Right from the very first shot the viewer is captivated to the screen, the majestic river covered by dense green mountains and gray clouds which give an artistic touch to every shot conveys the rest which the characters forget to convey in their silence. The film as such is poetically beautiful and presented in a dreamlike narration.It went on to get wide critical acclaim and top honors for best movie at Venice International film festival and many others.

The film as such conveys nothing, with visuals of strange blank spaces and stories of lonely hearts it requires a certain amount of patience to watch. Throughout the film the protagonists keep staring at the life around. They look at the flight of UFO's, demolition of skyscrapers, death of a loved ones, dilapidated town with calmness and with absolute indolence. They are not excited, they take life-one moment at a time, they stare at the stillness of every event happening around them. The stillness of commotion, the stillness of chaos, the stillness of despair, the stillness of life, the stillness of death.The ending sequence shows Han Sanming walking away from the town, just to stop by the sight of a tightrope walker who tries to to travel the distance between two buildings over a rope with just a long stick for balance and the grey clouds forming a mystic background. Han Sanming keeps staring at the view above him and the movie closes with a black screen and a magical score filling in the thoughts and ears.When it ended I was reminded of the sight of the waiter and the little bird. I closed my eyes to interpret the thousand meanings that are always left untold.

To visit my World Cinema series click here..

On a few rainy days...

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 20:00:00 +0530

An old rusted compartment, deep blue window grills, brown rail tracks, green fields with white birds, grey clouds in the distance, the colorless rain water. It was a journey filled with colors. A plenty of them rioting with one other.I looked around to find that the seats were half full. With just one other person for my company I knew it was gonna be a warm journey home. It started raining the moment the train left Egmore till it reached the outskirts of Madurai, it rained all the way.And i was sharing the excitement with all the other faces that i met on the road.The train was traveling into the rain, i had never seen such a long rain all my life. My vision of rain was limited as everybody else. Rain meant a little pond of water in the front yard and a few hanging drops in my window grill. But to see it rain so wide for hundreds of kilometers did change my perceptions a little. Rain is magnificent, Rain is huge, Rain is not the drops which we see from earth but the drops that pour from the sky which we never see. Rain ends its long journey from the heavens at our feet. And we join it at the very last seconds of its living. Rain as such can never be seen with eyes, it can just be felt.

It has stopped raining sometime back, I stood under the little mango tree in the front yard and the last dew drops of the previous rain just drizzled on me. The leaves look fresh with water drops, I touched them and it shivered a little. The world looks like a different place to me, the suns light looks filtered by a silky cloth somewhere in the sky and the place is filled with a pure silver light.People look beautiful than they really are. The faces are filled with a warm smile , void of worries, i wonder rain how has always had that power to evade worries.The room is still asleep, and some kind of joy is hidden in every sleeping eye, I just feel like making the bed by the window, staring at the dark clouds filling the sky, hearing some music for the heart shrinking myself like a kid and dreaming about a better life.I just love the rain, it always inspires me, in its presence im feeling good, im feeling contended, im feeling lucky.

A rainy evening.There is no power at my place and i get to the little sit out of ours to feel the rain of the day. It's raining as it would rain in the hell. Raining like hell, raining like a curse. Its dark everywhere no streetlights no colors. It is raining like the very first rain on earth and i see it right in front of the eye. It's all black white and grey. Shades of them, dark and light, pale and full. The lighting interludes and you see a picture painted for the heavens. It is not joyful as always, at times rain too threatens. It is not kind anymore it tries to fill in the space with noise and fear. The yellow light from the little candle fights with the emptiness of the dark and fails.it paints a sad little story of the fighting candle. Some kind of pain is evoked and you could see it floating and joining the water flowing across the streets.I sit and stare at the candle. I sit. I stare. And it rains with noise and fear.

Sleepless night. I lie motionless on my bed. With closed eyes i keep staring. Staring at god. He stares back and we just avoid each other. I know he is hurt too.It will take time to heal. Why heal? let it not heal when it bleeds.... let it bleed. I open my eyes it is all dark and it is raining at my window. And i hear the rain, i hear it for the first time in my life. Like a thousand guitars playing a wild tune, it rains. I hear the frogs, a hundred of them screeching. I wonder if it is raining at your window or just mine? Why does rain change its mood often, no it doesn't change its mood, it just wears mine. It laughed when i laughed, it cries when i cry, it bursts when i burst, it becomes me. It rains just for me. I close my eyes again. I could hear the orchestra of the wild rain. I live in a closed room. But i could feel the rain breaking the walls and pouring on me. All those drops made in the sky pour on me and it joins the little drops made by my eyes.I get dissolved. I become the rain. I am the rain. And let it rain. And when it all ends ill wake up to see the sun shine at my window. ill wake up to heal, ill wake up to live, ill go out to see the little pond that the rain has made in my front yard, ill go out to feel the freshness the rain brought with it. Ill go out knowing that it rained just for me.

