The Phantom of the Theatre

No whistles, boos or cheers! Things one associate with a movie theatre, especially when the audience is mostly boys, was missing. Yeah, boys! Who said I am a man all grown up, eh?

But the show was beginning - the late night show!

These shows have become more of a habit now: The after-work games and movie sessions at my place with friends Kannan, James Hardy and occasional guests - Engineer Ram, and couple of other friends of Kannan.

But 1 O’ clock in the morning is never late-night for me, is it?

It is the usual time I leave office and yesterday, being a relatively uneventful day in the sporting world, I reached home just past midnight. Actually, I would have taken a little bit more time had my friend Kannan not given me a “ride” on his bike.

Not exactly a "lift" in the conventional sense of it though as I had my own wheels, my cycle, and Kannan was riding his Thunderbird. But I used my trusted old right hand to cling on to his bike back-rest as he rode in a sedate speed to accommodate this awkward passenger. But it was fun, something we have been doing quite often these days.

Once work is over at office, I usually end up sitting on my terminal, most of the time keying in the poems I may have written during the day, while Kannan and Hardy would be doing what they love most. The former, designer beyond par, will be checking out video games, while the latter - the wise guy among sports journalists in Chennai - will be researching means to hack and download music for free.

And then the suggestion one day by Kannan: “Hey, why can't we go to your place and hook up the Playstation and kick some butt?”

You know what my answer would be right. “The doors are open baby,” I had replied and so it began. First with Playstation and then suddenly we developed this taste for movies.

Movies... MOVIES?

Yes, the motion picture kind. Movies are completely against my nature and I am not exaggerating here at all. My brother Leo had downloaded and saved a few movies on my hard-disk and I had never watched it till last week when Kannan, while browsing through my files, suggested they were good. And this designer dude has a big collection on his laptop too. That was the beginning of the end I guess - the end of sleep, I mean!

Of course, I agree that my place is a dump but as a theatre it just rocks. Then there is the added comfort of the nearly non-existent bed where one can stretch and watch the flick of choice by the click of a mouse. And of course the digital surround-sound from my speakers, though small, is powerful enough to wake up the neighbours. We found that the hard way actually.

Two weeks back, me and Kannan, a little drunk of course, put the speakers to full blast. It was around midnight and my neighbour came up and politely said the volume is a bit on the higher side.

“Sorry boss,” I waved, smiling with pride at the power of my speakers. And in a deft move of my left hand I reduced the volume, all this while negotiating a high speed corner. We were playing 'Need for Speed' on Playstation you see.

And then came the movies one after the other, usually the sessions lasting till we hear the Big Mosque in Triplicane invite the righteous for their morning prayers. A couple of binges were there too, hardly avoidable, especially at the start of the month when we are hell-bound on spending money on booze and birds, the latter sadly eluding us till now.

Yesterday it was a French movie, again a contribution of Leo. The video had some problems but the movie was entertaining. “Now that's a movie with attitude man,” said Kannan afterwards.

But Kannan man, it is not the movie; I feel it is our surprise visitor who is so full of attitude – ‘The Phantom of the Theatre’.

All was set for the day's show, laptop on chair, our tired butts on the floor, speakers connected and just as I was going to switch off the lights, a sudden yell from Kannan.

“Yo, man what's that?” he asked. Couple of F-words later I answered, “It's a bloody rat dude and how did it come in here.”

Show him the door, I suggested to Kannan, who tried it by slightly opening the door so that this little brat can go out. But the visitor seemed to be in no mood to oblige and was getting cozy between my shoes. I tried to urge it to move forward to which it squeaked and ran towards the TV and poof!

“Where did it go man,” I asked, searching through the mess in my room and promising myself that I would clean it up first thing in the morning. But somehow I had to get rid of the rat first.

But he was nowhere to be found. So we got back to our movie which got over at four in the morning. Kannan was packing up his stuff ready to leave while I was just wiping clean the food crumbs.

Few minutes later, the designer rode off, to the sunrise! Leaving me all alone with the ‘Phantom’.

Now Kannan was sure the rat had gone out and I believed him too. I was not getting sleep though and so I logged on to the net and was checking some random stuff when the ‘Phantom’ reappeared, this time menacingly active.

Perhaps it was time for its morning jog. I tried the ‘showing the door’ routine and what do you know, the ‘Phantom’ obliged as if it knew the show was over for the day. Adios amigo. But wait, will he make another appearance?

As for cleaning up my room, well if I had cleaned it today, then who will update my blog? You?

Cupidity defense

Smog spreads down evening trail,
deliberate, indeed by you.
Ye wishes laid bare n flesh,
visage no more, no longer pure.

