என் மாயா என் பிரச்சனை

ஓரிரு வாரமாக சரியாக பேசவில்லை மாயாவிடம்... 


ஒரு மாலை பொழுதில் அவளே என்னை அலைபேசியில் அழைத்தால்.  அவள் வீட்டில் பல பிரச்சனைகள் என்றும் அவற்றையெல்லாம் அவள் ஒற்றை ஆளாக சமாளிக்க வேண்டும் என்பதையும் தெளிவு படுத்தினால்.


மீண்டும் ஒரு வார இடைவேளை... மீண்டும் ஒரு மாலை பொழுதில் அவளே என்னை அலைபேசியில் அழைத்தால்.


"என்னடா ரொம்ப நாலா உன்ட நான் பேசல நீயும் சண்ட போடல, அதுக்கு என்ன திட்டவும் இல்ல!",  ஆச்சர்யப்பட்டாள் என் மாயா.


"எனக்கு நீ தான் உலகம்.  எனக்கு நி மட்டும் தான் பிரச்சனை,  ஆனால் உனக்கோ ஆயிரத்து எட்டு பிரச்சனை, அதுல நானும் ஒன்றாக விரும்பல.  i love you forever and miss you forever", என்றேன் நான்.


சந்தோஷமாக வீட்டுக்கு நடந்தால், தெரு முனை வந்தவுடன் என்னை பார்த்து புன்னகைத்து விட்டு திரும்பினால் கண்களில் காதல் சந்தோஷத்துடன்.

நான் உறைந்தேன்

          எங்கே போகலாம் என்றால் எதோ ஒரு கோவிலுக்கு என்பது அவள் பதிலாக இருக்கும்.  ஒரு நாள் அவள் ஆசைக்கினங்க ஒரு  கோவிலுக்கு அழைத்துச் சென்றேன்.  அவள் அந்த கோவிலுக்கு புதிது, நானும் தான்.  நான் அந்த கோவிலின் வழிப்போக்கன் மட்டுமே.

      "நேத்து இந்த கோவிலுக்கு வந்தேன் உனக்கும் புடிக்கும்ம்னு தோனுச்சு... இனிக்கு வந்துட்ட",  காதலியிடம் பொய் சொல்வதும் ஒரு சுகம்தான்.

            "பரவாலையே நல்ல பெரிய கோவிலா தன் இருக்கு."

            அவள் கண்கள் கோவில் உலா வந்தன.  என் கண்கள் பிள்ளையார் போல அவளை மட்டும் சுற்றியது.


     "எவ்ளோ சிலைகள் இந்த கோவில்ல!  நல்லா இருக்கு டா", பரவசம் அடைந்தாள் என் அழகி.


          "ஆமா நேத்து கூட இவ்ளோ சிலைகள் இல்ல.  உன்ன பார்த்த ஜனங்க தான் இப்படி ஆகிடாங்கனு நெனைக்குறேன்", என்றேன் நான்.


            "எப்படி ஆகிட்டாங்கலாமா?", வினவினால் ஆவலோடு.


   "இப்படி ஒரு அழகு சிலை நடக்கும்போது நாம் யாரும் குறுக்க வந்திரகுடாதுன்னு நினச்சு சிலையா ஓரஞ்சிருபாங்க", விளக்கினேன் நான்.


          "சாமி தான் பா சிலையா இருக்கும்", என்றால் தப்பிக்க.


          "நீ எனக்கு சாமி தான் பிள்ள",  விடவில்லை நான்.


          "அப்ப நீங்க என் உறைஞ்சு போகல சார்?",  அவள் விடுவதாக இல்லை.


          "உன்ன  பார்த்து உரையாமல் உன் பின்னால் இது போல் எப்போதும் திரிய வேண்டும்னு இந்த பக்தனுக்கு அருள் புரிஞ்சது மறந்துருச்சா என் சாமி?"


          "நீ தான் என்ன காப்பத்தனும்",  வெட்கத்தில் இறைவனிடம் முறையிட்டால்.  நான் உறைந்த நிமிடம் அது.

A Dream I Dream

I had a dream…
I was with a girl! (let me name her as Maya)…

We, Maya and me, are in a beach, an unknown beach, with vivid water reflecting the sky. The sea is blue, a clear blue, exposing its corals and inhabitants to the outer world. Eagles and albatross keep flying hither and thither but never wish to take a plight into the water and scoop their prey. They maintain the serene atmosphere by keeping themselves aloof from plunging. It is better to fast than to perturb the calmness of air, they fancied themselves. The waves chased each other as kids do, when they are let out in an open ground after a day’s time spent inside a house. Everything is good with the sea.

