Centipede and me

The Centipede and Me

I was to go to the Temple

I took my scooter out

A large centipede crossed my path

I ran my scooter over it

Time and again

Centipede lay dead on the floor

Few limbs still twitching

I was aghast and shocked

What a deed out of character

Was it inner fear or loathe

I had no answer

I reached the temple

Folded hand I stood

A silent prayer to the God

Few droplets of tears

Escaped my eyes

Speeding back home

It all dawned on me

I always speed on the highway

On my way to the college

One day the monster bus

Would hit

My soul hovering over

My likeness pasted on

The road

Litter finger still twitching

I have joined you my lord

Thank you

After all it was poetic Justice

K.V. Radhakrishnan

The Little Child

The little Child

He was all of his five years

inquisitive like a cat

Why crow is black

when dove is white

Why can’t he fly

when birds fly

Fly is what he wanted

flapping hands

went round and round

He was here he was there

he was everywhere

Balagopal of the yore

Sundays were his special day

Shaktiman came to his drawing room

little fellow’s world changed

became part of the episode

Through the TV screen

reality merged with unreality

Somewhere in that little brain

Shaktiman real and powerful

That Sunday evening

he went to the terrace

four floors above the ground

In time and space for a few seconds

reality merged with unreality again

He saw Shaktiman by his side

flapped his wings and took the leap

A thud and inert lay Balgopal of the yore

Oh good lord

why you play this game

muddle up that little brain…..

K.V.Radhakrishnan

Rag pickers

He and sister lived on a ledge

under the culvert

His hair all matted

face a mask of grime

His sister had large eyes

a demure of nonchalance

Two big sacs were the only possession

a couple of dogs kept them company

Before daybreak they walked to the bin

their favorite one near the hotel

Here they scourged

for breakfast lunch and dinner

Rotten tomatoes

and leftovers of the night after the rats feast

They swallow what they can

they fill the bags plastic bags and bottles

A large swanky sedan

breaks near the bin

Passenger seat glass goes down

a bejeweled manicured hand flicks a plastic bag

The boy’s hand shoots out catches the bag

a catch as good as any great slip catch

He opens the bag with fervor was a white spongy thing

 gives it a little squeeze hand slimy and red

 wipes his hand on his shirt front

Bewilderment writ large on his face for a fleeting second

 tosses the thing off moves off to the next bin sister in tow

Two years latter

The girl lay dead in the culvert

defiled and killed

Near her body was a middle-aged man

half dead battered black and blue

The young boy was never seen again…..

K.V.Radhakrishnan

Happiness

Happiness

I was riding my scooter

on the roads of my city

I saw a family on a scooter

a child in front another sandwiched

between his mother and a carom board

I was touched by what I saw

a twang of joy in my heart

There will be joy in their home

when they play on the carom board

Small small joys are what makes life

all you have to do is look around

Lots of us wait for the big one

Life slips by joyless waiting

The big one never arrives

Joy is everywhere

it is for you to pick it up

Enrich your life with these

Little ones

For me joyful laughter

of a little one is worth

all the gold in Fort Knox

K.V.Radhakrishnan

The Jasmine Girl

The Jasmine Girl

She stood selling Jasmine flowers

at the turn near a bridge

She would call out

to the slowing cars

waving the Jasmine strings

Long skirt with a faded top

hair pulled back

in a tight pleat

Few strands of curls

dancing to the breeze

Large eyes sharp nose

prominent cheek bones

pouting lips

May be seventeen eighteen

she was a Jasmine girl

I used to seen her

driving past the bridge

My heart would race

nearing the bridge

I would steal few glances

eyes locking for a few seconds

A smile playing on her lips

One day I stopped the car

she walked down to my car

pushed her hand in with jasmine strings

I took the floral strings fingers brushing hers

My heart flip flopped like never before

Her exotic face said a hundred things to me

Next the next and the next day like this

many days passed she was not there

Couple days latter I stopped

near the bridge I brought a few bananas

wrapped in a piece of news paper

Home I unwrapped the bundle

the news print had her photo

with a paragraph underneath

The language unknown to me

ran to my neighbour

A wayward bus ran her down

was the story it told

Every thing stilled in me

The exotic face smiles at me beckoning

The Jasmine girl is gone

Leaving me behind

You never needed the Jasmine

Celestial Jasmine is better than ours

I know for sure

You love her more than me

K.V.Radhakrishnan

The Unfinished Bridge

She stormed into my presence

like a stray storm

My mind pulled her in

smoothed the storm within

But…

She was on the other bank

I on this side

deep turbulent waters in between

Now….