Deep down that ageless tickle,
drives you to the loch.
Your trip that day supernal,
not a vision, it's the body eternal.

Snap! Alert with yellow light,
smoke screens, all yours for now.
Love ain't the way you vie,
selfish, the games and lies.

Castling - aye, schemes of heart,
driven by age but lass, my rage!
Never morality, it's a set-play,
just a man beyond your reach.

Him and me

Time warped to the good days,
no ties or lies pulling me,
from the serene reverie,
on the day He rested for good.
Harmony in praises n chords,
and a few familiar eyes.
Here I stay in silence,
behind me the redeemer smiles.

Long before 'em shallow lines,
this seat was my hamlet lone.
Wishes of peace and bells,
different yet love indeed.
Buzzing bees and hushed prayers,
minutes after the little shower.
This moment I missed for months,
alone with the Spirited One.

Peace of a puzzle

Something here I can't explain,
the birds or the mango tree.
The noon sun covering half of me,
or is it the breeze, cool as the sea.

Readers, two and three,
a writer above them feels,
of a far-off island paradise,
world at peace, love all around.

Left rise archived red-stones,
amidst a jungle: The swaying leaves.
A field trip to yester-tales,
portal opens to good old days.

Flag poles point north,
while the heart turns west.
Hard-wired to spread the wings,
this migrant's lost between seasons.

There goes peace for a toss,
a worthless DJ, loud taste,
and the wake-up buzz,
what's missing - love or life?

The morning class

On chair, with a gigabyte mind;
the boss and his colourful dictum.
Hippie, yippie and a nerdie,
the kids are ready for morning class.

Three measured gulps of wisdom,
laced with ice and oil.
Lighting up the threesome world,
smoking gun and a celluloid cigarette show.

A couple turns to four hours,
lecture shifts to women and life.
Torn one's happy with the wilder side,
designer sports a classic smile,
while the engine-man takes the wheel,
and the chairman sleeps, who pulled the plug.

(On a booze party with two good buddies of mine)

L' Artista

The master's at work,
six long years of inspiration,
landscape here, a portrait there.

Red crayons, blue pencil,
a little bit 'em brown too,
soiled tiny hands her brush.

Brows meet in serious thought,
doodling her classic down,
pure; its perfect just enjoy!

Her song, that forgotten rhyme,
instincts from a friendly world,
shouts ignored with a naughty smile.

Short n cute, long in reach,
with larger than life of a canvas
- her mama's kitchen wall.

It's papa and the school,
and those buses on the street,
enchanting beauty in simple thoughts.

Let her, do let her fly,
her heart, let it be white,
a colouring book hers to paint.

Give her, do give her the hues,
love in its purest form,
let it splash, wall or soul!

(My six-year-old Cousin Aleena's favourite pass-time is shown above. Her mom however was not happy seeing me encouraging her to extend the canvas to the drawing room.)

Triplicane Diwali

A tree of light, price a day's lunch,
brightens up his world.
A flicker among the million sparks,
but it's his Diwali on the streets,
the busy and bustling Triplicane,
his roof the stellar sky.

The bursts worth millions
- his laughter not the crackers.
Forgotten his days in burning sun,
or the pending nights in the rain.
This day he has fire in him,
and power to make his sister smile.

The deafening roll of drums,
a rich man's show of might.
Hey boy! What's yours now?
This street and a good night's sleep,
with dreams of a brand new day,
and hopes of a life all bright.

(On the Diwali celebration of a boy who lives with his family on the streets of Triplicane, Chennai. He may not have a roof of his own, but the festival of lights was a day when he forgot everything and just laughed and played and made his kid sister smile. A million dollar smile, which probably cost him his lunch - the price of his firecrackers.)

Blinded Amnesty

It was just a friendly crossfire,
a shot from the days in the club.
then one from the nights in a hub,
but now bonds are in the cross-wire.

Itchy finger trigger happy,
the boiling sense - swing your axe,
the softer skin - do the coax,
push and lose, it's cruel, no hobby.

Time for truth n honesty,
prefer woods to city of angels,
where buzz is the cosmetic gels,
better hate than blinded amnesty.

Right! You're the blessing mother,
with strength from a million decades.

Hi Chi

The wrong side of bed again,
something that's beyond boredom.
From aberration to habit,
mornings drag my back to the sack.

Is it the pied piper on horse,
or a tired journeyman in play.
It's growing over the barbed wires,
now the art should prove its worth.

That fresh day never comes,
maybe it will by sunrise next.
Park and the restored Chi,
blocks in flow and a plumbing job.

In deep the dew-filled life,
out goes the moor and weed.

Left for more...

A crown with stars n band of Asian brothers,
mane blown out in thinning curls.
A real son, hmm! Maybe; the poise,
Aries, war a game since birth.