I'm thankful that it rained.

Tagged!

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Sat, 6 Sep 2008 06:17:00 +0530

First thanks Anu for tagging me, you awakened me from my slumber.Sorry guys I knew i missed the bus last month, but now Im back!!:), and straight to the tag,

TAG-1 Days of my life

Yesterday

Your oldest memory?
Wow! my oldest memory? hmmm where does it take me. NO i don't remember the days in my mother's womb, nor the day when i spoke the first word or the day when i broke my crawl and walked.I totally forgot my infant days! So where does it take me? hmmm yes it takes me to this day when i was still a kid, pursuing my Lower.Kinder.Garden it was just few days since i joined school, and once it was a sunny afternoon at school i was crying all the time to go back home.I was sitting idle and looking at the empty corridor behind the window, was waiting for the day to end so i can run back home but the day just looked tooo long. And suddenly from nowhere Amma came! I ran to her and hugged her tight, cried lying on her shoulders and pleaded her to take me home. , and in some time we were out of that little jungle that they put me in.I was lying on her lap while the hand rickshaw guy pulled us all the way till home. With the rickshaw taking a bumpy ride around the streets of Madurai i just lied idle on her lap. She cried with me, she consoled me, and i still don't remember when i slept!

What were you doing 10 years ago?
1998. R.Vignesh. VIII 'A'. An innocent school boy who still thought that the world was a safe place to live, i was still on the verge of becoming an adolescent. GOD! life was heaven, getting up in the morning hearing mom's "archanai's", petty fights with R.Arun, riding with dad to school, eating the rotten idli's that mom makes(sorry ma:)), competeing for good ranks @ school(hmmm!), street crickets which lasted forever, watching Marmadesam and Premi, still searching for my sweetheart, loootis in the school bus, sakthimaan and sachin, struggling with maths(4 tat matter always!), riding the BSA SLR and dreaming that i will own a Hercules MTB someday, and thousand other bits'n'pieces... to put it simple 10 years ago i was Living.

Today
Your first thought today morning?

OMG!!!! it is already 6.00. i haven slept yet, so when are these monsters gonna stop snoring?, when am i gonna find a place to sleep in this zoo?when am i really gonna sleep? OMG!! look at my eyes! i look terrible, My first thought this morning uh?back-off, it is not today yet! it is still yesterday, gimme a break. I need to sleep. sleep till the sun sets over my bum :P

If you built a time capsule today what it would contain?
C'mon guys a time capsule?! Wogay Gimme some books, gimme a Macbook and a wireless lan, gimme some choclate chip cookies, gimme a Godfather dvd, gimme an ipod filled with Illayaraja, gimme the girl and gimme the moon. nothing more!

Tomorrow

This year
For all those curious Im still at bench but with a twist, taking trainings in Spring, Hibernate, Struts, JSF, Greek, Latin and Zulu.So in some time ill be into a project working day and nights, breaking the brain(hav 2 find it first!),coding,eating, sleeping.Contrary to popular belief i wish to work like crazy and that phase will start soon. watelse? the year has been one of the best already so i don have any more wishes, awaiting 2009.(hmmm jus days back it was 1986, GOD look at the rate at which time runs)

What do you see yourself doing 14 years from now?
Wat's that 14 years? so it has to be 2022.professional dreams are out of context. So on a personal front I would be 36!! kids in the neighbourhood would be calling me "Vignesh Uncle"(I hate that!).would have met her by then, i would have grown a pot belly and would definitely look uglier ;p. Watching world movies would assist in making me a preemptive frontal baldie(Anu ur happy now?:( ), GOD guys i wanna stop this now...14 years is loooong time from now, anything may happen after 14 long years? adhukkaaga?? Kaamarajar kooda dhaan theruvilakkulapadichaar? Adhukkaaga?Seri, kaamaraajar padikakave ille… so WHAT?

PS: thanks Aravind :), i just stole the kamarajar dialouge of urs, ethum copy-right problem illaye?:)

TAG-2 Wonderful Quotes

The objective of this tag is to make people write 5 wonderful quotes from the books they've read it seems! Good intentions but really tough to implement, it would take me re-read of some 100+ books and some 6+ months to complete the tag. So i modify the Tag to accomplish it within a single book. So the favourite 5 quotes from the last good book that u have read..

