Thursday, 25 October 2012
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
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
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
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.
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