The white foams carried by waves, like an emissary, try to climb up the mountain, forming a part of the seashore, adjacent to the sea. The mountain resembles a big wall, brown and uneven surface. Occasionally herbs sprout of the rugged surface. The herbs, green here and there, are like stars shinning here and there during darker nights.

The mountain stands erect, never seems to be moved by the strong, gushing winds of the sea. The waves thump them avenging their failure and incapability of moving the rock. The waves deposit some crabs. The crabs move sideways. They metamorphose their colours when they silt in the rocks. Tiny, little, birds are finding it hard to brawl with the crabs and win them as their prey.

The shore… the shore was filled yellowish sand. The colour was as though they are sawdust that comes after scratching a big teak wood. I find sand everywhere, no tree and no human beings except Maya and me. Not even a single palm tree to my sight. We both are there couched comfortably in the shade of the huge mountain. We both are occupying a small place that connects the seashore with the mountain crest.

There is no sound in the shore except hush of the fast blowing wind pushed hardly by the sea. I feel as if the sea sends the wind by compulsion so that Maya would not mind the burning rays of the sun (dreams have exaggerations and hyperboles please LET ME DREAM!). Maya is in her black dress, she is good with a smile, the smile that the waves are craving to taste. I stand as her guard never letting the waves touch her feet or taste her beautiful lips and so they fall without entering the shore.

I allow winds as my Maya wish to enjoy them. I keep watching her, her child like face and childlike play in the sands. She is screwing into the sand by using her tiny, tender fingers, just to see them closed by her other fingers. We speak no words. She occasionally shares glances with me. I am not able to take away my eyes from her eyes and busy fingers. Silence is eloquent.

Maya gets up from the place and she wishes to run around the beach. I say to her, “Its better to sit in a place and enjoy the place, by safely cuddling in my arms.”

“No, I wish to run. There is nobody here. I wish to be myself dear,” replies Maya.

“Alright, I have no objection. Try not to run too fast, so that you can avoid slipping in the sand.” I put forth my request.

“Why on earth are you here with me then? Will you let me fall down?” she interrogates and starts to run and hop around the place. She beckons me as she started to run.

I did not mind about the waves that are trying to invade into our territory, my territory. I start to run beside my girl. She is running by my side. She smiles as if she has done a BIG job, her seven years itch. I keep running by her side looking at her for some time and later I shift and gear up my imagination towards the waves that chase each other. I fancy the first waves to be my Maya and the second ones representing me. The second waves go at the back and I am going behind Maya.

I keep matching the pace of the waves with ours, as it happens with all of us when we walk with someone dear to us. We try to march with the same leg that our partner has, if we keenly concentrate on their leg movement. This keenness on leg movement would end up with us getting unconscious of the words articulated. I get lost in turning my head left and right. The sea is to my right and my girl at left. I left her unnoticed when my head is towards the right. During my sequential swing from left, I find my girl kneeling in the sand. I sit besides her smiling, which she admires many times. She too smiles at me…

There ends my dream…
I wish to dream the dream
I do not know what it all meant. It made me happy. It makes me happy.

மதுரையில்... (Madurai)

அன்று: கொடிகம்பத்தில் ஏறி ஆடியது.

இன்று:பேருந்து ஜன்னல் வலியே "ஏதோ" ஒரு பெண்ணின் துப்பட்டா ஆடுகிறது.

அன்று: வராதே ஆபத்து காத்திருக்கிறது என்றது.

இன்று: என்னை மட்டும் பார்கதே என்னை போல் நான்கு பக்கமும் பார்த்து வண்டியை ஒட்டு என்கிறது.

அன்று:கோவலன்.

இன்று: மாதவன்.

அவன்: இறந்தான்.

இவன்: ( எதிரே வந்த வண்டியை) இடித்து விழுந்தான் !

அன்று:கண்ணகி மதுரையை எரித்தால்.

இன்று: கண் அழகி என்னை கண்டு கொள்ளாமல் செல்கிறாள்!

நரகம்

இக்கதையில் வரும் அனைத்தும் கற்பனையே... (தப்பா எடுத்துக்காதிங்க )

காலை வெயில் உடம்பிற்கு நல்லது என்பார்கள் உனது காலை வணக்கத்தை சுமந்து வரும் குறுந்தகவல் (SMS) எனக்கு அதைப்போன்றதே. உனது காலை வணக்கம் என்ற இரு வார்த்தைகள் என் நாட்களை தீர்மானிக்கின்றன. என் நாட்களை முடித்து வைப்பதும் அவளுடைய வார்த்தைகள் தான்.

" கோ டு ஹெல்" ("Go to HELL") இரண்டு நாட்களுக்கு முன் அவளிடம் இருந்து வந்த குறுந்தகவல் (SMS).

