Pizza

In this entirely fictive poem, I have tried to put myself in the shoes of a middle class family teetering on the brink. Whenever it dangerously angles towards a dysfunctional collapse, Pizza comes to the rescue. The protagonist pays unreserved reverence to this Italian dish for keeping them together. But the trained eye should discern a thinly veiled underpinning that it is the smaller moments in life that are to be relished the most.

The only time my family never fought

And the air was never overwrought

With tensions and the house was never riven

With problems, and when its occupants actually tried to enliven

The usual truculent mood, was the occasion

When we ordered Pizza from Domino’s

A quarterly luxury to our family’s humble ration.

 

On these days, mom and dad took a mutual rain check

On unfinished fights which otherwise tantamounted to a train wreck

My mom - Her principal complaints were manifold

Her single-handed management of an unruly household

The chores, which signified her stellar stewardship

But one that lacked support from her spouse

In this battle of one-upmanship.

 

The male half of the equation

Had its fair share of complaints without equivocation

Working day long hours on official demand

And then moonlighting as a frazzled father and husband

Was intensely exhausting

But offered a fitting rebuttal

To my mother’s accosting.

 

However on this day,

Nobody wished to inveigh

Or air our dirty grouse

Sibling to sibling, spouse to spouse

All we would care

For, was this one meal

To savour the gastronomical affair.

 

The pizza delivery boy

Would come bearing the circles of joy

This was the only time when my mom would splice and dice

The pizza sectors equally, neither me nor my brother would attempt to prise

The bigger piece, for there was no bigger piece

The slices tenderly and equally apportioned

With mother’s love and sprinkled with a burst of cheese.

 

As the family sat round the table

And put on a brave front, showing we were able

To ward off the Damocled sword of dysfunctionality

That circled over our heads in perpetuality

Oh you felicificative delicacy from Italy!

We thank you for binding us together

Through these days of golden anomaly.

 

At the Hustings

In a country where elections can be won through sheer money and muscle power, it is indeed sad that the electorate can be easily brainwashed into accepting bribes of all tangible and intangible hues to keep them in power. Power and pelf have replaced performance and planning as quintessential tools to winning the popular vote, but more importantly this is a lamentation of the loss of integrity and rectitude in our society.

It was the onset of yet another spring

But this year was different

The air had a distinct sting

A reminder to change and reorient

Yes, here came again the quinquennial event

The state assembly elections

Democracy’s test of conscience if it is to be meant

Where the citizenry had one lone shot at course corrections.

 

The sleepy little hamlets that lay at the foothills

Of the magnificent Western Ghats

Ushered in the thrills

Of the new potential upstart

A youngster, an IAS and teacher by heart

Who came up in life by virtue of toil

Was sincere, honest, intelligent and smart

And importantly was a son of the soil

 

Tired of yet another lustrum

And yet another disastrous tenure

These little hamlets, presenting a tiny simulacrum

Of state-wide consensus could no longer endure

And pinned their hopes on this amateur

To thwart the incumbent

MLA, which seemed to be the only available cure

In short, for change the people were hell-bent

 

Day by day the newcomer grew in strength

He made all the right noises

He toured his constituency across its length

And breadth, pressed flesh and listened to voices

Offered solutions and waxed eloquent on the importance of choices

While the veteran incumbent continued to lag

On the trail, short by several paces

But deep inside he knew the thing was in the bag

 

Three weeks prior to D-Day

His claque who had gone to take stock

Said that it appeared he no longer held sway

With the masses, the newcomer was the talk

Of the towns and villages, cementing his place like a rock

Alarmed, the MLA decided enough of watching brief

And legged it for the constituency HQ with his flock

He could no longer trust his own belief

 

The sights and images of his whistle-stop tour

Rankled him and caused much discomfiture

It was apparent that misgovernance would no longer inure

His folks to unwavering fealty, the realization sunk, he wasn’t a permanent fixture

On the other hand, they were more receptive to the amateur’s overture

Whose presence was made felt in the imagery

He seemed like a formidable rival, who had grown in stature

And was making it a contest through sheer drudgery

 

The MLA had seen enough

He decided to get down to brass tacks

The route that lay ahead was tough

And he could no longer afford to be lax

He conjured up a grand campaign putting to use all the kickbacks,

Laundered black money and extorted excesses      

Plus a manifesto laden with roorbacks

Misquoted numbers and made up successes

 

The newcomer however was not to be daunted

He had nothing to lose

He campaigned the right way, neither much vaunted

Nor low-key, instead focusing on putting across his views -

Expose corruption and the party’s abject failures to address issues

And drive home the game-plan on how he would address the same

For he knew the only way to cook the MLA’s goose

Was to put his own skin into the game.

