a vagrant gypsy life

This poem by John Masefield holds so much magic for me. I never tire of reading it. I first came across it in school (in class 7 or 9?) along with this same picture of a sailing ship under storm clouds.

Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

I cannot understand the almost visceral appeal that this rhyme holds for me.

I once took the ferry to cross a small strip of backwater in Kochi. That is the extent of my contact with the 'sea.' But, despite that, I can feel the wheel kick in my hands; I can hear the humming of the wind and feel the planks under my feet vibrate with the flapping of the canvas sail. I can feel the flung spray on my face and taste the salt on my lips. Was I perhaps a sailor in some past life?

Or is it because the poem is a celebration of unambitiousness? The poet's joy in the little things? Isn't that the way I would have liked to live? Is it not how I have scripted my own disastrous life story?

koi lauta de mujhe....

A program by the Rafi-Kishore foundation (Thrissur) on Diwali evening. That's the first I've heard of this organization. The hall was packed. Standing room only, with many people standing outside the hall, braving the light drizzle. How hungry people are for the melodies of yesteryear.

Local talent only - and some of the singers were obviously amateurs - but everyone sang with their hearts. The predominantly middle-aged crowd hummed along with the singers, reliving their youth.

the scent of the yakshi

Its November. The pala tree at the crossroads close to my home has bloomed. Bunches of little waxy yellow flowers crust the tree. Soon the ground below will be carpeted with fallen flowers. For now, the blooms perfume the whole village. Its that time of the year. The tula varsham has ended and the vrischika kaatu has not yet started to blow. The nights are cool and the air still. My house is more than 100 meters away from the crossroads, yet at nights the air around my house is heavy with the sickly sweet smell of the pala flower.

Its the smell you get when you awaken at 4 AM with a bad hangover after a night of debauchery. You see the crushed, browning, jasmine flowers on the pillow. By your side, the seductive young beauty of last night lies snoring through an open mouth, transmogrified into a terrible yakshi.