Looking down as armies charge,
left to right, the red force,
right to left, the legend's men,
my place; with the greyed senator.

Three years of front-line march,
stretched webs near blurred eyes.
Not angry blows from foes,
but killer stabs of a lonely self.

The city port I sailed one night,
for fame, bylines and that mortal need:
Some justice to the pawn me,
born poor and a world to conquer.

Counted, measured a hard day's work,
next day trashed, the truth, the lies.
Morn comes a brand new fight,
battle for some no man's cause.

Chin up, sure for more,
looking down at this Colosseum.
Battered body - wine then Malaria;
scars aplenty but no one to nurse.

Variable Whore!

Moonlit slide-shows aplenty,
inside the eye of an image storm.
Tales, booze and portraits all,
urges and Woodstock dreams.
Worthy, worthless, who cares;
I've been there more than ye.
Sweat drops with that cold touch
of a blade on my neck, for a pal.
I came empty, will leave too,
more a man, no fables or boasts.
------------------------------------
Ain't that a cute one,
the variable happy news.
Chained for a grainy grind,
for kings from a red-light town.

That man, an haircut during sleep,
this boy, a legal bind during nap.
His will jaded with the fading hands,
sucked dry by the hungry whore.

Simply the best, one lore, all too often;
the platoon which landed before the force.
Now fight or die, loyal rewards,
medal of honour 'exceeds' their books.

Call for duty answered in ready,
for a man or was it a friend.
But why forget life! Did he?
For this miserable rut, hell yeah.

Sam sleeps and his hair grows,
pillars falling a matter of months.
The boy will wield his sword just wait,
a fight to death he doesn't mind.

Walk away if the pride was lost,
but the promise is the swing to kill.
Nothing between love and him, beware;
he'll never ever take it light.

Pentagon of Friends

The host sits patient, lady on chair;
I took the stands relaxed.
the trial is on, her questioning eyes;
Your Honour, am guilty; I was late.

Rain held my breath,
darkness held my bath.
The dancers left for dinner,
as five stay back in the room.

The royal one stretches out,
all white, cute as well.
Church and the high noon mass,
her Sunday tales with the chips.

The bubbly one, the Caligula
she can't hide with boots so small.
Sharp wit and sharper smiles,
all rise, a gourmand in the hall.

My buddy here, fair n handsome,
destined, designed to sway 'Ma Lady'.
We'll ride, drive and fight tonight,
seasoned pro with his machine and mix.

Dessert bell, bowls from heaven,
missed stick-counts no more the talk.
Happy vibes, this circle of friends;
Hey, it's five, it's a pentagon.

Sensei n me!

Arigato; and the revered bow,
my eyes touch the master's feet.
A way of life from the Ring of Fire,
the art I had grown up with.

Arigato; for the guided moves,
the mixed strides of a ballet of war.
This sword I will temper with care,
by gentle blows in lukewarm fire.

Arigato; for the life and fights,
insights and the hindsights too.
Turning left and a twist of hand,
guarding my back, breaking my fall.

Arigato; for I had all the time,
more than my blood, the younger.
The pain and sting as I kissed your hand,
was a pleasure, a mix of red and salt.

Arigato, from the third year,
the cycle near that Jewish house.
The hide n seek between meditative monks,
fighters; me then felt the pulse.

Arigato; for the teacher touch,
and the words as your trusted aide.
The counts made my supple flesh,
the pen gave my heart the wings.

Arigato; for those clenched fists,
as I twisted out of an exposed back.
When I bled and fell and stood again,
never a man but made something close.

Arigato; for this divine path,
lost, nay I'm back on track.
Digital wilderness and Saki fog, fight;
the legacy, Yeah I'm still alive.

(An Ode to my dear dad, my karate master and my guide in life. 'Arigato' is Japanese for 'thank you' and frankly speaking, I don't have enough words to thank him for the goodness he has added to my life. The picture above was taken when I was four odd years old, just after my promotion from white to yellow belt at my dad's dojo in Mattancherry, Kochi.)

Highland trip

A flickering tube in late-night shift,
dots of light merge in motion.
Behold a finite meaningless mosaic
- our target, two pairs of tired eyes.

Foggy; yet, no one hits the yellow lamps,
the smooth ride onto grassy plains.

His handiwork - the table spread,
day's efforts turn night comforts.
A joint force, we make that climb;
a level plane, the take-off point.

Laughter, but who's joking;
this serious time for making peace.

Harvest's on with the blown out grains,
replaced by a fresher yield.
Potent dose of a highland shrub,
to weed out all that lover's pain.

White smoke drives us up,
no missing notes the sail is smooth.