 

As a first step, he laid out a clear framework

For a transparent, corruption-free and well-oiled administration

And announced a slew of precise targeted measures

The first of which was immediate liquor prohibition

“Do you want another tenure of disastrous years”,

He effectively exhorted – “And then subject yourself to another regrettable post-mortem

Or give me a chance, a chance to someone who is ‘supposedly’ wet behind the ears

But can completely overhaul the system”?

 

Over the course of the next fortnight

The rival camps hit feverish heights

The MLA flexed his muscle with all his might

His sycophant underlings engaged the amateur to petty fights,

Concocted calumnious stories, and painted him as a philanderer

Bush telegraphed doctored sleazy sound bites

And roped in partisan media houses to trigger a campaign of slander

In attempts to ensnare him under unmerciful spotlights

 

Not one to be easily browbeaten

The newcomer upped the magnitude

Of his campaign and tried to sweeten

All the ad-hominem that was spewed

He viewed it as a manifestation of his opposition’s disquietude

And never once reacted resorted to any under-the-belt tactic

A testament to his remarkable rectitude

Win or not, he wasn’t going to let it end anti-climactic

 

The MLA had several tricks up his sleeve

He whipped up the caste rhetoric in generous measure

Of his unfulfilled promises, he begged for a reprieve

Instead pointed out to paltry successes and the pressure

At his level which gave him no pleasure

But said he would always be the right man for the job

Self-aggrandizing himself as his people’s real treasure

Whereas the newcomer would merely be a temporary heartthrob

 

However, to the people, this time

‘Twice bitten thrice shy’ seemed to be theme

His manifesto didn’t generate much interest

Concessions for women, Mid-day meal scheme

For school children, Subsidies for farmers, all rang hollow

And so did a plethora of other legacy wares hawked at the hustings

He was clearly dispossessed of his halo

And the final nail had been hammered on his people’s trusting.

 

The last few days ended in a flourish

The two parties sparred for front page reportage

Either one hoping to get the other to perish

Scoring last minute brownie points and political mileage

But the opinion polls were skewed to the newcomer’s advantage

Despite his meagre wherewithal and bankrolling

As it boiled down to the final showpiece of the grand stage -

The sacred count on the day of polling

 

Hours before the dawn of voting day

In the wee hours when darkness lurks

The sleeping dogs that lay

Got to the night’s work

A well-organized network

Loaded with the necessary ammunition

Having done the arduous spade work

For the agenda, embarked on its execution

 

Between half past three and half past four

The citizenry were woken abrupt

By an anonymous packet flung at their door

Causing a thud calculated to interrupt

And arouse its sleeping inmates and disrupt

The mindset they had long begotten

The package also bore a paper slip designed to corrupt

The best among the unblemished and the unrotten.

 

The message read – “This is just the beginning,

If you know whom to vote for. It’s bad

That we are late, but as a promise there is more in the offing”

The unraveled package revealed a neat little wad

Of crisp notes, a saree and to complete the triad

And the closing act of the homestretch

A little bottle of the finest no one had ever had

Tailored to suit the male half of the sketch.

 

It is at this tantalizing juncture

That the reader rightfully questions

What he can expect to conjecture

Should he be optimistic? Should he be tense?

Or should he simply take off his punctilious lens

And stop subjecting the narrator to this scrutiny

And for peace’s sake abandon any silent preference

While leave the man of verse to carve out the newcomer’s destiny

 

To the most inspiring of scripts

Seldom has there been a fairy tale ending

And so shall in this case be no rescripts

For there is no scope for truth-bending

The climax that is most heart-rending

Is the one where the rawness of life is relayed

Unalloyed, verisimilitudinous without any blending

A strong heart reacquaints itself with reality, without much aid

 

An insufferable society wallows in a putrid runnel

Of depraved ideals and moral turpitude

Saintly wisdom passed down ages is blasted into shrapnel

When streaks of deracination have deeply imbued

Till time sows the seeds of rectitude

Waves of misfortune will raze mercilessly

Over past glory decayed into desuetude

Meliorism dies its death slowly and painfully

On that note, I would rather

Not break the sad news with a feather touch

But let the reader put two and two together

And not flog the dead horse too much

The good ending for which I am in search

Will evade yet again, for truth is brutally bitter

And always knocks velleities off the perch

With that I cease my lamentable witter.

Humanity’s Trial By Fire

As humanity grapples with perhaps the greatest ever crisis it has been confronted with, I ponder the multitudinous ways in which it could alter our lives forever. The theme latent all along in this short verse with regards to the pandemic, is uncertainty and gratitude. In such times, living each day on its merit and acting responsibly seems to be the way one should go about, while at the same time take a moment pay homage to the unfortunate beings who have succumbed to this wretched virus and thankful to the countless heroes who are working round the clock to defeat it.

The invisible marauder has sneaked everywhere,

Man to man rapidly proliferating.

