Close encounters of the Exciting Kind

I was in a poorly lit hall in Alleppey where a book exhibition was going on.  I had passed her a couple of times before; maybe it is the dim light or my failing eyesight, I did not notice her at first. Then, on the third time, I stopped by - and. as I always do, began  fondling her. Suddenly, I froze - one has that instinctive feel, that arousal, that pounding of the heart, that innate knowledge that one has found it - folks, I am talking about the exicting discovery of yet another book, poems that have captured my heart.

The poet lives in my home town, is already well known in the literary circles - I had heard her name, but I am ashamed to admit that I hadn't read her. Reading Anitha Thampi and her second collection of poems, 'Azhakillaatthava-yellaam ( All that are bereft of beauty) is like watching a storm outside as you sit dry and warm and alone, inside. After reading her poems over and over, I google her. Translations never do justice to the original, but you can read a few here.

What struck me most is the lean crispness of the words. Emotions pour forth, not uncontrolled, but with a startling nakedness, bereft of pretensions. There is such precision, such clarity and overwhelming directness that left the reader trembling. The language bear no laundry bags from the past. The thoughts hits you direct and straight, puncturing your heart like a rapier. Those of you know Malayalam would find Anitha Thampi very close to you - very close. Non-Malayalees will have to be content with the translations.

There is enough information about the poet and her poetry in the web. My words are inadequate. 

കളഞ്ഞു പോയ ഉടുപ്പ് 

കഞ്ഞിപിഴിഞ്ഞു വിരിച്ച ഉടുപ്പ്

വെയിലെട്ടുനിവരുന്നതിനിടെ 

പൊടുന്നന്നെ 

ആര് കൊണ്ടുപോയി?

എന്റെ അളവിനെ 

മണത്തെ

അനക്കങ്ങളെ 

എന്റെ മാത്രം അഴുക്കുകളെ 

അത് കൂടെകൊണ്ടു പോയി

കണ്ണ് നിറഞ്ഞാല്‍ തുടചിരുനു

വാക്ക് തടഞ്ഞാല്‍ തെരുപ്പിടിച്ചിരുന്നു

എന്റെ തണുപ്പും പൊള്ളലും എത്ര കാലം പൊതിഞ്ഞിരുന്നു. 

മൊരിയും വിയര്‍പ്പും ഒപ്പി

ഉള്മരങ്ങളുടെ പൂമനങ്ങളെ ചോര്‍ന്നു പോകാതെ കാത്തു

കാറ്റുകള്‍ക്ക്‌ പായ്മരമായി

ഉത്സവങ്ങള്‍ക്ക് കൊടികൂറയായി

പല കറകളെ പേറി 

പുഴുക്കങ്ങളെ പൊറുത്തു

പാതിവാടിയ ഇലകളുടെ നിറമായിരുന്നു

ആര് കൊണ്ടുപോയി? 

എന്റെതല്ലാത്ത ഒരു അളവില്‍ 

അതിന്റെ ഇറുക്കങ്ങളില്‍ 

അയവുകളില്‍,

സുഖമുണ്ടാവുമോ? 

ഒരു നീലകുപ്പായതോട്  ചേര്‍ന്ന്  നിന്നതിന്റെ 

ഒര്മയുണ്ടാവുമോ?

ഇനിയുഒരു കുപ്പായതോട് ആ വിധം ചേര്‍ന്ന് നില്‍ക്കാനാവുമോ?

ഒരിക്കല്‍ 

ഏതെങ്കിലും തിരക്കില്‍ 

എന്നെകടന്നു പോയാല്‍ 

തിരിച്ചറിയുമോ 

എന്റെ കളഞ്ഞു പോയ ഉടുപ്പ്? 

-- 
കടലിന്റെ അടിത്തട്ടില്‍ നിന്ന്

നിന്നോട് സംസാരിച്ചു കൊണ്ട് 

ഞാന്‍ കടലിനു മീതെ നടക്കുകയായിരുന്നു.

തിരകള്‍

എന്റെ കാലടികളെ ഇക്കിളിയാക്കി.

കാറ്റ് ഉടലിനെ പായ്മരമാക്കി 

വിശ്വസിക്കൂ എന്ന് പറഞ്ഞു 

ഞാന്‍ തിരിഞ്ഞുനോക്കുമ്പോള്‍ 

നീയില്ല.