Dreamy eyes aren't waking up,
arise, her invite for the retro mix.
Swings and kisses, guns and babes;
tough men die as the focus fades.

Sleep... a voice from afar,
long after that Thunderbird song.

Effort and life

A rushing creek, motorised hum;

as water drains to the bigger world.

Sweat and a sweet li'l toil,

dad begins, a son completes;

a double team, a dream team;

and work moves in our unsteady pace.

A near futile but worthwhile dig,

to drain and clean our backyard pond.

Scoops of mud and slush,

marked yesterday by blood and sweat;

of mama's dear ones and my own clan,

we dreamt once, built inch by inch;

'five year' plans and more at times,

unfinished still but green and fresh,

castle and our personal guard

- this world is mine, built with love.

Not even an hour's gig,

but my heart sings, zeal and gay.

I became that kid today,

the one lost three years back,

walking out to a world of words,

making marks of the worthless kind.

My days here now fills a void, the strength;

the will, growing to fight those ugly ghosts.

Love Canvas

Whitish - red, blue and the gray;

black mix here and there,

the Artist's mind roves,

the moving canvas, modernist strokes,

unfinished but a beauty to behold.

Crimson lines, faded and short,

night is young, His girl wild;

the lover's lips will fill the rest.

The disc's on, rolling beats;

disco lights and party raves.

Spilt paint on the floor,

his tongue mopping every ounce of juice.

Light's out, but life's not;

mix and birth, beauty of love.

(On the evening sky, the unfinished painting, by an
artist busy making love with his girl)

Swine Watch

Yes I did, I met the doc;
he looked at me wary eyed.
I ain't a terror, I cried;
you swine, he smiled.
Let's wait n watch, eat these n be good!

Enchanted Elliots!

Misty night, oh, the feel;
the highland realms, without grass or fuel.
Fair, the four-course treat just starters;
even that goosebump served in purple linen.

Ah the drops, first my ears;
then the trickle, kisses all the while!

Twilight sky, the crimson blink;
the expanse beyond, bluish gray;
their knot - fireflies, stars behind screens;
and right at Elliots, behold, the prophecy!

A German Jew's number game,
comes true in an heavenly turn;
clock dilates with relative ease,
it's magic, not science my friend.

Feet wet from the milky pool, a mirror;
the river, time and her steady flow,
slowed dreamy by the sea,
and light shows, the plot thickens.

Minds drift east to the glow,
waves spread out in a tantric,
concentric ballet, a hypnotic spiral;
streaking across the grains of gold.

The man - all flesh, heart n beats,
the elements add the sparkles.
Shower, no hurry no worry,
we were drenched before it made its stop.

Maestro, the bamboo wand;
and the spell from the sorcerer's breath!

(I've tried here to give words to the images that went though my mind as I enjoyed flute maestro Hariprasad Chourasia's concert at Elliots Beach last Sunday. The pictures were taken by SL Shanth Kumar, my colleague, one of the best creative photographers in town)

Eagle's Wings

A valley, bright yellow streaks;
by divine intervention, the colours mix.
Rays filter through the glass canvas,
an artist's dream of heavenly shades.

This feast is what brings me here,
the cherished visions, His work;
the healed soul; His word;
and the quenched thirst, wine and bread.

Full, august I sat, what next;
the lift above the silver sails.
Draft by her timbre soft;
Eagle's Wings, I'm free as a bird!

(To the Sunday voice at Santhome)

Rain Amour...

Drops, life turns green again,
pitch lightens, the voices in me;
from grunts to whistles n tunes of love,
feeling beats, breathing fresh;
a brief stop near, I'll hug you tight,
rain, where's the pain gone, my friend.

I walk, my senses aflame,
heart caressed by birth, the sweet scents;
Earth, her thirst quenched; amour, amour!
Rain, stay in bed with me, my love.

Smiles, the splashes, a bud in play;
it's always fun sailing the clouds.
The slides and falls, slushy hugs;
rain, keep me young eternal, my girl.

(It rained here a few days back, yeah, it rained!)

I Snooze, I dare!

I snooze, delaying the alarm bells;
a while, seconds precious for I'm a man.
Saturday night; dreams, a distant free world.
I snooze, I dare to trash the etiquette;
set for you and me - the enslaved bunch.
Ya, I snooze, awake to the ugly truths.

That old house...

Yesterday, I was searching online for some pictures of my favourite place in the whole wide world, my hometown Kochi, when I came across a traveller's blog which had this picture below with the caption: "An old house in Fort Kochi which badly needs renovation."

Well, my memories raced back to the good days of playing football wearing a tie and uniform, yes, my school days. And now I just have to tell the Mr Traveller and his partner that this is not just an old house but this is where my dreams took shape, a place where boys tried their hand at becoming men.