We are building a bridge

I more she less

Her bank recedes

keeping the distance same

Will we be together ever

with the bridge unfinished?

Perhaps…

It is to be like this

I am the setting sun

she a beautiful dawn

the twain shall never meet…

Epilogue

Evening waits for the dawn

walks her into the night

straitens all the tangles

removes all the pain

Rested thus- dawn is ready

to shine the next morrow

Every one loves the dawn

no one wants the evening

Yet…

Evening always waits for

the dawn- to continue

the cosmic cycle…

K.V. Radhakrishnan

Primodial Life

Primordial Life

I am in my garden

pre dawn

Feel of dew on my foot

and palm

Butterfly flutter past

her breath fragrant

Had stolen pollen

from a wild plant

She winked at me

on her way to

cross pollination

A little Humming bird

wings invisible

hangs in time and space

Little squirrel on the tree

wags its tail left right right left

up down down up

Folded hands nostrils quivering

The little beetle

armour of colours

Waves its antennae

calling  its mate

Life so primordial

I want to roll over

Over and over the grass

Sky clad

I want to be the turgid leaf

ready to receive the first photons

Life so primordial

Me primordial

K.V. Radhakrishnan

CLOUDS

I was lying flat

on my back

on the wet sand

Looking into the

deep blue sky

Cloud forming shapeless

shadows on my body

Clouds above changing 

a hundred shapes

Shapes dissolving and reforming

I got up and walked

wet sand making squeaking sounds under my feet

my inner conflict itched sharp

solution was there to grasp

It is all about dissolving and reforming

K.V.Radhakrishnan

The Umbrella Man

The Umbrella Man

Sankracharya is the high priest

Mel shanti (high priest) is what they call him

Gets up in Bhramamuhurta

After his morning ablutions

He has his ritual bath at the open well

His elder son Pranescharya follows suit

For his upanainam is over

Sankracharya walks to the temple

Pranesharya yards behind

Mel shanti enters the temple

Moves to the temple well

Draws a pot of water

Pours over his head

Whispering ohm namashivayas

He now enters the sanctum sanctorum

Readies himself for the morning pooja

Other priests have arrived

Following the same ritual

They set up all that is needed for the pooja

The sacred conch is sounded

Morning pooja begins

Pranescharya just out side the sanctum

A motley crowd of devotees with folded hands

Eyes closed lost in prayer

Old Madhavan wants a job for his son

Young Kalyani wants a husband me lord

Pooja over

Teertha, sandalwood paste and flowers are given

Devotees accept with reverence

It is time for sheveli

High priest comes out of the sanctorum

A brass container with soaked rice and flowers

He sprinkles rice and flowers on the navagrahas

Utters the correct mantras

Following him is Apuukuttan warrier

Replica of the God over his head

Behind him is Balan warrier

The Umbrella man

Preceding all is the Nadaswaram man and the Chandai man

The procession now circles

The outer perimeter of the temple

Balan the umbrella man pours his heart out

Woes and woes

Apuukuttan with lord over his head just listens

God listens to all this

Sitting over Appukuttan’s head

God smiles knows

There is no umbrella over his head

There are as many umbrella men

As there are umbrellas

Of different shapes hues

As many gods of different names

Listening to the woes of Umbrella men

God listens and listens

Does all that is good to

The umbrella man and his tribe

Thank you umbrella man

K.V. Radhakrishnan

  

     

 

 

 

