Delicacies made of silence- taste of rumali rotti from the hands of speech impaired- my recent write up in The New Indian Express

Veteran Folklorist Ammapettai Ganeshan will make Hanuman set ablaze the island coming sunday

Lakshmi, did you read my SMS ?

The over eighty year old Lakshmi, whose dark face still plays 

hide and seek in my dim memories, left her world of woes on Friday.

On the serenity of a night, she came to me

And recollected her active days of art.

It's almost a couple of years now.

With silence engulfing the handful of houses at Erwadi, Ramesh, as Aravan

Was marching towards the altar, where he would be beheaded the next morning.

Lakshmi, hooding her hair-dropped head with a scarf, kept telling me 

How she discovered a dancer in her.

Her feeble voice entering my mobile phone.

I bade farewell to Hari and other friends, when the sky dawned with 

The crimson blood of Aravan the next morning.

 Within a week or so, I penned the memories of Lakshmi.

 " The Empress of the Lore" with

 Rare photographs, taken in costumes of dance

When Lakshmi was a young girl.

 The sale of the newspaper with my article in " Expresso" was nothing unusual.

Beethoven on his piano. Hari calls me.

" Meenakshi sir, Lakshmi Ammal, you know ? the Empress of the Lore, is no more"

My wife, child and I were heading to Thanjavur on Jansahapthi Express.

My eyes welled up, I tell them her demise.

I sent Hari a message to accept my condolence.

Left as an unburnt part of Lakshmi's limbs

The 'sent' message in my mobile phone still smells of 

Her death.

  

Poet Lakshmanan, Murugavel and Ashok, the trio's endless journey in tracing the history of exploitation on the tribal people. I penned this article in The New Indian Express after watching their documentary " Naali" which means " Stream" in Irula tribal language.

Matinee idol Sivagi ganesan's everlasting friendship with Muthumanickam

Enjoy the music of Kongunadu

Chirpings that went in wind

The chirping that woke me up

 In a dawn from the trees

Gradually died away in wind

leaving memories of little feathers

Which I longed to caress as a boy

As anniversary once in a year,

Comes and goes the day  for sparrows

Reminding the shades of yesteryear

 Their  chirps  waking me up  to light 

a cigarette in the morning

The flock of sparrows pecking away 

The grains that mother left to dry on the 

Courtyard were once guests unbidden to home

Mother fed me,the adamant toddler, with small morsels of rice 

 showing the little  bird  hopping by the door

And, the visitor came home every morning to mock at my

Cries shaking his little nose.

My child, who wants to sight a live sparrow

In this concrete jungle asked me to post a 

Nest box to invite the bird

And  I did that.

We both are awaiting the guest, yet

The little one doesn't seem to turn up

Tired of waiting,I showed her a sparrow

In a book  penned by Salim Ali