The poem is my attempt to walk back to those days when playing football and running behind "virgins" from the nearby girls' school were our biggest priorities...

That old house...

Yeah it's old, haunted I bet;
but it ain't a fossil, not yet.
It brimmed life once, full of zeal;
young, naughty teenaged brats.
Then the only world I knew or cared,
pals, soccer and the hidden books.

Ninth grade - year of virgin love,
when Slash ruled with strings n Rose.
Here I took my baby steps,
naughty smiles and breaking hearts;
hidden treasures, the thirsty kid;
yeah it's old, but it's my school.

Creaking wood, creepy rooms;
dust storms, that British fan.
Bunked hours, the beach boys;
the stolen rides to Princess Street.
Casanovas - primed hearts, the iron bikes;
and cane candy from Henry dear.

Those windows, well, they lit my life;
yeah it's old, but it's my school.

(On my school, St John de Britto Anglo Indian Boys', and the most charming of its classrooms - the ninth 'C' division, with direct access to the beach, life and more...)

Nine beats and a bit...

That trigger-happy single shot,
the eight strings finally resonate.
Music fills the air,
the sub-sonic cadence.
Muscles dance in a rhythmic trance,
harmony of life, the divine poetry.

The world stood still, sweet li'l wait;
nine beats and a bit later, the moment.
Bolt strikes again, the flashes;
a wall comes down in Berlin, where else!

A jester off the blocks, the baby;
stallion in gallop, the strides;
salutes in the end, arms raised;
Usain's made it true, the man!

Shooting arrows, breaking barriers;
child's play for this gentle giant.
Even foes remain gay in awe,
he has mastered time and space.
Spikes, tights, gold and olive crown;
the king's conquered world and hearts.

(To Usain Bolt)

Dog Biscuits

Oh, that's great, they say;
your master's as big as they come.
Owning minds, limiting dreams;
behold the leader, who bringeth the good Times.

How does it feel, they ask;
being paid in gold and likes.
Little do they know,
but, I'm a dog, not man!

Heel, roll, jump, stay;
good boy, here's your doggie treat.
Biscuits, creamed and salted; fooled;
tail between; I lick my wounded pride.

Vembanad Love

That old banjo, serene;
the strumming, in sync with life.
An old song, the ringing bells;
those nights, the carpet and the shivers.
The lazy afternoon flow, drowned
- in ideals, a dreamer, the serious trio;
then the plunges to your moist depths;
Vembanad, the secret love.

Was younger then, no wiser now;
the wild days, adorable brute.
I could hunt though very blunt,
life called and I turned my back.
Swimming, then drowning in bliss, oh youth;
my simple mind, where's the toddy pot?
Papa, this is where I'd make love to her,
Vembanad, the Lady in Blue.

Slow, the music fades,
No, let it be, let me sway.
I kissed didn't I, that summer night;
I danced didn't I, that monsoon hit.
Nay my love was pure and soft,
never lust, I saw your soul.
That is why I made love to you,
Vembanad, the lovely bride.

(Looking back to the days spent on the shores of
Vembanad Lake in Alappuzha, Kerala)

Full to the Brim

Down south from where I breathe,
right by the Bengal Bay, this cove.
Fruits, goodies and hearty laughs,
a canopy of love to keep out the sun.
Streams of affection, the breeze I feel;
a mother and son, their little world.

An hour's toil, elements, the dust;
sweat flowing, but worth it, no doubt;
as I stretch, my legs relaxed;
full to the brim on every count...

... My heart - with the mama's care;
my soul, with the positive vibes;
my eyes, not tears, yes, with joy;
and my tummy, with the fish and cheers.

(To DD and mama)

I'm Broke

I'm broke, the month-end blues,

when my wild runs down bright alleys;

the card swipes and friendly toasts,

catch up, a reality check, I'm broke.

The manicured, recessed paycheck ain't any help,

'peanuts' for monkeys, go eat or starve.

Gliding my pen for what? Fake orgasms!

Wake up, just look at you, man you're broke.

Lost in Transit

West, the light fades;
the act over, recess bell rings.
The stage gets empty, slowly;
the buzzing motors taking them home.

As far as my eyes would take me,
I scan, life in the city, crying out to me.
Standing atop the mount of the doubter - St Thomas,
there's no doubt, time's running out for me.

Red now, the clouds glow;
a flight climbs, two land.
Some leave for love and life;
while others come - good for them, what else.

Good for me, what was that;
I never had the sense to think for my best.
I came here with no dreams as such,
time and love never changed me, even now.

Passion, no; confused loyalties, yes;
I'm bad as I've ever been.
I looked down on my world today,
only to know I'm lost in transit, somewhere out there.