Alzheimer

Alzheimer

Darkness squeezing him in

Dawn has left his zone

Memory failing one by one

Faces are blank no identity attached

Some names float by

Flotsam in the ocean

I stand in front of him

Looking at his angelic face

A flicker of recognition moves across

Mone (son) he says extending his hand

Events fleet around

Temporally not connecting

Wants to hold on to memory

Indira Gandhi is his PM yet

A man whose thoughts stirred

Statesmen to writers of recon

Memories slipping away like an eel

Juxtaposing into one another

Rolling into a cauldron of desperation

His face reflects unknown agony

Inner core crying out

Love failing, meaningless utterances

His favorite dish in his plate

A microscopic smile on his face

Or was I imagining it 

Touch, taste and smell mean nothing

No associations, triggers no feelings

Hemispheres parting

Neurons snapping with a miniscule of light

Billions of flickers ushering in the darkness

His wife was the connectivity

The last shred to reality

Bave was what he called her

With more neurons snapping

Bave was lost to him

Hemispheres parted

With last of the neurons snapping

He slipped away in his sleep

Alzheimer claimed greatest of thinkers

I have ever known

K.V. Radhakrishnan

OF MEN AND MICE

Walking down a posh locality I see a middle-aged man walking a well-fed pedigreed dog. His attire; Designer jeans, T-shirt and a big gold Rolex on his wrist. French perfume wafting strongly as I walk past him. He looked at me almost with a contempt that he would give to a stray dog. I was wearing simple pants and shirt no perfume to counter his, a non-descriptive wristwatch on my wrist. However I could take him on any day on a Sidharth Basu Quiz contest and win hands down! What I cannot fathom is why one has to wear a designer jean when an ordinary jean does the same function or ordinary wristwatch does the same as a gold Rolex. What I am arriving at is why indulge in accesses?

 Many a times I had gone to five star hotels and resorts (not out of my choice but out of family or official compulsion) I always felt the odd man out. The food, too stylized and unpalatable for me. Believe me whenever I sat in front of such a spread the specter of rag picking children scourging for food in the public garbage bin arise in front of me. The spread in front of me could feed ten such children for ten days! Then why do we indulge in such a colossal self-gratification?

Not that I am an incorrigible Marxist or a die hard anti capitalist. It is this deep-rooted feeling of gigantic disparity between men that bothers me. On the one side the lobster guzzling moneybag and the other side the innocent rag picking little boy with a morsel of stinking, stale bread from the garbage bin pushed into his mouth. Why for god sake why?

But who am I to say all this. Is it the case of MEN AND MICE?

   K.V. Radhakrishnan

The Minister and me

The Minister and Me

On his way to a bigger function, the minister had come to inaugurate our village Balawadi. Pooja was performed no speeches were to be there since we had agreed on a quick affair. The minister distributed sweets to the ‘tiny tots’, more of caricatures, with protruded belly and matchstick legs. They cupped their hands and ran to a corner to revel in the sweet they got.

     The minister got ready to go but unfortunately torrential rains started and he had to wait in our katcha walled Balawadi. He was uncomfortable in the rickety chair. There was not much to do, so I started gingerly. “Sir, this is the International year of the child isn’t it, Sir?” I asked the minister. “Yes, but why do you ask such an obvious question?” I moved a bit in the chair, looking straight in the bulbous face I posed, “What does it do to the third world Sir?” “Third World! What third world, press walas coin words. What I know is about India, which is Hamara Bharath.” I interrupted, Manoj Kumar’s Bharath, Sir.  The minister was infuriated. Nostrils dilated. I sensed his mood and braced up.” Sir, do we need an international year to improve our children’s lot?” “Yes, yes the minister said with an air of supreme authority, because, it is a global phenomenon.”

            “But then, Sir,” I said, “American children are well fed and well clothed they don’t need an international year.” The minister crossed his hands over his belly and said,” “NO, it is not the feeding or clothing. It is the awareness about children; see would you talk about children otherwise?” Minister added with a smile. I swallowed a lump, but kept on “Sir, are we not aware of our children otherwise and what about protein gap of our children?” I looked at those starved faces sucking the sweet. The minister was a bit puzzled. He said, “What is this gap you are talking about? I have heard about generation gap. To tell you frankly, of course confidentially, all our children need is a spank on their buttocks, they are demanding too much these days” (The minister was oblivious of the surroundings).