செல்லமாக திட்டுகிறாள் என்று எண்ணியது என் முட்டாள்தனம். இரண்டு நாட்களாக அவளிடமிருந்து குறுந்தகவல் வரவில்லை...

நான் நரகத்தில் இருப்பதாய் உணர்கிறேன்!

Wriggled

I have perceived, always perceived, an old saying that diktats a verity that if you do evil to someone in the morning, it vaults back to you the very same evening. For better understanding, I allude to Newton, who says, “for each and every action there is an equal and opposite reaction”. It is true I would say for I experienced it. I did (often do) vice and got it back to me the very same day. Do not think that I am philosophic in tone. I am plain, I sense. Read the following anecdote and you will know what I am trying to say.

That morning, a humdrum morning, I went to my class and some how I started talking about disturbances I face inside the bus in which I travel. I was talking about men/women who sleep and become a pest to the co-passenger(s). I talked about its fun part and about the furious parts. My students enjoyed it. Then I said about men who sit at the back of women and about their uneasiness when the shawl (dhupatta, we localize it) of the girl comes to the back seat accidentally with the help of the wind. My students had a roaring laughter when I expressed my thoughts. I never, myself, have experienced facing a shawl, so I was cracking many jokes.

Evening came and I started back to my home in the same college bus. The bus sped in the National Highway and as it increased its pace, my heartbeat increased its lubs and tubs, for a shawl came running towards me from the front seat. At first, the shawl touched my knees and my bag, which I always rest in my lap. I did not mind it. Later, because of heavier wind, the shawl touched my hands and slowly crept to my shoulder. I felt like the game that I play with kids, my two fingers (imagined as the legs of crabs) climbing carefully over the kid’s little arm to tickle it.

The shawl did not tickle me nor did I laugh but I was shunning at the non-living thing that was well animated the hands of the wind. Then it touched my face. Could it be called slapping? No, it could not be called so for it gave a pain; it made me wriggle but not literally and physically. Now, I thought, that shawl be renamed as shovel. Shovel usually gets coal and throws it into a burning furnace but this one takes my face and throws me into a different world – a world of shyness, a world of speechlessness, a world of cowardice, a thoughtless, numb world.

In a spur of a moment, a hand came pulling the shawl away from me. It was the girl’s – the owner of the shawl. The girl chuckled for she was my student who attended my class in the morning, wherein I talked about the pathetic situation of persons, who face the furious blows of a shawl.

Not a Nightmare!

People, especially all the new friends of Durga, cornered her with the interrogation, “why do you stay alone in your room?” They sometimes shoot the same question as, “why don’t you share room with other staff members?”, for all these typical queries pat comes an answer from her mouth, “I like to be alone. It gives me freedom and independence.”

“Let me see how long you’re going to repeat the worn out words…”, the words would swoop out of their tongues and “there is much secret about her and her behaviour”, would be words that would throng locked like that of a dog that is been tied with a lengthy, strong chain. Durga would never give an ear to all those unheard words. She believes in “INNOCENCE IS BLISS” and not in “heard melodies are sweet and those unheard are sweeter.”

She had a happy living, an independent living of her own – in her own world. She was working as a Lecturer in a college, which is near her room. For the first few days she felt work like a hell, it made her stay away from home…she would weep, yell alone in her lonely room…nobody would listen to her. This was for few days but she assuaged herself and now she is much fine and at ease with her job and the environment.

Her mansion had just two rooms, which were identical. Nobody, not even she, could find much difference about these two rooms and they could never come out with a proper conclusion on how to use these two rooms. Not even a professional utilitarian thinker would say it cut and right to use the rooms purposes. It took Durga a week to keep her things. She often shuffled things even after several months passed by.

The owners of her house were kind persons and they possessed good heart for they were consoling Durga when she was new to the place. It gave much solace and thus she managed to stay in the room though it looked awkward. The flooring of the room, especially, had well-established roots in it that had spread all over the room. There was one more room near hers and a woman, a schoolteacher, was staying all alone. The teacher’s presence in her room could be confirmed with the noise of a radio. If the radio blares like donkey then the teacher is out of reach and if the noise is lessened then it symbolizes that she is IN and listening to the songs, the usual program with the radio stations. Then in the first floor, where Durga stayed, there were two other rooms, waiting for a dawn. They both were not completely built and those nacked red bricks would long for a skin to cover themselves and their vain attempt made them mirror a human skin during the hot summers of April.

Both these women, who shared the first floor, were also asked to share a common toilet and a bathroom, which was hidden at the back of the half - built rooms. During night times, very rarely, Durga would get scared to walk through the dilapidated, ghost like rooms to use the toilet. Her pace would increase as much as it could if she happens to use them during the darkness. The ground floor had three houses one for the owner and two for outsiders. In one of the latter houses came new tenants who were much old in age. They were a couple – an old man and an old woman. Durga usually never talked with the neighbours. She did not know anything about them, but they knew her very well, she would think to herself.