Before you even wonder if it’s there,

It’s ubiquitously tripling and quadrupling.

 

Just as life looked to limp back to normalcy,

It’s recrudescent powers continued to stun,

Mutating into virulent strains,

The fight has just but begun.

 

The crisis has flummoxed all and sundry,

Governments and plebeians alike.

The pulverizing virus has rent it’s war cry,

As morbidity rates continue to spike.

 

The incessant groan of healthcare systems,

The weight of snowballing caseloads,

And manic testing activity, typifies the mayhem,

As a luck-less search for the elixir vaccine ensues.

 

The world has shrunk into it’s canopy,

Shapeshifting into a virtual de-globalized state.

Doctors, police, social workers and a few other heroes

Are still out in the open, working tireless to render a changed fate.

 

The ultimate test of melioristic potential,

Humanity’s trial by fire - is well and truly here.

The battle of an existential crisis looms large,

While the ill-begotten virus will hope the fire is the pyre.

 

But humanity shall prevail over the virus

Eventually, a pyrrhic victory no doubt,

We will countervail with our strength

And in God’s good time we shall ensure its rout.

 

But till then let’s hold tight,

And bear the pain of strife.

Masks, sanitizers and social distancing norms,

Shall symbolize our quotidian life.

 

The black swan is trumpeting her dance of doom.

So before plans to re-open life go ballistic,

Think twice, snug yourselves at home,

Lest you want to end up as a cursed statistic.                       

The God Business

While seminal would be too extreme to describe the tiny work of a fledgling writer, I will consider this one as the best poem I have written till date. There is absolutely no hesitation that this work has been solely inspired by one of the greatest novels written entirely as Onegin Sonnets – ‘The Golden Gate’ by my favorite poet Vikram Seth. I put painstaking effort over a month in writing a heavily abridged Onegin poem, and I realized how tough it would have been for the Mr. Seth to write his magnum opus. Consisting of 19 sonnets and 266 lines, written in the Iambic Tetrameter with the rhyme scheme – ABABCCDDEFFEGG, ‘The God Business’ is laced with attempts to explore various facets of Religion, God and Spirituality which has been a contentious topic close to my heart for years. For perhaps the only time till date did I feel a profound sense of pride and achievement of my own literary output when I finished this poem.

Scarcely knowing where to begin

This writer’s desperate attempts to avoid

The minutiae springing forth from the inception of this onegin

May somewhat be rendered null and void

But he will nevertheless try to push

Through to the contents, without beating around the bush

And quickly get down to brass tacks

By starting to lay down plain facts

And promote ideas seemingly tendentious

Bordering on the lines of blasphemy.

He endangers self to land in infamy,

However knowingly employs words ‘licentious’

Wading into troubled waters, abandoning rectitude

To issue output with devil-may-care attitude.

 

One un-fine day, with heart beset by the weight of its sorrows

Plentiful, heavy, bedeviled and unable to cope

Any more with the outrageous hurling of slings and arrows

And convulsed in the throes awaiting new-born hope,

I decided to confront the creator once and for all

And release a fresh tranche of clarion call

Or in softer terms to seek succour

And exhort divine intervention into my cri de Coeur.

I also sought the comfort

Of my wife who was convinced

And whose voice and tone evinced,

That the solution required an effort

To not stop with just verbiage

But to embark on a holy pilgrimage

 

Not entirely convinced of its purported efficacy

Nonetheless yielding to glib persuasion,

And in order to conceal any signs of apostasy

I earmarked a weekend for the exertion.

On the evening of Friday, the thirteenth of April

Plucking up reserves of patience and will,

I departed for the temple town

By train, shortly after sundown,

In a compartment pullulated

By rambunctious devotees

Who ensured not a moment’s peace

As nook and corner was populated,

By swarms of human fervor in locomotion

Putting me through the sufferance of unabated commotion

 

After a night of disturbed sleep

A night that never seemed to end

Fruitlessly spent counting sheep

We eventually arrived at journey’s end.

As the sun arose from it’s slumber

To herald another day of a blistering Indian Summer.

I packed bag and disembarked

And made way to the autos parked.

The milling passengers were welcomed by masters of hustle

The obstreperous Autowallahs and their gheraoing tactics, sans finesse.

As the human hyenas scented quick business

One chap ensnared me after a lengthy tussle

And fished me out of the unruly gaggle

And I was soon ensconced in the backseat ready for the dreaded haggle.

 

Commenced the unpleasant exchange.

“So how much to hotel Four Seasons?”

“300 sir”. “300! Shocking! Is that the usual range?”

“Yes sir, it is, and not without reasons -

This is festival time, and we shuttle

You back and forth, without rest” adding a subtle

Bite, before resuming – “We need to pay bribes

And kickbacks to the police tribes”

“But, G-map says it’s just three miles, look I don’t intend to bargain....”