'Kid' of Pop

It echoes still, the retro chimes;

In my mind, deep the music plays.

Taking me to those days of fun;

when mama made sure you drank your milk;

and my neighbour Vinci made it a point;

I woke up swaying to his morning raga,

‘Beat it’ lines from one Mr Jackson; man!

I took shape, those years that rocked,

the Billie Jean and Thriller scores;

gave my legs the freedom I know.

I could never do the moonwalk bit,

but I sure could dance, who wouldn’t;

when Jacko snapped his fingers once;

it was disco time, it still is; dude!

I didn’t know who Jackson was;

I was a kid who could sway, not think.

Mama told me, he sure can dance;

I saw him too, through the tube once;

VHS it was, Middle East gift;

my uncle’s version of rocking town,

coming back with bucks off Black Gold.

Now I know a bit of this;

how Jacko tried to get it back.

While I played soccer with pals at school;

he played hard ball in a grown up world,

doing the rounds as Jackson Five;

scarred he was the rest of his life,

from missing years of senseless fun.

Glitz, glamour and cheering fans;

he loved this world, or so we thought.

The only thing he wanted was,

to get those years back, be a kiddo at home.

He was amused by the lights and bucks;

but was never at ease in all the fame,

and drowned himself with killers of pain.

Neverland, he lived his dream,

but the life he lost was forever gone;

from wonder to a walking freak,

we made him so, we selfish men.

We just wanted to dance to him;

and never could see the withered hands;

covered by the whitest of gloves.

This is the tale of the King who was,

a child trapped in a man’s face; broken mask.

He died shattered, misery I heard;

living a life he started to hate.

Angel of sorts, Oh that he was;

made us gay with his soul, his voice;

'Kid', not King of Pop; play at least on heaven’s floors.

(To Michael Jackson)

Luz and Love

Remember I'd come here once,
to see you smile; at your doorsteps I was.
Months back, a lonely Thursday;
we spoke a while, amidst the happy crowd.
You had time for me, though You were wanted by all,
the first time I stood at this House of God.

They sang your praise,
while I sat with ease.
I couldn't sing, but I did pray;
not for me, but for a special one;
and You smiled and spread the light,
on everyone and I was blessed.

Your grace brought out the best in me,
and Your love I felt on my second visit;
when I wept and wept for my silly sins,
while You wiped and wiped;
till my mother came home,
to comfort me on her lap; I'm the lucky one.

This day I came to You,
thanking You for another gift.
My day was bright when I heard a word;
my dearest came out with flying colours.
Light the way, Oh dear Mother of all,
Lady of Luz, the brightest of all.

(In praise of Our Lady of Light, Luz Church, Chennai)

In Delhi for 'Carobar'

MS Dhoni might be thinking about the "Catch 20" situation he walked into two years ago! The 'captain cool' led India to the title win in the inaugural T20 World Cup in South Africa, becoming the face of Indian cricket overnight. His long locks took him from Ranchi hills to 'Desi Beverly Hills' stardom (read: close encounters in Bollywood and of course the million dollar endorsement
deals).

The win also put Indians as the pioneers of the slam-bang game and then came two years of fun in the sun. But two IPL's later, it was reality check for the merry Men in Blue as the thin ice gave in. Dhoni cut short his hair and the "gentlemen" from England, "pirates" from the Caribbean and
the "chokers" from South Africa made sure the Indian defence of the World T20 title was cut short at the Super Eight stage. Mud slinging, controversies and autopsies followed but who cares. As Dhoni says: "In my short career I have seen worst defeats than this."

Of course the Indian captain was referring to the 50-overs World Cup debacle at the West Indies. Well the Men in Blue are professionals to the core. As millions sat silently in front of their Idiot Boxes late in the night, seeing the Dwayne Bravos and Wayne Parnells rip apart their dream, the Rohit Sharmas and the Suresh Rainas were caught live on video joking and smiling at the team dug-out as their pals were losing in the middle. Why should they be sad? A loss
is a loss and they have many other battles to fight tomorrow. Besides they have other carnal pleasures to look forward to - the many girls they would be flinging with during the twilight hours being just one of them.

While the average Indian, including my 'journalism guru' were getting drunk to mourn about what was and what should have happened. But, to be honest, I don't care as I have bigger and better businesses to attend to. After all, I'm in Delhi for "Carobar".
Deputed to work in the capital city for a month, and drafted in to be part of the T20 World Cup central desk, I was in the thick of it all. I must say I was a little skeptical as to whether I would feel comfortable in the big office in Delhi. But then I realised, I am here for work yes, but there are other more important and fun "business" I should perform too. Life's 'hectic' for a sports
journalist here you see, 'very hectic'...