             I swallowed a bigger lump this time. I still held my fire. “Sir”, I said, “that aside what are we really doing for our poor children?” With a look of indignation the minister said, “Why? all our cities are conducting ‘On the Spot Painting Competition’. We have a whole ‘Traffic Week’ for children. Don’t you see the posters? All carry pictures of children”. I thought I was really ignorant. Wisdom was slowly seeping in to me. This time I looked at the children with a smile. They tried to smile back. I probed on. “Sir, our poor children….” Before I could finish my sentence, the minister shot back “Poor? what poor children? Don’t you know poor men will always have poor children?” The minister said with finality and belched.

            I was overwhelmed. True wisdom dawned on me. Like the Budha under the Bodhivriksha I was exalted. In exaltation I shouted fist up “Poor men will always have poor children!” All those eyes stared at me jaws open. It thundered suddenly and the rain stopped.

K.V.Radhakrishnan

Neeru Dosa

The Paradox of Neeru Dosa

When I heard of neeru dosa for the first time, I was flabbergasted. How can any one convert neeru or water into dosa? May be it is reality and hence the key to Dakshina Kannada’s prosperity!

Science attempts to define the nature of reality. Reality however presents itself in variety of forms; physical, mental, psychological, linguistic, and mathematical reality and now digital reality. But science is yet to conclusively define physical reality-hence the quest continues.

I went in search of reality of neeru dosa. I walked into a restaurant near the Kadri Park and asked for neeru dosa. Presto- the dosa arrived, soft to touch slightly slippery. I put a morsel into my mouth; I realized it was akki (rice) dosa. I called the boy who served me.

I said, “I asked for neeru dosa and you have given me akki dosa where is neeru in it and hence how is it neeru dosa and not akki dosa.” The boy said, “Ankke gottuji induve neeru dosa, bodanda dhani-da- kenle.”(Idon’t know, this only is neeru dosa, if you want ask the owner.) I got up and walked to the counter, there sat a young fellow in dark blue shirt with a gold chain around his rather thick neck. I told him; I asked for neeru dosa I was given akki dosa so how is it neeru dosa? He said, “ Induve neeru dosa.” I said, “But where is neeru in it, it is all akki and so it should be akki dosa and not neeru dosa. He was visibly irritated. He said, “ Eer olterdu battar maraya, enna tare tinnoduchi.”(Where, have you come from don’t eat my head). I said, “How can I eat your head, am I to eat it raw or boiled. He said, “Tare tinoduchi panda tare tinpinnathe!”(Don’t eat my head doesn’t really mean eat my head). He added-Aye eer pole erna kaasla bodchi. (He said “you just go I don’t want your money”) I realized that he was Bhant of the Nair kind so I did the vanishing trick.

But the thought still bothered me why is neeru dosa neeru dosa and not akki dosa? With in the seed of this question I realized I was asking myself as to who I am, for that matter who we all are? In fact we are nothing but a collection of identities collected over the years. I am indeed a different person to you, you and you on your perception of me.

Then who am I? Am I the neeru of the akki dosa or akki of the neeru dosa? In the Kathopanishad Nachiketa requests Jamaraja “please give me knowledge of the self.” I am sure neeru dosa itself will be asking why am I neeru dosa? The paradox continues.

 

K.V.RADHAKRISHNAN

            

Sand in my shoes

Sand in my Shoes

Walking on the beach
gathered fist full of sand
in my shoes
Pensive I walked on
This sand is what scattered
virgin laughter of tiny tots
Sand in which toes wriggled
receiving her first kiss
The sand that soaked blood of
many a men of valour
The sand that received the foot prints of
Rabindranath Tagore
this beloved beach of his
Foot prints of my wife
looking for faunal diversity
Sand form the fields of toiling farmers
washed in from the run off
May be granules of Dinosaurs
May be star dust from
million light years
May be molecules of our
beloved departed
I walk back
Orange Sun dipping
into the sea
Micro seconds before
The Sun said
“Son keep the sand”



K.V. Radhakrishnan

Our Perception of God

I was born in a village of coastal Malabar. To be specific, Tallacherry in “God’s own country” Kerala. This bit of land has people who are very reactive, left inclined, however rational and strangely God fearing mind you not God loving.