“Sir! I am sorry to interrupt! - You spend thousands on travel

Poojas and Aarthis. And on the move, newer expenses unravel

Themselves costing you a fortune that you never complain

Considering all that, this amount is pretty smallish

Please don’t be penny wise pound foolish.”

 

With energy levels plummeting,

Signalling, I was low on carbs

And sensing no point further fretting

I stopped trading barbs.

As the auto began winding its way

I sat back and tried to survey

The environs of the famed town,

Cocking a worm’s eye view of the temple tower, jewel in its crown.

Entry into the famed town was welcomed by an arched vault

We snaked through roads that wore a festive look

Grandly bedecked, offering a promising outlook

And reached destination, as the chap ground to a halt

“Enjoy sir, hope you like our town and its culture!”

On this note, pocketing the money, departed the human vulture.

 

The next couple of hours were consumed

Prepping for the long day ahead.

After a refreshing bath, traditionally attired and perfumed,

Brunched in the attached restaurant, feeling well-fed

I tooled off towards the temple

The routine was set, plain and simple.

I brushed aside the hollering autowallahs not to be budged

The full distance of three miles I trudged

Along drinking in the city’s traditions and mores

Lively deity processions middling the road, sided by coloured shops

Snack stalls and caparisoned pandals supported by props

And devotees thronging the streets in scores

Squeezing through humans and bovine

Creatures, psycho-geographing all the way to the shrine.

 

After an hour and two quarters

Having traipsed under the blazing rays

I finally sighted the temple at close quarters.

Summoning up reserves, and quickening my pace

I landed up in front of the temple, drenched top to toe

And took out a kerchief to mop the brow.

I made way to the ticket counter

To witness a massive queue flounder

At the very end of the human column

Where the queue diverged into three.

‘Regular Rs. 50, Special Rs. 100 and Rs. 250 for VIP Entry’

Blared the ‘Darshan’ rates on a flex board, solemn

Reminder of truth that even God in his elevated stature

Was rendered a mere commercial caricature.

 

As the queue meandered with the pace of a snail              

I spent the interim contemplating

On the best option to avail

And made no concrete decision until the end of waiting.

Caught between cost and convenience

I tried to draw from previous experience.

True, Rs. 250 was mightily exorbitant

But the Darshan would complete in an instant.

On the other hand the first choice

Was also attractive, a pittance

Of an amount, but entailed bearing the waiting distance.

So I nailed ‘Option Two, deciding to strike equipoise

Taking the middle ground, when such dilemmas ensue

Also seems the alternative, most sound to pursue.

 

So seizing the middle ticket

I set foot inside the temple compound

I thought I was on a steady wicket

New fixtures ahead penciled abound

I was dazed at the architecture magnifique

Wide-eyed, gaping jaws, welted with mystique

At the Stunning edifices and statues, sculpted with passionate geometry

And neatly laid pavilions, flanked by structures in flawless symmetry

I couldn’t help but marvel

At the greatness of my ancestry

An age where true greatness prevailed minus the sophistry

The architectonic wonder alone was worth the travel

As I peregrinated the super acres of the courtyard

And sat marveling on the greensward.

 

Impelled to the spot by the piece de resistance

I sat unflappably ignoring passage of time

What eventually returned me to my cognizance

Was the temple tower bell’s plangent chime.

I approached a man, dark, sweaty and swarthy

“Excuse me sir, How do I go to the evening Aarthi?”

“Have you bought the Aarthi token”

Token? Flashing the ticket, I rebuked, “I thought..”.. I had barely spoken

“For the Aarthi, you need to obtain

He chipped in – “Another token to validate

Your entrance into the main gate

So hurry along fast only 10 minutes remain”

So I hurried along quickening my pace

To acquire my next proof of purchase

 

Shelling out another atrocious Two hundred bucks

Again paraded in the name of the Godhead

I immersed myself again into the teeming influx

Of devotees, which began to come to a head

After a good ninety minutes, I reached the Sanctum Sanctorum

Whose air totally devoided any decorum

A crowd had gathered at the center of a kerfuffle

I rubbernecked to ascertain what caused the scuffle

The arrival of a priest had caused the clash

Between two queueing devotees, standing cheek by jowl

One stubbed his toe against the other, resulting in a howl

In the process of securing the sacred ash

After quick unruly exchanges, interest gradually waned

Amongst the heads that had inquisitively craned.

 

In a country which is unwilling to spare

Even smallest tiffs which snowball into riots

Such temperate resolutions are refreshingly rare

I silently thanked my two compatriots

Even if I knew it was more out of sacrilege

And fear of the divine, that usage

Of words and actions more profane

Were retracted in fear of inviting the bane

I propped up against the rails of the altar

Once the adornment of God was complete

With milk, ghee, honey and bananas replete

I would at last see God himself without any falter

And hopefully feel at ease

And my problems would cease

 

The next few tense revolutions

Of the largest hands in the clock

Saw God’s children waiting for their absolution.