കണ്നെതുന്ന്ടതെങ്ങും കരയില്ല,

കര തേടുന്ന കടല്ക്കാക്കകള്‍മില്ല.

അങ്ങിനെയാണ് 

ഇത്രമേല്‍ ആഴത്തില്‍ 

ഞാന്‍

ഒറ്റയ്ക്കായത്. 

___________

From the depths of the sea

I was walking over the sea

talking to you. 

Waves

Tickled my feet

Wind turned my body into a mast. 

Trust me, I said

And turned around -

You were not there. 

No land wherever I looked

No seagulls searching for land either. 

That's how 

I am now all alone

in the great depths

of the sea. 

*****  ( My poor translation) 

-- 

പ്രിയ അനിതയ്ക്ക്. 

പേര് പരിചിതമായിരുന്നു എങ്കിലും, വായിച്ചിരുന്നില്ല. ആലപ്പുഴയിലെ പുസ്തക പ്രദര്‍ശന ശാലയില്‍, 'അഴകില്ലത്തവയെല്ലാം' വെറുതെ ഒന്ന് മറിച്ചു നോക്കിയപ്പോള്‍ ഹൃദയത്തിന്റെ മിടിപ്പ് പെട്ടെന്ന് വര്‍ധിച്ചു. മലയാളം വായന പരിമിതം - ഭാഷാജ്ഞാനം കുറവ് - ഭാവന ശുഷ്കം - എങ്കിലും കൈകള്‍ വിറച്ചു. ഹൃദയത്തില്‍ എവിടെയൊക്കെയോ ഒരു കത്തി കൊണ്ടുള്ള കോറല്‍. 

ആലപ്പുഴയില്‍നിന്നും തിരുവനന്തപുരതെകുള്ള തീവണ്ടിയില്‍ ഇരുന്നു പലവുരു വായിച്ചു; എന്റെ മുഖം അടുത്തിരുന്നവര്‍ ഇടക്കിടെ ശ്രദ്ധിക്കുന്നുണ്ടായിരുന്നു.  വീട്ടില്‍ വന്നു ഭാര്യയെ ചിലത് വായിച്ചു കേള്‍പ്പിച്ചു. കളഞ്ഞു പോയ ഉടുപ്പ് - എന്റെ മനസ്സിലെ വിഹുഅലതകള്‍ ഞാന്‍ എങ്ങിനെ പറഞ്ഞറിയിക്കാന്‍? മനസ്സ് വിതുമ്പുന്നു. കുട്ടനാടിന്റെ പച്ച!  ചാഞ്ഞും ചരിഞ്ഞും ആകാശത്തിലേക്ക് നീണ്ടു മേഘങ്ങളില്‍ മറഞ്ഞും പടര്‍ന്നു പന്തലിച്ചും, ഭലവും തണലും സ്നേഹവും വാരി വിതറി മരങ്ങള്‍! ഓരോ ചെറു തിരമാലയിലും മാടി മാടി വിളിക്കുന്ന കടല്‍! 

ആര് പെണ്ണെ നീ? ഓ, വരില്ലത്, തെരണ്ടിരിപ്പാണ്, എന്ന് വായിച്ചപ്പോള്‍ പാര്‍വതിയുടെ മുഖത്ത് എന്തോ മിന്നിമറഞ്ഞു. 'തുലാത്തില്‍' വായിച്ചപ്പോള്‍ മാവേലിക്കരയിലെ, എഴുപതുകളിലെ എന്റെ കൌമാരം ഓര്മ വന്നു. കൈലി മടക്കികുത്തി കുനിഞ്ഞു നിന്നുകൊയ്യുന്ന   പെണ്ണുങ്ങളെ കൊച്ചംബ്രാന്‍ ആയി വരമ്പത്ത് നിന്ന്,  കൊതിയോടെ നോക്കി നിന്ന എന്റെ ചെറു ജന്മിത്വം.  കടല്ക്കരയില്‍നിന്നും പിന്നോക്കം നടന്നു പോയത് ഞാന്‍ ആണ്. ഒറ്റക്കാക്കി, ഒറ്റയായി ...

