Back in Business

This is to announce that Neelu is back in business of blogging. Hopefully, it sells this time too.

Lotus has bloomed in the garden city

At last, the BJP has made it in Karnataka and has formed its first independent government in the South of India. This despite the constant conundrum of the so-called secular parties that it is a virulent bigotous communal party. If the poll analysts are to be believed, this was only possible because of a substantial support from the muslims and SC/STs, who are not traditionally BJP supporters.

The Karnataka elections are a clear indication that at the end of the day, the empty negative rhetoric of the communists or the impotent grand designs of the so called socialists, namely, the congress and the Janata Dal are irrelevant. It is time these parties acknowledged the native intelligence of the voter. He knows that what is material is his own material progress.

Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose Divides

I have to walk 5 minutes from my office to the High Court. Invariably, the most time consuming part of the trek is the 50 feet called Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose Road or NSC Bose Road. Ever since I joined law college, i have crossed this road a zillion times. And yet, each time it is intimidating.

While just out of college, I reasoned out that the probability of a lawyer being runover was already very low and so if a few of us joined together to cross it, the probability of more lawyers being run over is almost zero. Until one day, when I read that a couple of lawyers were hit by a bus, just around the High Court. I have invoked the blessings of the Gods, the spirits of my ancestors and anything in nature which is more powerful than me, but never logic agian.

The Boy Who Lived In My House-I

Many years ago there was a little boy in my house, who was tall and skinny. There was a sparkle in his eyes, which looked at every thing with wonder. The falling droplets of rain, the distant lonely tree, the dirty mongrel shaking itself dry, to him every thing was wonderful. Everything was bright and new.

At every dawn he would rise from his bed, leaping into the morning with all the energy of the new-born sun. To him, every day-break was a new life; something was different from the one that passed. Every visitor was welcome into the home that he lived in; but none could enter the world of his dreams- the one that dwelled in his heart. He would laugh and play with them; but he knew all along that those who came always went away. Some came back later; some again and again; and some left never to return.

As bright and gay as his days were, his nights were dark and sad. The solitude set his day alight; only to return at night to torment him as loneliness. He dreaded the night as much as he loved the day. He was the son of the sun. And the moon hated him for that. It would tease him to no ends and every dream of the sunny afternoon turned into a nightmare.

His fears took human form and spoke to him all night, drowning in its noise, the lullabies that his mother sang and the bed-time stories that his father aspired to tell. The mother, the father and the brother he loved by day, seemed too far away to help in the night. Or so he thought.

The strangers, who he met in the day and played with, would return every night in his dreams to exact revenge. What harm he had done to them or why in the devil’s name would they hurt him, he could never discern. And yet every night, he would endure, for he knew that a lively morning was sure to follow.

Little did he know then that nature had a weird way with things, for he always thought that the fierce nights were always shorter than the days. As he grew, the days became shorter and the nights were getting a little darker and longer. Every morning he would tell himself, at least there is sunshine every morning and darker the night, the sun would shine brighter the next day. And so he started measuring the day and the night by the minute. He would observe every minute and compare it with the past and wonder about the one that would follow. He never noticed that he no longer saw the lonely tree or the street mongrel. They were not important to him any more. He did not see that he was changing. Till one day….
…. More to come

The Boy Who Lived In My House-I

Many years ago there was a little boy in my house, who was tall and skinny. There was a sparkle in his eyes, which looked at every thing with wonder. The falling droplets of rain, the distant lonely tree, the dirty mongrel shaking itself dry, to him every thing was wonderful. Everything was bright and new.

At every dawn he would rise from his bed, leaping into the morning with all the energy of the new-born sun. To him, every day-break was a new life; something was different from the one that passed. Every visitor was welcome into the home that he lived in; but none could enter the world of his dreams- the one that dwelled in his heart. He would laugh and play with them; but he knew all along that those who came always went away. Some came back later; some again and again; and some left never to return.