Rammed to each other chock-a-block

The prized wait ended moments later

As God’s sacerdotal mediator

Threw open the screen to full vision

And triggered a human explosion.

The crowd plunged into pell-mell

To catch fleeting glimpses of the deity

Oxymoronically everything in the process amounted to impiety.

Morbid human masses began to jostle, thwack, and yell

Cannoning onto each other, bellowing many a foul-mouthed sound-byte

In a primordial attempt to throw themselves into God’s line of sight.

 

The penultimate portion of the process was over

The screen closed again signaling an intermediary buffer

With messianic zeal, the mob continued to spill over

The last step would prove to be even tougher

To my own surprise, I proved to be no pushover

Despite completing the divine sighting, I continued to hover

Instead of beating a hasty retreat

Through the side exit, I decided to linger in the heat.

In 5 minutes, a rotund priest lumbered in, all authority

As a posse of security guards herded the rabid swarm

Of men, to have one quick tryst, to fob off their charm

To God himself in close proximity

So, I trundled along with the rank and file

As we were shepherded through the turnstile.

 

If I had thought I had already seen the worst

Make no mistake, I was proven wrong

As the simmering pilgrim bubble yet again burst

And I was squashed yet again in the throng.

Able-bodied men tried to bore through

Unsuccessfully, instead sticking to each other like glue.

As we neared the idol, almost every member of the wrestling

Gang further hastened by the guard’s incessant whistling

Caved in before God in an act of spontaneity.

As the guards mercilessly pulled and smacked

The recalcitrant few who refused to exit, were dragged and whacked

Out, as attempts to secure extra seconds of divine eye contact, the ultimate quest

Made all the difference in this miserable spiritual contest.

 

The Sanctum Sanctorum reverberated with holy cries

In praise of the lord with effusive unction,

While the security guards under his watchful eyes

Defenestrated us without compunction.

I staggered out, my juices sucked out, low and shriveled,

Rattled, shaken and disheveled

But relieved to be out of the mess and freed

And not have succumbed to a stampede.

Without any further delay

I saluted the monument and exited.

I didn’t mind if my visit was unrequited

But I was slowly convinced I didn’t need a show of parley

With God to prove my devotion and fealty

My first step towards understanding the reality.

 

Cut to 36 hours later

I was back home, seated in my Pooja room

In front of the Supreme Being, my creator

The working week, about to resume.

There were no signs of taedium vitae

To the gravest problems I knew, there was hope, a way

A new power surged through my veins, the power of life

The power to take over the reins and overcome any strife.

I still had to take care of one pending matter

The matter of God, our business was unfinished

Now was the moment to seize, before it diminished

The rest could wait, I could choose not to cater.

I wished to ratiocinate, totally impervious

To temptations of visceral bias.

The business of God abounds with confusion

After orchestrating one deeply profound introspection

I had formed my conclusion

After subjecting God to this imperative vivisection

I needed no chants, no book, or ritualistic channels,

No pilgrimages, no sacred ashes or panels

Of priestly intercessions in commercialized edifices.

I needed only God (free of cost) his ubiquitous presence alone suffices.

The ultimate truth which had belied

For years revealed itself - The place

I had to look for solace

When needed was deep down inside

For that is the holiest abode where God resides

The truest temple is in the heart from where he presides.

The Years of Tuneless Caterwauling

Whenever I come home to Chennai, I usually conduct my soul-searching saunters near Venus Colony, a posh locality within Alwarpet in South-Central Chennai where I live. It is one of those relatively tranquil and bosky neighbourhoods, serrated with trees, a welcome change from the otherwise pullulating metropolis, that envelops every other step I cover.

Today was one of those fine mornings, when I made a bee-line for Venus Colony. I was in a fairly meditative mood, pursing my lips and chewing them a good deal while I was brooding over my career, future or some such rot that I can’t exactly recollect, when I was shaken up from my reverie by a gallimaufry of sounds emanating from the precincts of a house snugly ensconced towards the end of a cul-de-sac on the left. The keen discerning ear could detect an assortment of musical voices springing forth, with varying tenor and intonation. There was a deeply mellifluous feminine voice, which intertwined with the baritone which was unmistakably suggestive of one who was uninterested but was forced to do a spot of singing. There was one distinct masculine voice which thundered with bellicosity, while there was a chorus of shrieking squeals in accompaniment. All in all the cantative spirit on display combined to produce a cacophony which threatened the peace of the environs, and I decided to ascertain the facts once and for all. Taking a detour, I approached the house and saw a board hammered to the gate, blaring the words “Rasika School of Carnatic Music”.