ഓരോ കവിതയിലും ഞാന്‍ മനസുടക്കി മറിഞ്ഞുവീണ് , വീണ്ടും എണീറ്റ്‌ - കാറ്റിലൂടെ, മഴചാറ്റിലൂടെ, നിശബ്ദനായി ...

ഞാന്‍ വീണ്ടും വീണ്ടും - വീണ്ടും കളഞ്ഞു പോയ ഉടുപ്പ് വായിക്കുകയാണ്. 

ഭാഷയുടെ ശക്തി - ലാളിത്യത്തിന്റെ പ്രഭ - അത് സത്യതിന്റെതും പരിശുദ്ധിയുടെതും  കൂടിയാണ് - നന്ദി. 

************ Balachandran V, Trivandrum 10.08.2012

The Flight of the Seagull

Last week when I went to Eranakulam, I dived into my favourite joint there - the secondhand bookshop that has been my solace in the last one year. Digging, burrowing, overturning hundreds of books, I delve deep into the mass of printed pages bound. Just being there, among the works of hundreds of writers, on books varying from Abstract Art to Zoology, gives me immense pleasure and peace. Most of them are fiction, romance and thrillers, books for children, on cuisine, on computers, on gardening or on religion. I bury myself among the books on nature. I am still in the search for books on Himalayas- which I had written about sometime back.

Among the books piled up, I occasionally come across books that I already have at home. It is like meeting old friends. I smile fondly at them and wonder whether I should buy them, perhaps to give as a gift to someone. What better gift there can be to your loved ones, than a book you love? And then, hard bound with a plastic jacket, labelled Rs.30/- lay Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

In one of the glass-cased bookshelves at home, on the top row among my most favorites rests J L Seagull. The frontispiece carry my sprawling, long signature with a date - 28/Jan/78. I bought it at Trivandrum for Rs.10/-. Richard Bach's JLS is one of the books that has profoundly influenced me all my life. I might never become another Jonathan, but I will wish to be, till I die.

1978. I had completed my graduation, joined for PG and was going through a crisis; in fact, several crises in different fronts. Looking back, I realize I am not much different from the person I was then, a boy of 21; about the age K is now.

Jonathan is a Seagull who wants to fly, for the sake of flying. "Why, Jon, why?", asked his mother. "Why is it so hard to be like the rest of the flock?" "Don't you know that the reason you fly is to eat?", asked his father. Jonathan is banished from his flock for his irresponsible behaviour. Jonathan beseeches to his elders - " How much more there is now to living! Instead of our drab slogging forth and back to the fishing boats, there’s reason to life! We can lift ourselves out of ignorance, we can find ourselves as creatures of excellence and intelligence and skill. We can be free! We can learn to fly! Who is more responsible that a gull who finds and follows a meaning, a higher purpose for life? For a thousand years we have scrabbled after fish heads, but now we have reason to live - to learn, to discover, to be free! Give me a chance, let me show you what I have found!" The outcast is alone, flying, flying all the time, perfecting his skill.

The son of a close friend of mine wants to take a break. He has good openings for a career in a field he likes, the movies. His father has good contacts and all he needs to say is yes. Yet he asked for a year - to experiment in theatre. He says if he fails, he will come back. We advise him how foolish it is to lose one year at this stage of life. Build your career now, forget theatre, it is not going to fetch you money. Yet he is determined to go. I admire his courage. I admire his conviction. I admire the quiet confidence that he has, to take risks. To listen and to act to the call of your soul is not something meant for ordinary mortals.

In 1978, I had contemplated on joining a mission in the northeast. I had visions only I could see. I had lost out - in studies, in career, in love life. I applied to the Vivekananda Kendra asking them to take me in as a social worker in Arunachal Pradesh. They gracefully replied to me, asking me to make sure that this is the life I want. They said - do not join us if you are unhappy with your present life, but only if you love the work we do. This is not an escape, but a reality with all the harshness of the life of a monk. Join us when you have no regrets about your present and only happiness about your future.

How could a boy of 21 know his mind? There are the fortunate who could, but I wasn't one among them. I still am not. I was, I am, too stuck in the mud, too afraid to break out of the comforts of the present into the unknown of the future. Maybe I am just one of the gulls sitting in a corner of that windswept beach, neither among the flock nor with Jonathan flying high, high in the sky. I look up at the blue sky and I see Jonathan flying with his silvery wings, above the clouds, above the winds and storms.

