FACES

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All around me, faces zoomed,

In and out, up and down ,

Left and right!

There are happy faces,

Gleaming and smiling,

Chuckling and guffawing;

Then, then are the  sad ones,

Gloomy and long,

Teary and sobbing.

Some are kind,

Some are amused,

Some are angry,

Some are petulant,

Some are caustic,

Some spouted vituperations.

But, these are alive

With thrum and thaw

To spill out

For us to see and behold,

For onlookers to be filled

With awe and yearning,

To be touched

With gladness

And cupful of sadness.

Faces speak

Without a word,

Faces reach

Without a hand,

Faces call

Without a voice

Faces reject

Without a shrug.

Faces demur,

Faces frown,

And

Faces smile;

Then the world straightens!

The Beckoning

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It is always the sea that beckons,

Always waiting for every return!

Going home is to go back-

To feel the sand and the sound,

The light and the shadow,

The motion and stillness

Of the abundance that is the sea.

The siren call of the Arabian Sea

Starts with the low murmur and rumble

Of the gentle waves and splashes

Cresting to the crescendo

Of the lashing and crashing

Of the monster waves of the Monsoon.

The sea calls me every time

And she waits for me every time,

Cocksure that I will make the time,

Time and time again,

Every chance I was given!

I picked my way gingerly

Over the edgy rocks of the sea wall,

A recent creation to ward off the sea 

That keeps creeping forward.

The sand was still there, diminished,

Allowing the tree line to close in!

Did the trees move

Or the excess sea water

Of an unwanted universal heat

Extend its borders?

Sandals were so cumbersome

That I tossed them away with abandon

And splayed my toes into the dry sand

And let the grains trickle through

To feel the delight of little touches.

But, that is not enough!

The salty brine is still waiting

To splash and soak and dampen.

I inched forward

In delectable longing.

Ah, the first touch is always novel!

The froth swirled around the toes

To wink away abashed

While the salty breeze caressed

And fondled the sun-kissed cheeks.

High tide is coming…

I ventured, yes.

I slowly stepped forward

And dug my waiting toes into the wetness.

The waves rushed in and wavered

And receded in haste,

As if ashamed to go any further

And regretting the forward boldness .

But, my soles and heels dug in,

Not to falter in the hasty back-flow

Of the roiling sea.

The air was heavy with salt and moisture

And was scented with the briny damp.

My clothes clung to me, waterlogged and salty,

Abrading with the cluster of grainy sand.

Foamy crests rose higher and higher

And the water rushed up the sand

Trimmed with lacy froth on scalloped edges.

There were shrieks in the beach

When the water sucked the sand

From under the feet and tried

To topple the upright onlookers

Struggling for a foot-hold.

The waves rose with shimmering crests

That sprayed and spewed in reckless abandon,

Settling down to simmering motion

That glittered in the slanted rays

Of the descending sun.

The day is waning  and nearing  closure

While the slanted rays of a westward sun

Garnished the waters in pearly tints

That outshone the reds and purples,

The gold and orange, the salmon and shell pink.

The riotous hues marveled in their abundance

And bathed the sea and the sand

While the golden globe transformed

From fiery ball to red orange

And began to cast a pall over the beach

While dipping lethargically

Into the clean circular end,

Finally to submerge completely,

Leaving just the debris of the light

In meager portions to outline the people

Who were leaving, desolate in their loss

Of the glory of the sunset.

Another day has come and gone

And the pall is lifted from my heart

As I thrilled at the magnificence

That the sea has showered

And the sun has shared!

Day is done!

Politics For Anyone?