Of course it had to be! What else could I expect from this part of the city where arts and culture took center-stage particularly amongst the gentry, Carnatic Music in particular being nurtured, developed and promoted under the auspices of institutions such as the Narada Gana Sabha and Music Academy at close quarters, and a good portion of the populace residing in these parts belonging to a certain community patronating the development of singing skills in their offsprings virtually from the moment they hatched from the egg.

While I was reminiscing with a hand resting firmly on the gate, there was a sudden shrill that rent the air “Shreee Ganaaaa Naatha…” In the minute that had lapsed there had been a one minute hiatus, possibly a water break where the music teacher undoubtedly had some heated words for a lesser disciple who sang a different verse. So the shrill, goaded by the teacher, came at a good bit of jarring intensity. I had enough. I quickly beat a hasty retreat to my walking route, massaging my aching ears. But there was something in the shrillness of that voice giving me a feeling of déjà vu, and in an instant I was taking a trip down memory lane.

Rewind to almost a quarter of a century earlier, when I was a stripling of about 5 I have a faint recollection of my first Carnatic music class somewhere in Adayar in South Chennai where we initially resided. The reasons for my enrolment were manifold but straightforward. Belting out the top ones that come to my mind are:

a) The community from where I hail, where it is almost sacrilege to not be part of the Carnatic Music circuit in some way, shape or form. Either you had to be au fait about the latest trends in the field if you wished to command a certain degree of respect within the social circle, or at the very least show your inclination towards the field – switching on a radio that blares ‘Suprabhatam’ by M.S.Subbulakshmi every single morning or some Kutchery of some accomplished singer blaring on Sunday TV are handy pre-requisites at the very minimum.

b) It was a certain zeitgeist, to learn Carnatic Music, a peer pressure of sorts, in the 90’s which stood at the cusp of the new millennium waiting to herald in an era of technological revolution. It was a time where TV & Computers were becoming increasingly accessible and newer forms of media began to proliferate. TV channels mushroomed quickly sensed the need to appetize hunger for entertainment and these channels carved out reality shows and programs to spot and hone musical talent. I remember TV shows such as Samsung Sapthaswarangal, Raagamaliga etc. garnered fair share of the TRP ratings, so much that 90’s kids like myself keep harking back to those heydays on Youtube. All in all when yealings of 8 or 9 showed off their precocious singing prowess on air, my parents used to start kicking up my backsides!

c) My grandmother was one of the most instrumental forces in the attempts to sow the seeds of musical inclination in the fecund yet barren mental field of a stripling of five. A lady who herself brick by brick built herself a name in the field of ‘Bhajan’ and ‘Namasankeerthanam’ (Devotional Singing), a Bhagavatha Sironmani herself, she has been running the Sri Kamakshi Mandali and Sri Geetha Govinda Mandali, since 1976 under the patronage of TAMBRAS and Bhagavatha Seva Trust. She and her troupe have performed in Bhajan carnivals across the length and breadth of the country, and is a highly distinguished and respected figure in the field. So it was natural to assume that a lady who has helmed an assortment of middle aged ladies to keep doing this for nearly half a century, would find it child’s play to assert her dominance on me. She was (and still is!) a forceful personality, and even though her intentions were genuine and has the milk of human kindness sloshing forth in her otherwise, one cannot take away the fact that it was a fool-hardy enterprise to assume naturally that I would take to Carnatic Music like fish to water. It was initially under her tutelage that I began to learn my ropes. Over time with her influence and guidance I began to learn music under eminent singers in the Carnatic world such as Rukmani Ramani and Suguna Purushothaman.

d) On a personal note, which I must admit must have been the cardinal factor that led to my learning Carnatic Music (and eventually my growing distaste purely from a singing perspective) was also one that excited my parents to no bounds - My voice! I had a voice that could pierce through the ozone layer if required. It was one of those shrieking voices that could stop a thousand clocks and bring life to the deafest of ears. My levels of decibel intensity touched such dangerously dizzy heights, that my parents thought, if there was one chap who could thwart the accomplishments of luminaries in the field such as Madurai Mani Iyer or Balamuralikrishna, it invariably should be me.

Discarding all the above factors, however the biggest error that my parents committed or rather an oversight that should have never been overlooked during such unwieldy deliberations was to ascertain if I was personally inclined to be signed up for it. They took it for granted that I would have a natural inclination and proclivity towards singing and Carnatic music. At age 4 0r 5 or 6 your faculties are so under-developed you don’t rebel or talk back. So naturally I was introduced to the field as a fait accompli. I outperformed other students when it came to the department of voice. My voice stood out distinctly amongst the others and my music teacher, a wizened old lady who herself was a big name a few decades earlier, discerned an incredible singer lurking beneath. She used to tell my parents that my voice could single-handedly take me to great heights even if there was work to be done in the Raagam (a set of rules for building a melody) and Thaalam (Beat) departments.