I bought the copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull - it is a discard from a school library somewhere in the UK. I couriered it to K in Bangalore. K is flapping his wings too, testing the air.

********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 29.07.2012

The Lotus-eater

courtesy: http://tsukasachronicles.blogspot.in/

    P and I were casually talking about some of her relatives; this couple who are quite close to us and are absolutely great people to be with - both in their late fifties, their daughters, professionals, happily married and settled. The one word that comes to my mind to describe them is - elegant. The couple has this aura of gentle charm of true-blue aristocrats, has easy-going manners. They put you at ease straight away - that is one real quality of goodness in people. Right from the time of our marriage 22 years ago, I had liked this couple very much; though never keen on socializing, I was always happy to spend time with them. Both were professional bankers; both took VRS ( Voluntary retirement) when they found the stress of their jobs too much to handle and now lived quietly, content, spending time among their place in Kochi, and the daughters' in the US and elsewhere.

   Contemplating on VRS myself, I said - ' Look at Chettan - he is happily spending his life, reading and travelling and just being himself'. P replied - ' Oh yeah, he was always a 'Sukhimaan'. I would translate the word Sukhimaan to Lotus-eater. My Malayalee readers might help me with a better word.

   It reminded me of the old joke about the 'Development/ progress' - obsessed American meeting the Indian farmer, relaxing beneath a tree, playing a flute and enjoying the breeze. Don't you want development, the American asks, we will give you money to buy cows. Interested, the Indian farmer asked - Good, what then? 'You can make more money and then you will be able to have your own farm'. Wow, this is great! What then? 'You can make more money and buy cars and build big houses'. Awesome, says the farmer, sitting up, tell me more. 'And then', said the American, 'you will have so much money that you can relax and live happily ever after'. The Indian farmer leant back and took up the flute. He smied and said - Thats exactly what I am doing now.

   There is a short story by Maugham, 'The Lotus Eater'.  The protagonist in the story is a banker!  Maugham, like Hemingway and Shute, shaped my interest in English literature. 

   But more than the word Sukhimaan, P's intonation was loaded with meaning - it was an accusation. That stung me. I asked her what is wrong with being a sukhimaan. We are not talking about laziness, of indolence, but of someone in his mid-fifties deciding to take it easy. He opted out of the rat race, of the stress that was affecting his physical and mental health - he just retired. He might be making less money, he may not have a 'status' now, no authority, no influence, no domination, no pomp and postion. But he is happy. Is it a crime not having to struggle, not to suffer, not to take up huge responsibilities, not to be stressed? What is the purpose, the ultimate goal of our lives, the very meaning of existence, if it is not the pursuit of happiness? Why do we envy those who have stopped pursuing happiness and have realised that happiness is not a goal at the farthest end of horizon but is right here, at this moment?

  'Moreover', I told P - 'take that barb out of your mouth.'

********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 22-07-2012

Phases of Life

Crow with phases of moon: Painting by Nancy Denommee

Sometimes I think that  our life is full of cliche'-s. Not only in our conversations, but the whole exercise of living is cliche' -ed. It is when we try to break out of the cliche'-s that we find pleasure and happiness in life. Otherwise our lives remain, as B said, fatuous, mundane and insignificant. Yet sometimes these cliche'-s when uttered in the right situations, reveal to us the doors to meaningful existence.

J called me yesterday night. He is in his early forties. J is a colleague of mine in the Bank. Years ago, he had stayed at our outhouse while working in Trivandrum. Though a Malayalee, he had lived most of his life in North India. J is an exemplary chap. He is a great friend, but since we worked in different branches and he moved away to other places on transfer, our friendship could not develop further intimacy. We kept in touch; in the occasional hello-s, the warmth and affection in our relationship was kept alive.

J is in Patiala now. We asked after each other's family, our rides (J had once done the Ladakh trip on a Scooter!) and our work. I told him that I was now in Alleppey and felt miserable being away from Parvati and Trivandrum. Sensing my dejection, J immediately said- ' No No No, don't worry, it'll pass, it is just a phase of life, it'll pass'.

