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.

Elections

Its election time in small town Kerala. Jeeps have been criss-crossing the streets these past two days. Between the opposition bashing and the election promises they play little snippets of music. The Communists play their old anthem from 60s -Sakhakkale Munnottu..., (Forward, comrades...), while the Congress campaign vehicles blare out Shakira's Waka waka.."

the game of glorious uncertainties?

This was after seeing Kapil cry on live TV (when faced with allegations of match-fixing).

Kapil's Devils

Once, their dashing deeds, we thought,
Spoke of divine grace;
Their idols in our minds we wrought
For long we sang their praise.

In homage to these radiant beings,
We'd bend our knees to pray;
Till, upon the closer look,
We saw the feet of clay!

Today, we tear these idols down
And smash the spurious busts,
We batter them within our minds
We grind our gods to dust.

When our fury's spent, we'll see:
'Twas wrong to blame our idols so;
We were, perhaps, much more to blame:
For the halos 'round their human frames.

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(Why am I not able to get away from the clippetty-clop meter of "the woods are lovely, dark, and deep..."?)

My first attempt at poetry. This was in response to a competition. "Diamonds" was the topic. I didn't get the prize of course.

The Diamond Ring

When first, my love, your hand I held
And on your finger slipped this ring-
An ageless diamond set in gold-
That, fifty years and more, you’ve worn;

Upon this burning gem I swore-
Bear witness ancient, precious stone-
These downcast eyes, these trusting hands
A moment's hurt will never know.

Full fifty years, my word I’ve kept
But now the time to part has come
Your trembling hands will soon be still,
But your memories in this ring will live!

Soon, my dear, I too will sleep,
Until that time, this ring I'll keep-
For every ray of light within
This stone, to me, of you it speaks!

Simple truths

How casually scientists provide simple answers to some big questions:

• Q: How do we know that the universe is not infinite?
  

A: Because otherwise the night sky would have been a sheet of light!

• Q: Why do people die?
  

A: Because the law of entropy says that everything moves from order to disorder!

so much good in the worst of us...

Remember Jane Goody?

Till some months back the image her name brought to my mind was that of the woman on Big Brother; the image the TV channels kept playing over and over again. Face distorted with dislike, gesturing angrily at the angelic-looking Shilpa Shetty, who stood there shedding gentle tears. I didn't like this Jane Goody. I was vicariously pleased when she lost some lucrative (advertising?) contract. Serve her right, I thought.

She was served more than that. Misfortune crowded upon misfortune. But, as so often happens in the blessed among us, adversity revealed her better face.

A few days back there was this picture of hers in the papers. She was leaving her home for the hospital, probably aware that it was for the last time. Seated in a wheelchair, bald from the chemotherapy, she was waving toward the camera, smiling radiantly. What courage. What grace in the face of disaster!

What a lady!

Printer's devil

I find that my part-time work editing articles has sharpened my eye. These days I unconsciously edit the signboards I come across.

Close to Patturaickal Junction in Thrissur there's a place that manufactures medical/orthopedic aids for the disabled. Their signboard announces that they provide "Cervical collars, Lumbar belts, Artificial limps, ...".

A la MAD magazine, I imagine a dark and dusty office with a surly, unshaven, salesman at the counter. You walk in and pay the fee. A goon steps out of the shadows and cracks you across the shin with a hockey stick and, lo!, you walk out with an 'artificial limp.'

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There's another one on the way to Guruvayoor: A place that calls itself an "Institute for Spocken English."

To be fair, they don't say that they teach written English.