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What a morass! On one side is the ‘one who cannot see facts for what they are’ and on the other side is the fickle politician. On one side is the party’s reject and on the other side is the party’s darling!  Then there is the scourge of the trap that is our system. The voters sit back and pat themselves saying that nothing can be done. They have accepted a status quo that excludes the majority. The government of the people does not exist and yet the large majority is content with the passive role. The iniquity of the press is intolerable. It fails to the watchdog of the people in order to protect a healthy democracy. The country has a hung Supreme Court and one does not hear a major outcry.  The Congress has failed in governing because the interests of the Party come before the interests of the American people. The Congress has failed in carrying out their constitutional duties. It is their duty to take a vote on the nomination for a SC justice, nominated by the President. It is their duty to come up with a budget, instead of trying to shut down the government while their salaries are untouched. This Congress has made every effort to nullify the best efforts of the sitting President who was elected by the majority of the popular vote. This is all done to protect the interests of the majority party and to give it an opportunity to save ‘face’ .

What is an American to do?

The Fall of Practical Democracy

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Shuttling  between two countries, I was painfully made aware that democracy as we see it is a fallacy. Between the sedition arrests in India and the bombastic crudities of a Donald Trump, the demise of pure democracy has become a reality.  When voters despair about their choices in the polling booths, representational democracy appears as an idea from the past. When the media focus on trappings and sensationalism to sell “news”, the people are being manipulated to the tune of the owners of the media. When PACs and SUPER PACs control the candidates and money buys opinions, what is an honest voter going to do?  A lot of the anomalies are created by the media. We have candidates who make a mockery of the word ” leadership”. We have candidates whose antecedents make one tremble. A healthy democracy depends on a credible media. When that option is taken away, the only people who can keep their eyes open are those who are willing to read between the lines. With a minimalized public education, the capability to balance and judge one’s choices has dwindled.  It is amazing how that great equalizer, the public education, has suffered drastically in the last few years. One wonders whether there is a sinister plot to thwart the ideals of democracy by debilitating the thinking processes of ordinary citizens.

My Stream

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CThroughout the year,

The stream flows,

Often in fits and starts,

Passive and turgid,

But mostly in tune

With climes and seasons.

 

In wintry mornings,

In the limpid light

Of a pale sun,

The stream lies sluggish

With chunks of ice

Floating listlessly

Or lying in wait

For the dormant life

To revive and breathe again;

Dry leaves and dead branches

Lay crisscross

Amid brackish water,

Reminders of spent lives.

 

Then life blows in

And spring sprouts green gold

Which peeps  out

With first life

Of thoughts shaking off slumber.

The stream awakens

In gurgling movements

That swirls over

The debris of last year

And moves like  a slithering fabric

Of light and shadow.

Feelings begin to churn,

Up from long wait,

To the full life of summer

When greens wax to lushness

And torrents of emotions

Seethe  in full strength.

 

The gentle stream chortles

And rushes out

In froth and laughter

With the strength and noise

Of life’s calls

Which spell out

Churning passions

And wayward thoughts.

In the fullness of summer,

The stream’s flow is intense

And floods break out

In tumultuous fuss

To break out in excess

To submerge the roads

In roiling waves.

 

Time passes and passions cool

After trees are decked

In fiery shades

Till leaves let go,

One by one,

Their holds on trees

To descend in submissive landing.

 

Life’s currents slow down

And the turbulence is paced down

With the subsiding stream;

The dormant life of freezing clime

Is gently creeping in

And the vivacious stream

Enters a reflective retreat.

Winter’s slumberous stillness

Ventures to keep in check

The boiling passions

In a temporary vise

To play the reel of seasons

Once again…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being Who I am

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I feel compelled to write this blog because of the appearance of an article in The India Abroad, December 4, 2015 issue. It was penned by Chaya Babu.  The caption was, A Six Yard Political Discourse.  A gender and race studies academic, Tanya Rawal has  the Saree, Not Sorry Instagram account.  Several photos of her wearing sari have populated the account. Chaya Babu’s interview with her made it appear as if a unique stand is taken by an Indian woman.