The new tenants made her a bit more frightened for she would often see the old man in the first floor walking from the toilet but she would have never seen him cross her room when he was heading for it. This would surprise her. She was also taken aback when she saw him roaming aimlessly in the first floor, which had nothing to amuse him. The way he looked at her was one more thing that would threaten her to death. She almost all the time, stared at him, shunned at him and had negative remarks about him. As days passed, she also tried her level best to avoid seeing the old man’s face. She thought of complaining the old man to her owner but felt a bit reluctant and silly to do so.

Days passed a few with threat and a few with a sound sleep. One night after her usual works, Durga went to sleep and had a sound sleep as soon as she stretched herself in the mattress. Early in the next morning around 3 o’clock, Durga sprang up from her bed. She did not know the exact time, she could not recognize the exact hour – night or a day. Everything was dark around her – pitch black. She could hear the barking of a dog, it also howled occasionally. She then lay down once again with her eyes wide open like that of an owl. Some unusual sound tore her eyelashes but what was the sound she could not recognize. She lay in the mat for some time and once again, she heard it – distinctly. It was the sound of seashell being blown by a person. This noise was also accompanied by the sound of metal plate struck by a metal rod. It is a death knell, she thought, with a sigh of relief. “Probably some one would have kicked the bucket”, she muttered and went to bed. She did not dare peep out of the window to witness the death procession. She got up afresh the next morning and came to look for the dead petals of rose in the road. To her surprise, she could see none of them. “Probably they were not accustomed to this culture of mine. It’s a nice habit they didn’t waste the beauty of a flower”, she said and went ahead with her daily chores.

The next night, early in the morning, again, the knell was heard and it never forgot to probe into the ears of Durga. She woke up from the sleep, not from the bed. Her heartbeat was on par and rhythmic to that of the knell. She was not able to lift her head; it denied accepting all her orders.

Voice 1: “Daily a death? Absolutely no! This must be the call for me from… who else other than Lord Yama.”

Voice 2: “But this is too much. I’m young and also a good person then how come you can come so early?”

Voice 3: “Why you came yesterday then? Is it to inform me?”

Voice 4: “Are you going to take me? Why don’t you come when I’m in my home, with my parents?”

So many such voices sprouted out of Durga’s mind but they were all Durga’s for they had only words but no sound. The sound came nearer and nearer, louder and louder and this respectively was reflected in the increased throbbing of her heart. She thought that she was at the throes of life. The sound came very near and she closed her eyes tightly so that a few teardrops oozed out from the sides of her eyelashes. It was as that of squeezing a lemon – you get more juice the more you squeeze. The sound then passed by her and got lost in the empty air. She heard it moving away from her and finally it died. After an hour or two she thought “why didn’t He take me away today itself?” Even after all these terrible things, she refused to raise her head from the mattress.

The next day about seven in the morning, she inquired the neighbour about the strange sound she’s been hearing for the past two days. The neighbour said that she never experienced such a sound. “It would be a dream then. But why I alone heard and nobody did?” She didn’t get time to think over an answer for her work compelled her so she left things as it is and went ahead with the day’s work.

She came home after a long work and as she opened the doors, she heard a rattling sound coming from the dilapidated building. She switched on the bulb and peeped into the house very quietly and to her surprise came out the old man with his eyes fixed towards Durga. He crossed her with a big stare. She was taken aback. She did not go and wash her face that evening and kept herself locked inside the room for she could hear the earsplitting noise of the radio, belonging of her neighbour. She thought of nestling in the owner’s house but her ego did not let it. She did not sleep well but sleep creeped into her eyes during the late hours of the night. Her sleep was shook to its root at the same hour, at the same minute, at the same second as that of the previous day’s.

“Huh! The same sound and nothing else”, said Durga and snored. “What a surprise! Was it me?” she exclaimed the next morning. “But I want to confirm and crack what is going about me or the world.” saying so she planned to get a terminus for all her trepidations.

During lunch, which she usually takes in her owner’s house, she reluctantly conveyed the horrors she’s been experiencing for the past few days. The whole world around mocked and laughed at her saying that it is a usual habit of the temple priest to wake the people in that particular divine and holy month.

On perceiving, this Durga first exerted a sigh of relief but later could not digest the fact that the whole world is laughing, not with her but at her. This she could not bare. She was also not able to leave the place JUST LIKE THAT, for the elders may think it to be a sign of disrespect towards them. She felt it difficult to inhale and swallow the food amidst the sound and fury of others.

That evening as she came back home from work and a small boy, in the street, who said, “I too believe in ghosts”, interrupted her.

K. madhav