The book is - "Tuesdays with Morrie"

1."The most important thing in life is to learn how to give out love, and to let it come in."

2.“ . . . the big things—how we think, what we value—those you must choose yourself. You can’t let anyone--or any society—determine those for you.”

3."As you grow old, you learn more. If you stayed at twenty-two, you'd always be as ignorant as you were at twenty-two. Aging is not just decay, you know. It's growth. It's more than the negative that you're going to die, its also the positive that you understand you're going to die, and that you live a better life because of it."

4."Love wins. Love always wins."

5."Death ends a life, not a relationship."

Guys im tagging none, take it if u feel like ;).

TN 38 AB 8877

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 07:51:00 +0530

A guest post by my bike!

Hey guys my name is TN 38 AB 8877, I come from the Yamaha RX 135 family. If you are a guy and if u ride bikes then you should have heard about me. I was the heartthrob of men during the 90's. I was the popular figure at the college arena, at the racing circuit and even in films i was with the hero helping him in rescuing the heroine, and chasing and dishooming the baaad-men. I was everywhere, Every man in India wished he could own an Yamaha some day. I was the undisputed king of the biking circuit for more than a decade. Then fate played its game, the government banned me in the year 2005 citing that i caused a lot of pollution.I was one of the last few RX 135's produced in the nation. The truth that i will be the last RX 135 to go out of the factory did hurt me. I left my factory in Pune with pride about my past and dreams about my future and traveled down south to a small showroom in an urban town called Coimbatore.

I was there standing in the showroom, eagerly waiting for the prince who will own me. I wished he came soon and released me from this prison of walls, i wished we both could fly at 120km/hr speeds, i started to dream about him, i couldn't wait to see him. One fine day i was cleaned and dusted, i knew my prince has arrived, they polished me, i was fitted with all my accessories and i looked stunning and macho. And finally he came. :( GOD I wanted to shout "NOOOOOOOOOO!!". He was not my prince he looked like a dumb-ass!! I was crying but no one heard me, he came by my side he touched me and i felt like YUCK! He even kissed me on my tank, i wanted to yell " Hey moron please wash your teeth first and then come near me". But i had no other options, i was forced to move out with him. With this idiot on my back i started my long journey.(I later learnt that this moron did have a name... Vicky @ Vignesh but for me he always remains a moron!!)

Have you ever seen a lion from the jungle, caged at the circus amidst monkeys, now that was my initial days. This guy i suppose had never ridden a bike before and his first stint was with me!!.GOD This was like a kid dating on Mallika sherawat.Initially he did maintain me well, he was too proud owning me. but as time passed by i came to meet the sadist in him, He never washed me, never took me to a good service,never took me to a race track, never put petrol for >20rs, and the most important of all he never made a pretty girl sit on my pillion:(. All that i got was men, men with huge bums, men with tiny bums and even men with smelly bums!!! But not a single girl even once!!!(and that is why i call him a loser, i even doubt he will remain one till the end). Not just that he would frequently lend me to men who looked like the Yes-boss villains of tamil cinema, they were equally shitty, and were no better than my moron boss!. At times this guy even endangered my life, once he ran me over a street dog(Waht a shame!!), i survived with bruises all over me! And this guy escaped unhurt!. the second time looking at a pretty girl and doing cheap stunts he drove me directly into a light-post, my body was disfigured but still he escaped unhurt! Finally he brought me to chennai, God this place is shit!!!Look around the traffic, the people, the dust,the pollution, the huge bellied police man, ahh this place sucks!!. And when i see all these Pulsars and Apaches which project themselves rather than the driver i just feel like inviting them for a goddamn race, my blood would boil to show what is it like to be a Yamaha. But see i am not so gifted :(

So you wonder why i am so cynical with him?? Not that he is tooo bad, i know he loves me, we have spent some great times together, racing out pulsars and unicons, trying to impress girls and getting busted, unforgettable trips to ooty driving at breakneck speeds, we both prefer being the darkhorse, he has refused an offer to sell me even as the buyer was ready to pay more than the cost price!now i too have some soft corner him. But why this? coz I lost my kick-starter a month back, when one of his friends who had a leg like a dinosaur and brain like a chimp kicked me on the wrong angle!!! I was fractured and made to stand at a dusty corner of the portico. For nearly a month this owner-moron has not even cared to take me to a mechanic, i have started to rust! Soon i will become extinct, and little he cares , so guys if u got to read this plz plz ask him to take me for a repair.And also warn him that the next time when he does cheap stunts and drives me into a light post i will make sure that he will fly like a frog in slow-mo and the girls around will laugh at him, and i will get away unhurt. I am damn serious, do warn him.

