Poems Written on Supermoon Day

Perched atop a building yet not,
Shimmering from a pond beneath too,
Pouring forth endless, tranquil light,
Showering me upon me indescribable bliss,
He smiles, shining in all glory,
Giving me peace that none could,
Ridding me of the miseries of life,

Oh who said the moon merely reflects light?
Does he not purify that which is hostile and hot,
Transforming it into a pleasant coolness,
An embrace dear even to the stone-hearted,
And a light known even to the ones born blind,

He's a friend to the lonely,
Giving comfort to the oppressed,
Loved and adored by all,
Not just a celestial orb, but a deity,

Seated upon a heavenly throne.

At 7:28pm solo at lakeside 14.11.2016

A nameless feeling engulfs me,
Stilling my mind, my thoughts,
As I stand, arms open,
Bathing in its splendor,
Its pale light cleanses the soul,
Painlessly ridding me,

Of the nails that pierce my spirit,
My heart slurps as it feasts

On the sumptuous meal of bliss

That it so selflessly serves,

Its carvings add to its lustre,
Proving again and for eternity,
That in imperfection lies beauty,
While retaining its beauty, it defines perfect,
As being thoughtless and silent,
Not sharp or curved,

It hovers in mid space, a celestial sphere,
Imperfectly round, yet contenting,
An orb that foretells not future,
But a one that spreads peace.

On the terrace of the residential building adjoining Sarovar Udyan (Whitehous apaerments?) 7:48pm on 14.11.2016

Song on the unity of India

(To be sung as a Carnatic Ragamalika)

Pallavi

विलसति मम द्रुमो,

लोकेSस्मिन् बहुदेशावने – भारतमिति

Charanam 1

இதுபோல் ஓர் மரம் கண்டதுண்டோ?

அதில் எண்ணற்ற பூக்கனிகள் பூக்க,

மொழிகளின் பூக்கள் விதவிதமாய் மலர,

இம்மண்ணின் மணம் நாள்தோறும் கூடுதே,

Charanam 2

जैसे धर्मों के फल पक जातें,

वो पुरानें के रस में भीग जातें,

आने वालोंको गले लगाके,

नए संस्कृतियों को जनम देतें

Charanam 3

Men and women from patches of land,

Each having different hues of sand,

They all stand, hands held, hearts beating as one,

Preaching the virtue of coexistence to all.

My entry for a contest held at IIT Bombay (Submitted at IIT Bombay's PRO on 6.11.2016)

Credits to my brother, Vijay Ganesh for his insights and suggestions

वाक्यविचारम्

"विद्या ददाति विनयम्" इति कथ्यते, परन्तु एतद्वाक्यम् सत्यम् अस्ति वा, इति कदाचित् चिन्ता वर्तते मयि. अलम् पठित्वा अपि कतिचनमानवाः विनयेन विना वसन्ति। तेषाम् पाण्डित्ये किमपि दोषम् नास्ति, परन्तु सुज्ञाः सन् अपि ते अहङ्कारं पालयन्ति एते जनाः। मया अस्मिन् विषये किञ्चित् विचारम् कृत्वा निशीदितम्, विद्यया सह विनयम् अपि पठनीयम्, इति।

किन्तु विनयम् कथम् पठ्यते? पुस्तकात् वा? न तु! ईदृशम् सुलभम् भवितुम् न शक्यते।

पुस्तकात् अथवा श्रवणेन लब्धम् विनयम् उपधा इव भवति। विनयम् अधिगन्तुम् उदाहरणानि आवश्यकतानि भवन्ति. तदपि सत्सङ्गे एव प्राप्यते।
अतः सत्सङ्गम् कल्याणाय दुर्धरम् अस्ति।

Resolution

The slate is wiped clean again,
Another festival, a new start,
A resolve-inspiring confrontation,
Resulting in a baptism within,
Absolving me of the guilt of past action (bygone),
Cleansing the conscience, turning a leaf,
Planting a mental seed of positivity,

Sometimes eyes must remain in one's self,
And not floating above, perceiving things objectively,
The pristineness they inspire to be dwelt upon,
Imbibed, relished and reveled in,
And while the soul soaks in it,
One welcomes change, embracing it wholly,
Stepping upon fleeting moments of joy,
To rise towards betterment,

They may laugh at my momentary resolve,
Ridicule my jump into action,
They know not but I do,
That I'll make it work this time.

A Battle Fought Alone

When facing unexpected bother,

Perhaps even anticipated fear,

When suffering in pain or sunk in sorrow,

Or when awaiting a never-to-come tomorrow,

When lost or facing the inevitable,

I give up on life,

Withdrawing from the burden of choice,

And the truth of consequence,

And when that happens not,

My world shrinks to naught,

I see myself trapped,

In my own being, caged.

In a cell made of my own spirit,

Struggling hard to get out,

Such is the agony of discomfort,

One that leaves not no matter what the effort.

Oh how can the indivisible soul escape itself?

Can one possibly outrun oneself?

Such thought clouds the exposed mind,

Forming a protective shield,

And as romance guards the fickle brain.