Despite bouts of schoolboy recalcitrance, I was nonetheless forcibly thrust into every possible opportunity that came my way to showcase my singing proficiency. Whenever guests used to come home, it was some Geetham or Varnam of sorts such as the famed ‘Ra Ra Venu’ or ‘Ninnukori’ that I was ordered to whip out, and almost everytime I left the guest amazed with the shrillness of my voice. These were followed up with concomitant platitudinous blandishments that if I kept my focus and diligence intact I could peak empyrean heights in the field of music. All this encouraged my parents a great deal which meant that wherever we moved during childhood (Thanks to my father’s travelling IT job we saw a good deal of Bangalore, New Jersey and shuttled within Chennai a few times), my Carnatic Music coaching inevitably followed. As age progressed, my interest in my own learning of the art began to visibly wane but my parent’s prodded on by my grandmother only increased with an equal if not more intensity. I vividly remember even in New Jersey where I studied my 4^th grade, my father used to drive me down 22 miles one-way every Sunday morning from East Brunswick to Plainsboro, where one of our ilk, an NRI taught Carnatic Music at $10 per hour. During the December music season of Margazhi (The unofficial winter month of Chennai) where temperatures take mercy on the soul and plummet to 23 degrees in the night, I was taken to attend Kutchery (Concerts). All these were designed with the sinister intention of forcibly implanting a desire to cultivate the seed of Carnatic music.

However, if there is an inherently mutual incompatibility latent all along between two entities, then try as you might, you cannot reconcile both of them. Whenever singing of Carnatic Music and self were involved, try as you might to marry us both, we were destined to come apart sometime or later. There was one such incident which hammered the final nail into the coffin of my singing career. And that came during my sacred thread ceremony in 2003.

Even as a small kid, I found rituals and other concomitant appendages to religion and spirituality which lacked in science and rationality jarring. Be spiritual but why making a fucking show of it, has been my life-long argument. The sacred thread ceremony was one of the most bitter experiences in this regard where I was made to undergo torture for a couple of days – sitting in front of made up pyres, chanting mantras and being forced to undergo utterly useless and archaic procedures done to appease specific societal expectations. What added a strikingly repugnant note to it was it was planned in March of all months, just as the searing Chennai heat begins to pluck out the juices and hangs the body dry. On the second day just as the ceremony was coming to an end towards the closure of the luncheon hour, I wanted to get back home to catch the start of the World cup semifinals between India and Kenya, when I was held back by my family. Apparently my dad had organized a small get musical get-together where friends and relatives could spend some time showcasing their musical talents. Therefore it came as no surprise that I was forced to belt out a couple of Carnatic songs which I had been learning.

The watershed moment had finally arrived! The straw that would eventually break the camel’s back was placed on top of it. I gave a look lacklustre to the drop and with all my effort sung the worst song of my life, in a countertenor much to the shock of the audience who had gathered to hear the heights of my voice in all its glory. It indubitably set the years lent to development of my Carnatic music skills, quivering in it’s foundations. That was my swansong (pun intended) and since then I have never been asked to sing, much to my peace and satisfaction.

After several years, on retrospection, it indeed sounds ironical today, I must admit! Had I persevered half as much as my parents did, I might have made some kind of mark in the field and it possibly could have paved a way for me into playback singing. Considering Sid Sriram and self were born just a few months apart, I might have given the bloke a run for his money, who knows! But fortunately I don’t have regrets. I am happy to addictedly play ‘Ennadi Maayavi Nee’ or ‘Inkem Inkem Inkem Kavale’ on loop as his fan and be an armchair critic in equal measure if needed, while I continue to ply my trade as a capacity planner with Amazon Customer Service. 

To each his own, puts it about mot juste. But those truly were the years of tuneless caterwauling!

Midnight Musings in the Wake of COVID-19 Crisis

I step outside my home, to survey the eerie environs of the main road, which is usually astir with activity even at this time of the night.

I spot a pack of stray dogs squabbling over a piece of food. When they sight me, plodding by the side, they cease their contretempts and cock an eyeful towards me. I detect an unusual glint in their eyes. My heart skips a beat. It isn’t something that I haven’t experienced before. I have had far more animated encounters with the canine species since the days of my boyhood, when I used to out-cycle, with impeccable ease, chasing dogs, at Five in the morning en-route to Rosario’s Academy for the morning Chemistry tuitions in preparation for my High School Board Examinations. The dogs however caught me off-hand several time when I was on foot, particularly near De Monte’s colony beneath the flickering street lights. In such cases, I was spared but not before pleading to the mercy of the dogs. It was just barking and growling while I used to walk back home, but not before ending up chilled to the bone. However on this occasion, there is no barking or growling. Just silence, as the dogs unanimously look at me with snarling teeth. This time the experience is far more terrifying.