"I never expected this man. It took me by surprise," I had answered my friends back in Chennai after the first day of work in Delhi. I was going through the boring motions of the "how is work there buddy" type you see.

Well I was told I would be part of the desk in Delhi and I came here to do a decent job and go back home with my "rewards", whatever that may be. But reaching here I realised, I would have the pleasure of other "Carobars", to survive the Delhi heat.

For the hard-core South Indian's benefit, "Karobar" is a Hindi word which means business. So what important business is this... Well very important one and if I miss it I may regret it the rest of my life. I am joking of course.

The Delhi Times-Sport Karobar is spelt Car-O-Bar which basically is the regular, after-work drinking session at the parking lot outside office, in between the cars. Man, it has been years since I have drank standing in a public place. I remember it was during my college days I think
that I last did that and perhaps that's why it was love at first sight, or rather first peg, with the Carobar for me!

We four foreigners (guys who were deputed from other centres) - me, Vinay Nayudu from Mumbai, Aby Jose from Bangalore and Archiman Bhaduri from Kolkata, were at home in
no time. For Vinay and Archi-da, it was all so familiar of course, as they have been here and done this many a times. But for me and Aby, the guys who are in the "early twenties" it was
novel and boy it was fun.

If something takes me back in time to college days then why wouldn't I love it? As the boys stand huddled around the Delhi boss Alok Sinha's car, sipping from non-biodegradable
glasses, talking about the day's work, talking about sports, about love, about the hills, about girls, about next day's work schedules; I used to lean back to one of the cars and just smile as memories of stolen parties at the P&T quarters road near my college rush back.

Those were days of reckless fun. There it was more "bike-o-bar" than car-o-bar and the next days plan would be which movie to go or which girl to say "I love you" to. Basic dreams and aspirations I would say. Now it's basic too. Next day's plan would invariably be, as the Delhi Big
Man Alok puts it: "You guys come in around 4, we will work out the plans, the first pages we will send at 7.30, then we will get the match results, second page by 10.

"And then couple of you can stay back and update the late match and go home. It won't be a problem for you youngsters. And do find time in the day to go around Delhi and have fun," Alok, who thinks I'm just in my early twenties, used to add.

Simple plan but as effective as the Tilakaratne Dilshan's "Dilliscoop", the shot that captured the imagination of many during the Twenty20 World Cup. And his innovation almost gave the Cup to the Lankans. But the 'fun-loving' yet focused Afridi-types in the Pakistan team broke the
Islanders' magic and took home the silverware.

It was supposed to be a big occasion for us Indians, as we were defending a world crown there in England, and how often do you see an Indian team do that. But the big occasion in the "small" game got to the big boys I guess.

I have always said cricket is hardly a big game though, global game to be exact. I mean, only 15-odd country play the eccentric game so how big can it get. But it's big here in India. Guess we are madly trying to vindicate the travel brochures by following this game as fanatics. "India,
the land of eccentricities and surprises", the flashy travel literatures say. So let it be, we will follow the mad game madly!

FROM EXILE TO LORDS was the headline given by us after the final, saluting Pakistan's triumph, and as we wound up the day at our third-floor office, the captain of our team, turned to us boys. "Chalo, let's quickly start our business. Cheers to Pakistan. Cheers to some good work."

... IT"S CAROBAR TIME FOLKS - the big business in Delhi!

My Madonna Of Santhome

The lady greets with the warmest of smiles,
as if she’s saying, I know you boy.
I stand charmed in front of her,
awe struck by her beauty and grace.

I stop to say hi maam, mother to all,
she ruffles my hair and says it's all fine.
From her humble eyes one could never tell,
she holds the key to the entire world.

Her eyes have the kinda depth,
which makes the oceans seem a wading pool.
Blue rays; peace she gives to one and all,
who kneel before her in honest faith.

Her folded hands once held,
the King, promised to man by God.
Queen mother of the highest she is,
but spends time down here with little us.

Covered in gold she is of course,
but the real glow is from her purest self.
Virgin mother to the God in flesh,
no wonder she lights up the dark.

She comforts me, the afflicted one,
and agrees to love me, pray for me.
This even though she knows for sure,
I've fought her Son, been rude to him.

Around my neck I carry her charm,
Rosary from the Holy Land.
I've never used it to sing her praise,
but she doesn't mind, she pats my head.

“Come on child, be at peace;
I'm the mother to all of you.
Naughty one you are I know,
but I care for you as I did for Him.”

I kneel down and bow my head,
and my feet get wet from salty drops.
Tears of joy it was this day,
I'm in love with this Lady of Hope.