While trekking in the mountains, one of the unforgettable memories is about water. After a tiring stretch, one would be panting and leaning on to the walking stick; legs would be wobbly; knees would be almost tearing apart. And then you suddenly see this small gush of water, falling from a height, running down through a little forest of green bushes and all you have to do is to press your face against it and the icy water would be cascading over your head, blurring your eyes and trickling down to the insides of your jacket. You fill your hat with the water and put it over your head. Bliss.

When J was at Trivandrum, he used to bring his wife and son occasionally from his native place - Tiruvalla. His wife had terminal cancer and had to undergo radiation therapy at the Regional Cancer Centre. I remember her, the pallu of her sari draped over head. She was so frail and weak. Yet I remember the way she smiled at me, while J held her close. I remember the love that shone in J's eyes. J's wife passed away soon. J would have been in his early thirties at that time, but he never remarried. His only son has now completed his Plus Two and wants to study architecture.

A phase of life. I was silent over the phone for a moment, remembering all that, and how J has lived through so much pain. I remembered all those who have borne much suffering and yet survived another day. I closed my eyes and felt the cool, soothing stream running down and was at peace. The journey was not yet over.

************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 15.07.2012

A Cup of Tea

Just  meters away from the entrance of Alleppey railway station stand a few shops; among them a little tea shop where I often have my tea. There is a tree beside the shop; it is a little one, offering cover more than shade. 

My cup of tea came and I grimaced at the taste; I don't take much sugar in it. As I took a sip, I saw someone standing behind the little tree. He was a tramp; could  not be more than 40 or so, filthily attired, his unkempt hair and beard matted with dirt.  I looked at him, our eyes met and he lowered his.  I took another sip and glanced at him. His eyes reminded me of the countless stray dogs - meek, wary and in the hierarchy of living beings, the lowest, the pariah.  Like a tentative wag of the tail, he managed to smile at me - and gestured - oru chaaya - a cup of tea.  

Call me heartless, but I am not the kind who give alms to beggars. Because most of them belong to beggar mafia; they are organised and controlled by goons. Every evening they have to give their collection to the leader. I know; I have talked to many of the beggars. But of course, occasionally I do part with a rupee or two, just because I could not turn my face away.  The beggars exploit this weakness, this guilty feeling we have. .

It had been drizzling. I looked at the tramp once again. In his eyes, the way he looked at me, sipping my hot tea, I could see that at  that moment nothing would be more pleasurable to him than a hot cup of tea. 

I ask the tea shop owner if he can give the tramp a cup of tea.  He hands over tea in a paper cup.  I hold the cup and look at the tramp; he doesn't move.  I keep it by the side of a ledge slightly away from where I stood. Again, the dog. Again I see the feeble wagging of the tail.  

Paying, I leave without a glance back at him. I didn't want to look at him because I did not want to own him for a mere cup of tea. I was not ashamed of my magnanimity, but I did not want to be his patron for a five rupee worth of tea. 

In the station, I go to the farthest end, where breeze from the sea blew gently and unhindered. It was dusk. I waited for the train to come. There was no hurry to get home. I was at peace. 

***************  Balachandran V, Trivandrum 08-07-2012

Echo

Lying on my left side, body bared
Waiting for the cold creamed  sensor
Feeling my heart beneath the hair and flesh
I smelt the perfume of the girl,
The warmth, the softness of her arm across my chest 
And like an excited adolescent thought
She had her breast pressed against my back.
I giggled inside, fantasizing 
The girl taking a fancy
To my broad, hairy, muscled chest. 


I smiled at myself, my silliness, my innocence
Happy that even the imagination 
Of the touch of a young body could rouse me.


In her soft voice she asked me after my health
About my BP, cholesterol, and the pains 
All the while I was thinking how nice it would be 
To press my nose against the back of her beautiful neck
And breathe her in, deep. 


'Nothing much wrong here', she said
'But take care, don't let it worsen, take the medicines'. 


My heart was okay for the time being
I could hear it pumping blood
That old tireless machine
Beating on,  for its fifty fifth year. 
I could imagine it, or if I turned around
See it in the screen, my heart, my little heart
Thickening walls, weakening muscles
Beating on, on and on. 


Echo, echoes of the past
Echoes of the heartbeats, of heartbreaks,
Echoes of youth, of love...


In the air-conditioned intimacy
We were together, silent
Except for the loud thuds of my heart
The churning, the sloshing around of my blood.