The soul fights a battle in vain,

Dying from the wounds of battle,

It resurrects to a wiser, freer one upon a higher mantle,

The ship of time carries the burden away,

While I gaze after it as it makes its way,

The hitherto claustrophobic soul rises,

Taking in fresh breaths,

Unclenching its vain fists in relief,

While I wipe away images of the grief,

Doors open as if they were closed before,

And a cool breeze seeps in like it was routine,

Some battles can only be fought alone, I sit back wondering,

Laden with vague memories and stark learnings.

If it'd been real or merely a dream,

For it had all happened too soon,

But perhaps it doesn't matter, if it was thought or fact,

What matters is that my soul is intact,

As I revere my experience with newfound respect,

I slip, slowly, back into comfort with myself.

Written at 1:08am on 27.10.2016 at Aero structures lab, IIT Bombay

A Writer's Little Stumble?

A recent discovery of mine is that when my mind doesn't have a grip, its creativity is at its best: it has nothing to do with me, the guy who takes any initiative: it is my mind, yes - a bundle of thoughts of which I am sure, I am the only witness, but my mind - it has a,well, a mind of its own. Perhaps its movement is controlled by some law of inner nature that is yet to be discovered by science. Creativity when under pressure seems to be a corollary of this fact. In recent times, half sleep states have churned out some pieces of writing that have surprised me. to the extent that I end up wondering if it was indeed I who wrote it. But thankfully I have been conscious at those times and possess the memory of writing every word - albeit on another plane, and that puts any doubt of whether I am possessed, at rest. The most noteworthy example would be "Come, visit me by my grave" - a piece I woke up thinking I had written in a dream. Specific details were new to me when I re-read the article - I supposed that this is what writing hangovers felt like.

At such times, I gladly hand over custody of my pen to my mind, letting it do as it pleases, giving it the authority to google synonyms for words as well (yes, I do that a lot). There are times when I go through what is written and then correct it, and those when I consider the words far too holy (forgive my impertinence) to be tampered with. I believe the state of my mind can be fathomed by those who read the work - at least the ones who know me well.

During one such unguarded moment yesterday, my unsteered heart took a turn that I had been consciously avoiding - one that had never forced itself upon me - a dare that I had sort of given myself but had chosen to not take up - I expended some ink on writing in Tamil. It wasn't a great piece, just a couple of cliched lines that are usually passed as dismissive statements in my mother tongue laden with philosophy but often never meant. I wasn't particularly proud after I wrote it - it had sounded better in my mind, but not great on pape- well, on the screen. I still thought I'd let it be.

I often disconnect with my writing once I publish it on my blog (that'd explain the spelling mistakes in my old articles) but this one stayed on in my mind - not its content but the fact that I had written something in another language. Well, you can laugh, but you've got to understand this: it takes quite a bit of tuning to get into the mode of writing, especially when it is poetry. Language isn't natural but feelings are - it takes a lot of canals to force formless, shapeless emotions to form phrases that truly represent them, in a way that every reader, irrespective of the era, should be able to connect to exactly the same feeling. Such channeling takes a while to adapt to, be it in any language. Command over the language is secondary. You need to think in words. Yes, it's a sacrifice to be a writer. We don't do it only because we like it - I like to call it mental pregnancy - the experience needs to be delivered. And I've tuned my mind so well that it's one big slut - it gets impregnated by every silly sight these days (I'm probably the only happy guy to say that).

Tuning the mind is similar to tuning a radio - each language is a frequency and once you're tuned into - each commercial frequency value is a language, and once you want to tune out of a frequency, it takes a lot of effort to tune back into it. Tuning into a different language takes a lot of time too. People unable to express themselves are the ones who aren't able to hear anything other than noise on the radio - ultimately, it's all a question of right training and so anyone can become a writer. Anyway, so, this Tamil thinking that generated Tamil writing got me - um, thinking. I worried that English had deserted me. At least I wasn't guilty since I hadn't initiated this transformation.

Yeah, Tamil is my mother tongue - and for the record, I like it, but so what? Does that mean I should only do "Tamil" stuff (whatever that means)?

Did I disturb the membrane? Burst a bubble? Start a sequence of ripples? Ok, I think I'm blowing up a simple matter. I guess I'd rather not speculate, and instead, sit back and watch.

Written at my room on 20:57 on 25.7.2016

The Scientific Huntsman

He holds his pen in position and takes aim,
Targeting a phenomenon with his experimental viewfinder,
Loading his weapon with observation,
He fires his tests about,

Nature writhes, and struggles to hold on,

Putting up a fight before she gives her cub, phenomenon, up,
While the latter lies motionless but alive,
As the scientist-hunter picks her up,
Mercilessly locking her up,
In the cage of a Law,

Trapping phenomenon on paper,

The cub dwells in the zoo of publication,
Ogled at by other men of science,
Who click pictures, citing her in their zoos.

At times, the club's mother prowls by,
Clenching her paws in rage,
She flings disaster upon mankind, that heartless race,
Which took her child away.

Written on 23rd Oct, 2016 1:40pm at H13 mess, IIT Bombay