The interview was filled with platitudes and there was nothing unique about an Indian woman wearing a sari in the USA. Women had worn sari in this country for decades.  Many of them are professionals and choose to wear sari to work.  These women are comfortable in other clothes too.  I choose to wear sari many times, even to work in the academia.  But, I enjoy wearing it to church also, especially when I am a Lector and stand at the Lectern.  I never thought of it as making a political statement.  It was merely me being me.  The congregation is used to seeing me with different apparel.  But, on special feast days,  I give first choice to sari.  I feel that, by wearing sari, I was honoring the particular day.  I honor the occasion by being me.  I am the only one who wears a sari in that rural area.  People respected me doing it because it is part of my identity.  I come as myself when I wear a saree.  But, there is no drama on these occsions.

Life Meanders

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Among dripping vines

Festooning stone walls

And amid the morning breeze

Wrapping scarf ends

Around shivering shoulders

And sleepy farewells,

Life swore and learned

The salt beneath desire;

Love smote and stuck

To grainy laughter.

Snow swept litter

Under the sidewalks;

The moonlight wove

Among the dotted cobblestone streets

And olive trees converged

On shaded hilltops.

Smug light filtered

Through retreating shadows,

Varying life”s themes;

Drifting, fading, vanishing,

The laughter edged in silence.

Fingers of candle smoke

Reached into the eyes-

The dear pools of light

Burning red in shame

Of faded dreams.

Desire found sweet imprints

Of fingertips fluttering

Tenderly on cheeks

With a briefly captured caress;

Desire tasted love

And waded into eddies of passion!

Old men desire

Dreams of glory

And the young burn up

In high jinks and spirits

And uncontrollable swings

Of passion and desire.

The summer breeze wafts

And the winter frost freezes;

They come and they go

In life’s dynamic cadences.

The Drums of Kandassankadavu and the Movies

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Kandassankadavu! What is in a name?  Everything. Drums around Kandassankadavu resonate with its name.

I used to tremble when I heard the drums during processions and festivals.  Somehow, they kept time with my heartbeats.  I never comprehended this and believed that I was afraid of them.

But, when I was seven years old, we moved from Mangaloru to the ancestral home of my parents: Kandassankadavu. They were born in two separate branches of the same family, Vadakkethala.  Vadakkethala Outhudan Moopar and Vadakkethala Poovathingal Moopar were two of the elders who brought the copper plate (Cheppedu) for the creation of the St. Mary’s parish in Kandassankadavu in 1807.

Kandassankadavu is ten miles west of Thrissur.  It hugged the coastline by situating itself by the Connolly Canal.  Coconut trees waved their fronds above the waters in the balmy breaths of a breeze while the trunks leaned over in lassitude.  During the 50’s, there was no bridge to span the waters.  One had to take a boat or a canoe to cross over to Vaadaanapally.  Beyond that lay the Arabian Sea which wafted salty breezes towards Kandassankadavu.

My early memories revolve around the trio who traversed the highways and byways of Kandassankadavu.  One carried a drum with drumsticks, the second a billboard, and the third a sheaf of fliers in colors. They took away the fear of drums from me.  The billboard holder named Appukuttan is sixty-three years old today and is still around.   They were the only means of advertising a new movie in town. The drums were welcomed warmly by children. Some ran to the gate to watch them and some followed them to a certain distance from home.  I belonged to those who raced to the gate.  These movies were not new releases because it took a long time for a movie to reach remote areas.  The drum beats did not have any sophistication, but were just followed some indifferent rhythm.  But, the beats were the harbingers of much awaited excitement – another movie.  I was home and the drums were welcome.  There was no more trembling and syncopated heart beats.

What movies and what atmosphere awaited us after the excitement of the drums?

In those days, the only venue for movies in the surrounding areas was Kandass Talkies, the movie theater placed not far from the Carmelite convent.  Kandass is a shortened form of Kandassankadavu.  It boasted no grandeur and was strictly utilitarian.  Yet, it was the only place for movies!  The structure itself appeared like a warehouse with corrugated tin sheets for roof.  There were several exits which were wide openings covered with faded navy blue curtains which were pulled aside to let people out.

