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