Her arm resting lightly on my chest
I looked at her graceful fingers, a glimpse-
Before she moved her hand away.


I could fall in love with 
All the women in the world.  


**********  Balachandran V, Trivandrum 05.07.2012

Enjoying Poetry

Among my collection of books on poetry ( poems as well as guides to the study of poems), there is one book I like much - 'The Forms of Poetry - A practical study guide for English by Peter Abbs & John Richardson ( Cambridge U P). It is meant for students aged 14 -18, but is useful for anyone who wants to understand and appreciate poetry. Poems of many kinds liberally scattered throughout, the book is hugely enjoyable. I just wanted to share some I liked.

I would highly recommend this book to anyone who wants to learn the nuances and beauty of poetry.

The Masochist's Week

Moanday,

Tearsday,

Woundsday,

Fearsday,

Frightday,

Sufferday,

Stunday.

******** Anon.

Frog

It sits, a moist ball of flesh in my hand.

Vulnerable, pressed belly close to my pink palm,

The ball of putty croaks,

Blowing out with care, his throat balloon taut.

He lets it go shriveling back into limp folds,

Like worn material .

He hangs his skin cravat under his chin and smiles.

Suddenly, his head jerks up

Sending black warts colliding down his back.

His eyes swivel

Full of wet black wonder

Exaggerated by the thin circlet of gold he wears around them.

Regally he stands

In wait for the worm, long pale pink innocence.

Then tongue whips the air and satisfaction slips down

His throat.

He presses his eyes down and shuffles his

membranous feet.

He smiles and rests his head flaccidly on my thumb.

*******************

Liza Robinson ( aged 13)

Intimates

Don't you care for my love? she said bitterly.

I handed her the mirror, and said:
Please address these questions to the proper person!
Please make all requests to head-quarters!
In all matters of emotional importance
please approach the supreme authority direct! - 
So I handed her the mirror.

And she would have broken it over my head,
but she caught sight of her own reflection
and that held her spellbound for two seconds
while I fled.

********** D H Lawrence

************ Balachandran V, Trivandrum 30/06/2012

Art takes a step Backward

Meena Kandasamy courtesy http://dbnweb2.ukzn.ac.za

After centuries of discrimination, the 'low caste' Hindu, through several programmes of social justice and social emancipation, are getting their equal rights as citizens - the fact that they were kept far out of the mainstream society for generations, oppressed and enslaved and 'untouched' - it denied their children the oppertunities available to those of the 'upper castes'. Through reservation of seats in educational institutions and employment, reduced fees, lower merit requirements and other measures, those belonging to the untouchables/lower castes/ harijans/scheduled castes/Dalits are being ensured of equal rights. All this began after Independance in 1947. 65 years. And likely to continue for decades hence. Fine. Of course, the upper castes may grumble; there are socially/economically backward individuals among them - and now they in turn are robbed of their rights. So it will be.

But - can the same yardstick be applied to art? Lets say - A of the upper caste draws a picture of a dog; and so does B, a Dalit. If for all aesthetic standards, A's picture is better, but since B is a Dalit, should the prize go to B?

Can art be of the Dalit? Can art be of Women? Can art be of the Hindu/Moslem/Christian etc? Should we allow Art to bear such labels? How do you judge a work of art - a poem/ a sculpture/ a painting/ a song/ a story/ - whatever? Would it be for its quality as a work of art or for its political/communal/ jingoistic/parochial considerations? Would you rate a work of art by a man and a woman on the basis of sex? 

Meena Kandasamy is a Tamil Dalit poet. ( since when did we stop saying poetess/ actress? In what way do we discriminate here? Or does gender discrimination end if we say female actor? Is it sexist to identify a person on the basis of sex? If there are only actors, so be it, but awards should be only for the best actor,irrespective of sex ) She was in Trivandrum yesterday in connection with the release of the translated version of her collection of poems. Tamil Dalit poet. Tamil - you need that to distinguish the language she uses; it is also useful to understand the cultural milieu she belongs to. Dalit - it denotes she belongs to a group of communities - socially/economically/politically/ etclly backward. Do we need to know her caste to appreciate her art?

Maybe before you read a poem, you should learn the religion/community the poet is from - and set your mind accordingly.