I move along the road, and see cats of all hues crossing the street, with a touch of authoritativeness which was unseen in the past. An age old adage goes – “While the cat’s away the mice will play”, and it does seem the cats now enact the part of the mice, while the human cats lie locked down at home. I generally take a more kindlier view of the feline race. I stop by near a pert and plumpy cat, taking a breather in the middle of the street, as if it owned it. Cats usually shy away from humans and mind about their business. I respect them for taking this stand of bonhomie. But on this occasion, I discern a thinly concealed air of hauteur in it’s demeanour. The stolid cat in question refuses to move, comfortably ensconced. I am fairly bothered by this display of irreverential insouciance. Maybe my disconcertment is unconfounded. It might just be the curious case of the cat that is scanning the street gutters for rodents from its seat of poise. But I continue to be flustered as I trudge along.

Talk of rodents is enough to render a man with finer sensibilities such as me off colour in itself. The sight of one can get me even queasier. However the sight of two of the largest bandicoots I have seen in my life, sauntering by my side on the bylane, is calculated enough to bleach my hair. Absolute whackers! Again the distress caused here emanates more from their overall comportment, rather from their presence or size. I am very well aware rodents being largely relegated in their status to the dregs of fauna, don’t roam on the loose despite being unrestrained. True they wallow all their lives in putridity, act as carriers for pandemics, but for sure don’t possess the gall to roam about at large without caring two hoots about the world. Even when they have to come out of sewers from time to time, they quickly slither back into burrows and try to avoid contact with humanity. The fact that despite spotting an approaching human, they choose to traipse on the sidelines with panache is cause enough for distress.

As I moodily walk back home, I strangely begin to realize that the trysts that are lined up will begin to alter my notions in significant proportions. I can hear at once a gallimaufry of sounds – The baritone of a braying donkey couple of avenues away intertwined with the unfettered bovine mooing in motion, offset by the contralto of hungry frogs as friendly woofs from invigorated dogs enjoin in accompaniment.

As I take a short detour to a relatively bosky and tree-serrated cul-de-sac on the left, an avian melody awaits me. An assortment of bird sounds rend the nocturnal air. The mellifluous squealing of mynahs marries the soprano of cuckoos. The euphonious twitter of sparrows countervails the squawking of parrots, as the hooting of owls binds with the cawing of crows. The bird world sings in all its glory, as the nests of the trees, metamorphosize into stages of musical delight. There is no obfuscation by human induced cacophony.

I look up. The sky is noctilucent as the refulgence of the moon spills onto the street and illuminates it. The pellucidity of the un-polluted air paves way for sighting entangled constellations which concurrently opalesce in the stelliferous firmament.

As I head back into home, I realize I don’t want to go inside. I prefer to stay outside and immerse myself in the immaculate heraldry of flowering bestiality and the splendour of nature and lie inextricated sempiternally. My whole view of dogs, cats and even rats tergiversates as I realize this is but a microcosm of the way the world functioned prior to the invasion of Homo sapiens.

This will not last long. Once the battle with the virus is ineluctably won, a pyrrhic victory no doubt, we will be back to usurp power, wresting it from its rightful owners, weaving daily sins of commission, leaving the world crippled again under acts of esurience and despoliation. The short lived reign of the 'Kingdom Animalia' will end, and the sky shall not be as pristine as it is now.

But till then we should make the most of the remaining days of this black swan event which has pulverized the world, and bask in the one irrefutable good that it has brought with it – Solitude and Peace.

Crossed Wires

A mangled heap of wires

Black, thin and rubbered

Lie in my palms

Menacingly intertwined

Seemingly inextricable

The more I try to unknot, the more I tilt at the windmills

The more I try to cut the Gordian knots, the more I end up in tangles

Try as I may to unweave, I enmesh into a new-fangled mess

The fact remains

Music shall avoid my ears

In Solitude, though possible, it may still

Enter into different ears if I decide to sodcast

Do I want it?

I don’t know

I give up. I deliberate

The extrapolation of the crossed wires

To more bombastic proportions of entanglement

Where wires lie crossed

Over the troubled waters of life

Can I re-purpose the tangled assortment of problems

With the vast multitude of people?

Should I let my music

My soul music, meant solely for me

Out to the unwilling world?

Or should I move heaven and earth

Fight tooth and nail

To extricate the wires

And let myself immerse in plaintive melody?

Assiduous attempts I can still make

But they still may fling me back into an abyss of nothingness

A vexing conundrum indeed

I have made up my mind

I shall temporize

And swim with the flow

Either I will reach

Fate’s grand old paradise

Or dystopify into hell’s excruciating tunnels

I will not regret if it’s the latter

I will rejoice if it’s the former

If it is eventually the latter

I will brave the tunnel till

I get to land’s end where I can

Gambol into the greensward of the former

Either ways, life will sort itself out