The seats in Kandass Talkies were hierarchical. Right in front of the screen was the sand covered floor for the cheapest tickets. This was “Thara” or the place for groundlings.  Men and women were segregated.  The men enjoyed the central seats and the women were relegated to the right side. Most of the catcalls and comments came from this section.  Next came the wooden benches.  Men and women were segregated here also. Advancing to the folding wooden chairs, the segregation stopped abruptly.  The level of education of the spectators have advanced here.  At the apex of the seating arrangement are the seats reserved in the back on a two feet high raised floor.  The chairs were made of wood with no plush cushioning.  But, they had arm rests! The wall behind these chairs had small openings for the projection streaming to the screen.  I used to watch the streams of light in which dust motes danced with the variations of the picture hues. Let us not forget the hawkers during intervals.  The only available delicacies were roasted peanuts or chickpeas in paper cones.  Plain sodas of carbonated water closed tightly  with glass marbles were also available.

Every day, there were two showings and Sunday was privileged with the addition of matinees.  Half an hour before the shows, the loudspeaker released several old movie songs for the delectation of Kandassankadavu residents.  Along with the drums, these earsplitting songs reminded people of the movies.  The songs were from old Malayalam, Hindi, and Tamil movies. Once in a while, English movies appeared.  We became quite well versed with the lyrics of all these songs. The late show was at 9:30 pm and the songs blared from the theater.  But, they were good alarm clocks.  People did not have to look at their clocks to tell  time.

Now, Kandass Talkies is no more.  The advent of the bridge across the river extended the limited boundaries.  The neighborhoods developed rapidly and, everywhere new new theaters sprang up, one better than the other.  The new releases did not take time to reach the village communities.  Somehow, Kandassankadavu never resurrected its own theater. The drums are silent for movies. The natives do not mind travelling a little farther to watch movies.

The drums do come alive for festivals and processions.  Shingari melam and Pancha Vaadyam compete during the parish feasts and I am lulled by their musical beats.  No more heartbeats thrumming with the drums for me!  I am cured completely because of the tuneless single drum of the movie advertisements for a rustic theater.  Now, that memory is in a time warp.

Desert Lives

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Living in the desert,

In a matchbox house

Like any other in the block,

The changeless life

Could have smothered

And suffocated life

While power lines strung across

Long row of spindly crosses.

That mutely bore witness.

 

But the large expanse above

Changed in phases

With the ascent of the sun.

The clouds gathered

And dispersed,

The colors seeped and blended,

And the skyscape bathed

In the scorching heat!

 

The sparse greens

Stood up tired and dirt clad;

They squeezed out

Some rare colors in spring

And decked out the dirt bowl.

 

But the heart of the watcher

Thrummed with every speck of life.

She saw life burgeoning

In every new blade,

Every new fledgling,

Every rare blossom

And every withered petal

That fell back into the desert

From whence it came

To give credence

To the submerged life

Present in the vast dreariness,

Watched over

By the rugged mountains

Which ringed in sentry form

Around the precious lives

That weathered the adverse climes,

Keeping death at bay.

 

The mountains watched gravely

The sturdy humans

Who ventured

Into the stark boredom

Of the housing development

Just to survive

And carve out separate lives

With a surviving spirit kindled

With the sights of beauty and vigor

Of all the lives that pushed up

And survived

To breathe new life.

 

Such are the rugged,

Such are the mundane,

And such are the sublime!

Ruminations On April Fools’ Day

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Are we life’s fools

That we suffer its vagaries?

We set out in our paths

From births to what ends?

Do we know where we are heading

Or who partners us in our sojourns,

Or what failures we endure

Or what successes we enjoy?

Do we know what loves we feel?

Do we know whom we love?

Do we know who abandons us?

Do we know who stays as our bulwarks?

Do we set up our dynasty?

Do we let our clans die out?

Do we leave angels behind?

Do we breed monsters?

Do we know the extent of our times?

Do we know how our times are shortened?

Do we realize our talents?

Do we waste our potentials?

Let us not be life’s fools,

But make our lives count.

Let us make the best of our lives

And leave life’s foolishness behind!