I am writing this based on a report in the Malayalam daily, 'Mathrbhumi'. The Malayalam poet/activist, Smt Sugathakumari had been invited to do the honour of releasing the collection of poems ( translation by V S Bindu). Sugathakumari was given a copy of the book on the previous day of the function. After reading a poem in the book which was contemptuous of Mahatma Gandhi, Sugathakumari informed the organisers that it will be against her conscience to release a book that depicts Gandhiji badly. She refused to attend the function stating that she cannot be a party to it.

The poem begins by saying that it is incorrect to call him 'Mahatma'. It says that Gandhi's laugh is 'eerie' (Bhayanakam). The poem ends with 'Bapu, Bapu, kodiya vanchaka, njangal ningale verukkunnu' - Bapu, Bapu, you big fraud, we hate you. She calls Gandhiji a sadist, impure, imposter etc. Meena was 17 when she wrote this. She says she wrote it after reading Sylvia Plath's Daddy.

Meena writes:

Gone half-cuckoo, you called us names,
You dubbed us pariahs—“Harijans”
goody-goody guys of a bigot god
Ram Ram Hey Ram—boo.

But they killed you, the naked you,
your blood with mud was gooey goo.
Sadist fool, you killed your body
many times before this too.

You can read the full poem here. http://meenakandasamy.wordpress.com/2008/06/01/mohandas-karamchand/

In her speech Meena Kandasamy criticized Sugathakumari for refusing to release the book. Sugathakumari said she has her own values and principles and considers Gandhiji as her Guru and nobody can demand that she destroy her values.

Meena Kandasamy has won awards and accolades for her poetry. She has a PhD in Sociolinguistics.

Gandhiji brought all the 'Untouchables' together and called them Harijans; the children of God. they now call themselves Dalits. Who bears the stigma? Who still carries the brunt of casteism in their minds? All of them; upper and lower, Brahmin and Dalit.   When the name is changed from Harijan to Dalit, would the pain and hurt vanish?  So long as one identifies him/herself as 'belonging' to a caste, this schism would persist.  If it was not for Gandhiji, what would have been the history of the present Dalits?

I have read Meena's poems and found some quite good. And that has nothing to do with the fact that she is a Dalit or that she is an attractive young woman. But Gandhi-bashing is quite fashionable among Dalits, it seems. It gets you applauds and cheers from some members of the Dalit communities.

To me, since the time when world began there have been the oppressor and the oppressed. In some countries it is White and Black, in some Shia and Sunni, in some Protestant and Catholic; in most, the rich and the poor. One day it is the Brahmin and the Dalit, next day the roles reversed. 

*************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 28.06.2012
SEE :http://newindianexpress.com/cities/thiruvananthapuram/article553077.ece

Passion Poetry

http://www.kmadisonmooreartistportfolio.com   Painting by K Madison Moore

Recently I wrote to 'Writers Workshop', Kolkota, asking whether they would be interested in bringing out another collection of my poems. Ms.Lal, granddaughter of late Prof.P Lal, warmly replied that they'd consider it. 

My poems are scattered among many files; perhaps the only page where I can find most of them would be the blog. Down with fever and cough ( what better excuse to take leave and stay home!), I started browsing through my files to compile those poems which haven't appeared in the first collection.  I considered which poem should be the 'title poem'. 


Except for a rare deviation, my poems are morbidly personal; they are too intimate, ad nauseum. The few exceptions are about trees or dogs or nature in general. I hardly write anything political or social or something that concern humanity in a large scale. To me, poetry is a tool with which I learn more about myself; by expressing my analyses in words, I am clearer to myself; and in most cases, I am able to connect with the larger world through this process of self-learning. 

I am no different from any other creative writer in contending that some of what I have written are, simply put, beautiful. Especially those on love and passion.  Among the nearly 300 plus poems I have written, there are a few which are so so close to me.   'Blue Moon' is one. 

It is typical of its genre, lost love. Years ago, I accidentally got in touch with my girl friend of decades back.  One day I asked her ( email) whether she reads my blog, my poems. I had a reason to ask; because most of the intensely passionate poems were written around her.  I wanted to know whether I could convey what I couldn't when I should have.  One need not harbour real feelings to write truly; even the memories of real feelings can enthuse one to write as genuine.  And she replied - 'Oh, once in a blue moon'. 