As bright and gay as his days were, his nights were dark and sad. The solitude set his day alight; only to return at night to torment him as loneliness. He dreaded the night as much as he loved the day. He was the son of the sun. And the moon hated him for that. It would tease him to no ends and every dream of the sunny afternoon turned into a nightmare.

His fears took human form and spoke to him all night, drowning in its noise, the lullabies that his mother sang and the bed-time stories that his father aspired to tell. The mother, the father and the brother he loved by day, seemed too far away to help in the night. Or so he thought.

The strangers, who he met in the day and played with, would return every night in his dreams to exact revenge. What harm he had done to them or why in the devil’s name would they hurt him, he could never discern. And yet every night, he would endure, for he knew that a lively morning was sure to follow.

Little did he know then that nature had a weird way with things, for he always thought that the fierce nights were always shorter than the days. As he grew, the days became shorter and the nights were getting a little darker and longer. Every morning he would tell himself, at least there is sunshine every morning and darker the night, the sun would shine brighter the next day. And so he started measuring the day and the night by the minute. He would observe every minute and compare it with the past and wonder about the one that would follow. He never noticed that he no longer saw the lonely tree or the street mongrel. They were not important to him any more. He did not see that he was changing. Till one day….
…. More to come

An ofe to an odious mosquito

This winter has been a difficult time for me. The mosquitoes have brought out more than mere blood out of me. This time they have extracted the poet in me.

This poem is dedicated to all the mosquitoes which share my home. These mosquitoes have real class. They know what they want in life- young and tasty blood. My dad and mom are never bitten. By the way did you know that mosquitoes have the largest number of teeth among animals – about 208? And yet, the pain we suffer is not because of their bite but the puncture with their long nose.

Sorry folks. This time around Milton did not come out. It was Bharatiar, so the poem is in Tamil.

Pullu maela maeyudhu Pasu
En maela paayudhu Kosu
En Ullirundhu varudhu veri
Kosu kaditha idamellam sori.


Now, I have retained the translation and other copyright over this literary masterpiece. So this is the official Neelu Translation

In the pastures, grazes the cow
On me attacks the mosquito
From inside me bursts out the anger
The places the mosquito bit is all bother.

“Sori” freely translates “to bother”. In the strictu sensu, it is just “rash”.

Stop Press: My dad does not have any literary sense in him. He calls this poem a trash and feels I deserve a thrash.

And Life Moves on.....

It is an interesting part of the year. The English New Year is round the corner. Margazhi - the month of devotion for the devout Hindus commences on Monday. I am reminded of my younger days, while I was still in school and when my parents had greater authority over my conduct and which they never hesitated to exercise.

My brother and I were woken up early in the morning, by about 4. After struggling in the toilet at a time totally strange to our body clocks and forced to take a cold bath, we would be hurried off to the Ganesha temple nearby to sing " Thirupavai" with about 400 other kids.

The kids, most of them from the slums near by, could never take a bath so early. Their motivation to be there- the promised gift at the end of the month and the "venpongal" given as prasad at the end of the singing.

About the singing itself, the lesser said the better. Thank God! We cremate our dead. Or else, the legendary musicians who established carnatic music's foundation and the Divine composer of Thirupavai- Andal ( who was incarnate of the Goddess Lakshmi and whose identity merged with the Lord Himself) would be turning in their graves. What an earth quake it would have been. When the last song is being sung, a group starts runnning towards the prasadam counter to get an unbeatable advantage in the queue.

Somewhere in the quest for these trivial pleasure the God and His divinity were somehow irrelevant.

Lesson Well Learnt

It has been a series of tests and tribulations for me since Middle August. As Karthik, my colleague put it - In school, you learn your lesson and then take the test. In life, you take the test and then learn the lesson.

I am back to work from today. But my heart is still with my mom at the hospital. Dear friends, I am going to shortly burden you with more posts.