Almost all of us have our own perception of God. To some he/she is a great benefactor all prevailing, loving, and all knowing, despite the fact that none of us have seen him in embodiment. To some he is a fearsome, punishing, ritual loving, bribable, give and take type of a persona.

One may ask what about you? Well I was born into a believer’s family and continued to be so. However at a point of time I would have flipped and badly so and got stuck in a quagmire of no return. I lost my son in a bizarre accident at a sport meet when a javelin

thrown out of turn pierced my son’s head. What I could not understand is why my son, what was his fault? (not that it should have been some one else oh God no). The issue is my son was walking, javelin was traveling in air freely and it picked my son. How do science explain it? (I happen to be a scientist). I have no answer. Call it destiny, call it fate, what? Then it truly dawned to me that there are things beyond we mortals some how what has to happen happens. Lot many things have no answer and this incident was one of those. I took recourse to be God loving in the knowledge that my son Krishna is with Him and hence loved and safe. Thus I believe God is not ritual loving, bribable. You don’t have to go to places of worship give offerings etc. I feel since we all are his children all we need to do is look after his children and He will look after us.

K,V.Radhakrishnan             

Morning Walk

Morning walk

One day I was chatting with some young students talking about the need to keep fit. No I am not a fitness trainer. Suddenly one lass told me that she is stronger and fitter than me. Back in my lab I kept thinking on that comment. I decided to be stronger and fitter. With that I decided to walk in the morning.

I have walked the streets of many a towns in India. Each has its own system and flavour.

Walking the street of Delhi early morning the attire you see would depend on the season. Summer presents white kurtas and pajamas of men and kurtas and Patialas of women. Younger generation in Jeans and tops. Winter would add a shawl or sweater on it. No dhoti or lungi here. Stray dogs and cows are much less in New Delhi than the walled city. This part being the commercial hub presents a different picture. You see hand carts cycle rickshaws getting ready to haul the early morning arrivals of flowers, vegetables and other goods. There is smell of hot milk being boiled in the Halwai shops. Samosas being readied smell of flowers mixing with smell of over flowing gutter. Packs of dogs fighting for scraps cows munching at what ever they get.

Temple towns down south wake up early. You could find ladies of the house putting rangoli out side the main door of their houses. Men in saffron or white dhotis and angavastras. Smell of incense sticks and flowers is every where, the temple bells chime chants of slokas and mantras reverberate forcing you into spiritual mood.

I remember walking with my grand dad as a young boy in my village in North Malabar to the temple tank to learn swimming. In my hand I used to carry a ‘Tondera’ two green coconuts tied together with coir rope, this acting as a float. I can still feel the smell of coconut leaf burning, smell of tea wafting in, the smell of blooming Parijat and sacred Champak flowers and burning coconut oil in the large multi tiered bronze lamps. No stray dogs no stray cows.  

Presently I live in the northern most town of coastal northern Karnataka. I leave my house early in the morning. First 500 meters or so on the road I have to do a kind of step dance in semi darkness to avoid cow dung, cows, dog shit, dogs and garbage. I hear a rare swish, swish of broom some one cleaning their veranda. No smell of tea or coffee wafting by no rangoli being put out side the house. Finishing my five K brisk walk I return home ready to face the day. One day on my way back an old man walked close to me said, “Paaoos na, paaoos na re” (no rain no rain) I was carrying an umbrella! Two days latter I had hardly walked half the distance a strong wind  blue a thunder clap and it came down I had no umbrella I was drenched to say the least. That much for the old man’s paaoose na re!!

This State of ours a leader in Science, Space Science, Technology, IT and Higher education also is over run by stray dogs, cows on the road and over flowing gutters. The great Indian paradox of coexistence ultra modern and medieval.

K.V. Radhakrishnan