Into the little aquarium at home, I drop a stone, smoothly rounded, that I had picked up from a riverbed. 'Thunk'! it goes down and settles on the sand-bed. 

I might give 'Blue Moon' as the title for the next collection of poems - if published! 

Interestingly, there is one Elvis song,  'Blue moon,  you saw me standing alone...'

Blue Moon


Blue Moon!

How would thee be?

Blue, like the skies over the mountains

Or the sea a hundred fathoms deep?

Would thee be a lavender blue

Or a fragrance of Satchmo’s jazz?

Nights –

I do not remember days anymore –

Nights –

Rattle of toddy cats on the roof

Rustle of the mango tree in the breeze

The howl of my dogs

Pining for love.

Through the window

A moon, waxing and waning

Clouded out.

She said she would glance at my words

Once in a blue moon.

I seek thee, Blue Moon!

How would thee come?

On the fourteenth night

Thy anklets tittering,

Lifting thy veil

And -

Looking at me with love?

******  Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 06-02-2009

Monocular Views

Turning it inward, the first thing I noticed

Was the paleness of the Blue.

As I scanned, colours of different hues appeared

A bright saffron Red that excited me,

Greens, strange, I always felt erotic

Browns of barren lands and then

The White of the snow-capped hills.

I shook the Glass and Viola'! it turned

To a Kalaiedoscope.

Sparklers and bangle pieces

Tinted glass and tiny beads - I shake -

And marvel at the myriad  of love.

Love, in its infinite patterns, Love

That I knew, and that I didn't

Each design, falling into place

So different from the other, so unique!

I shake, I roll and yet another appears

How disturbing, how fragile, how tender it is!

I stand still, lest my arms shake,

And trying to forget, at least for the moment

That the beauty before me

Is of broken pieces of glass...

******** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 17.06.2012

Being an Indian

It is not about nationality or religion. There are certain icons   embedded  in one's subconscience; however one may try to raise oneself out of the confines of the country and belief system that one was born into, however universal one is, the spiritual umbilical cord with your nativity cannot be cut. Icons such as  Ganga, Himalayas, Kasi, Bharatapuzha, etc, are so ingrained in me; I find great solace in them. I consider myself an Indian just because I have been fortunate to be born in this land. If I consider myself a Hindu ( which I don't, in the religious sense) it is only because of the historical and spiritual baggage that I carry as  an Indian; anytime better than an American or British baggage!

Below is an unpublished poem I wrote long ago. I was in Varanasi, with my mother's ashes. I was not there due to religious reasons; I had never before visited this place and my mother's death was an excuse. During my 4 or 5 days stay in Varanasi, I wandered around the city, watched bodies being cremated, visited BHU and the Palace across the Ganges.

Despite its filth and crowds and ugliness, Benaras/Kasi/Varanasi left an indelible impression in my mind. I wouldn't mind visiting it again; I would love to sit on the banks of Ganges on a full moon night, alone.

To Kasi, With Thanks

Kasi/ Benaras/Varanasi. The ancient, holy city in India. Since ages, Kasi has been the final resting place en route heaven – or hell.

Amidst the filth, fury of the heat,

Amidst the chaos of men and machines

Amidst the riot of raggedly people

Amidst the stench of putrefying land.

What do I take from thee, Kasi?

For my wife, a couple of sarees

For my son, a couple of Kurtas

For my friend, an antique in bronze

For me? Just you in my heart.

Who are you, Kasi, are you the one

Languishing by the river? Or

Benaras, of the dilapidated palace?

Or Varanasi, the leprous one?

Kasi, why did you let it slide

Into this vortex of Hell?

You could’ve let it be

Your ancient soul and shadows.

For, if it were you, Kasi

I’d have strolled in your narrow galies,

Savouring the shade and smell of dung

Touching the cool stones with my heart.

If it were you, Kasi

I’d have swum in the Ganges

Touched the drop that long ago

I let flow at Vasudhara¹ Falls.

If it were you, Kasi

I’d have met all those who left

Who walked away from my home afar

To you, to never return.

If only it were you, Kasi!

I’d have walked with all those

Who still run in my blood.

For you, Kasi, is what I am, what I were

What my son would be.

*************************

Varanasi 27/10/2004

1. A waterfall near Badrinath, high in the Himalayas.
   
   
   
   
   

            Courtesy mbjesq