உன் கடிதம் வராத நாளில்...

noreply@blogger.com (Vignesh) — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 00:40:00 +0530

"I love Thamizh... i think its the most beautiful language and can express even the slightest and most intricate emotions in a much more better and more beautiful way than English or any other language can ever hope to"

யாருமற்ற இரவு. உன் கடிதம் வராத நாளைத் தொடர்ந்து வரும் ஓர் அடர்த்தியான இரவு.உறக்கம் கொள்ளாத பெட்டை நாய் ஒன்று வீதியில் தனியே ஊளையிட்டு திரியும் ஒரு நள்ளிரவு. நம்மிருவருக்கும் பிடித்த நிலா கூட மேகத்தில் தன்னை மறைத்துக்கொண்ட ஓர் பின்னிரவு. உன் கடிதத்தின் வார்த்தைகளை மெத்தையாக்கி அதில் உறங்கியவன் பஞ்சு மெத்தையின் கணம் தங்காமல் வலியில் விழித்துக்கொண்ட ஓர் இரவு.உன் கடிதம் வராத என்னுடைய நேற்று இன்னும் முடியவில்லை, அது உன்னுடைய நாளைக்குள் பிரவேசித்துக்கொண்டிருகிறது .நேற்றைய முன்னிரவில் முதல் முறை தோன்றிய வலி இன்னும்கூட முகத்தில் தேங்கியுள்ளது. "குரல் சரியில்லையே?" என்று அம்மா கேட்டபோதும், "என்னடா முகம் வாடியிருக்கு?" என்று நண்பர்கள் கேட்டபோதும் சொல்ல என்னிடம் பதிலேதுமில்லை. இன்று வரையில் நான் நம்பியதில்லை வராத உன் கடிதம் எனக்கு இத்தனை வலிதருமென்று. உன் கடிதம் வராத என் நாட்கள் வீண் எனில்? நீ வராத என் வாழ்க்கை என்னவாகும்?

"நமக்குள் இருக்கும் இந்த உறவின் பெயரென்ன?" என்று நீ கேட்டபோது என்னிடம் விடையில்லை!. நான் படித்த புத்தகங்கள், நான் வியந்த சிந்தனைகள், நான் கண்ட உண்மைகள், நான் அறிந்த மொழிகள் என அத்தனையிலும் தேடினேன் எங்கும் எனக்கு பதிலில்லை.இறுதியில் தமிழிடம் என் வலியெல்லாம் கூறி விடை கேட்டேன். சிறிய மௌனத்திற்கு பின் நம்மை வளர்த்த தமிழ், நீ கண்டு வியந்த தமிழ் என்னிடம் சொன்னது "இதன் பெயர் காதல் என்று!" நான் ஏதும் சொல்லவில்லை. மௌனித்திருந்தேன்.காரணங்கள் ஏதும் இன்றி என்னிரு கண்களிலும் சிறு துளிகள் உதிர்ந்தன. அந்த துளிகளின் வெப்பத்தில் நான் அணிய வைத்திருந்த முகமூடிகள் அனைத்தும் வெந்து பொசிந்தன.

இந்த இரவு இன்னும் மிச்சமிருக்கிறது, அந்த ஒற்றை மரத்தின் மேலமரும் சிறு பறவைகளின் பாடல் காற்றை நனைக்கிறது.உடைகளற்ற நிசப்தமான மௌன வெளியில் என் மனம் சஞ்சரிகின்றது. அது நம்மால் பெயரிடப்படாத அந்த உணர்வுகளால் நிரம்புகிறது.என் கண்களில் மேலும் சில துளிகள் உதிர்கின்றன, அவை உதட்டினில் பட்டு இனிக்கின்றன.மேகத்தின் நடுவே நிலவும் கொஞ்சம் எட்டிப்பார்க்கிறது, அது நான் இதுவரை பார்க்காத உன் முகத்தை நினைவுபடுத்துகின்றது.ஒரு நாள், சிறு பறவைகள் சப்திகின்ற இந்த இரவை நாம் இருவரும் அருகில் அமர்ந்து அழகாக்குவோம், அந்த நாளை நோக்கி கொஞ்சம் சீக்கிரம் வாடி.

இப்படிக்கு உன்,
?.