Lady of Mylapore for the rest of them,
but for me she is Madonna dear.
One who leaves me to be myself,
yet love me for what I am.

I needn't pray to her; she hears my soul,
“You just be good,” she told me so.
Please touch me now, Oh beauty of heaven,
and my heart sings out – “Salve Regina”.

(Verses for Our Lady of Mylapore at Santhome Church in Chennai)

Remember the book buddy!

 

First day in a new ‘old’ school,
fears and all the childish whims.
I meet you and what ye do,
make sure I got the welcome cane.

 

Foes we never could be,
as from then on we are in it – a pair.
The first it was of many to come,
teachers spanked, but together we stood.

 

Then came the days of love
- of music and of the fairer kind.
Books, cassettes videos and all,
we saw it and learnt it whole.

 

Remember your finger spins,
and those late night fitness runs.
Those were the days we never cared,
of jobs, life or even losing hair.

 

Splitting ways – you went on your own,
to learn the art of nursing wounds.
While I stayed put to live a lie,
in the cheap thrills of campus fame.

 

You became hard and strong,
but remained honest deep inside.
I learnt from you buddy of mine,
to look beyond and dream things big.

 

I never tried but things changed,
I flew away from the nest I grew.
The day I got a job of worth,
I remember you were amongst the happiest lot.

 

Up and down, life went on,
you never flinched, as things got bad.
now that you’ve got your call,
to reach the shores were Caesar once ruled.

 

You will flourish in the Roman land,
and will reach a higher plane.
Look you will to these old days,
Of rains, pains and joking pals.

 

The you will open this book,
the first you used to learn your new tongue.
“Parla pocessino Italiano,” you’ll smile;
remember this book buddy, Oh yes you will.

- Leslie Xavier

( for Bobby, on the day he left for Italy and a new life - a friend forever. The book mentioned here was a 'learn Italian' book we both had brought to study the language during our college days. Things didn't work out but today when I was searching my dusty table drawer I saw it and thought I would give it to him with  a few lines...)

Dew Drops

It's just an appreciation of two special friends of mine...

The younger one follows him,
sparks of faith, trust and hope in her eyes.
Things which could only come,
through years, a score, of being around.

It's not the face she reads,
but also the person's thoughts;
who else could get it right,
who else other than his sister own.

Behind him she enters the House of God
- High Noon at Santhome Church.
Prayers, wishes and love all round,
Sibling bond shining through.

I befriend them, talk to them;
but could never figure their silent words.
Thoughts which one would only know;
by knowing the other for "18 years".

Gods sure are smiling on 'em
- they have each other in a lonely world.
But we all seem to have someone,
what matters is whether they'll be there.

That's what makes 'em special so,
big bro he'll always be.
He says it between the spoken lines,
words which I could catch with ease.

They are making my day for sure;
lonely Sunday's will never be there.
Sprinkled care I'm getting now;
sharing smiles of the loving kind.

- Leslie Xavier
(... to a lovely brother-sister pair, Ryan and Madonna)

Noon flight to Bangkok? No! Friends made for each other? Yes!

A normal lunch at an "uptown" restaurant, nothing special happened. Until I realised the person in front of me, my pal, is perhaps not as weird as me, but someone who's just as close, just right and of course, she's a treat beyond words.

 

To be honest, it probably was not in the league where we could say, "it was an enchanting gourmet trip to Thailand". But for the couple of amateurs that we are, I guess it was fine. We had our Thai lunch, from one of the "good" if not the "best" Thai restaurants in town and we enjoyed it every bit, partly because the food appealed to our taste buds and partly, at least for me, it was a company I cherish.

Well it was yet another Thursday, weekly off, another day to feel lost, as I usually am when my body can't cope with a mind which is still on overdrive, from the previous weeks' up-and-down run in the valley of no return - my office, the ever-alert newsroom cum editorial.

It was time for the weekly rendezvous with my friend to renew the 'lunch connection'.

Checking out the different foodie joints in Chennai is what I do with her and this week the draw went to Thai cuisine and the first name that came to my mind was a small door I see every other day, while going to work.

I usually take the TTK Road while cycling to Nandanam and to my office, just because the trees lining the street protect me from the relentless mid-afternoon Chennai sun. And I sure have noticed the name "Benjarong", which they say is one of the best Thai joints in town.

But is it true? Is Benjarong Thailand personified?  I don't know as I'm not familiar with Thai cuisine and even Thai culture, though I do know a few things about Muay Thai (Thai boxing) and the bicycle I ride is also an import from the South East Asian paradise.

So Bangkok, here we come, albeit in an auto rickshaw, not Thai Airways.

The place itself, when you enter, gives a feeling you can chill, be yourself and have a nice left-to-ourselves lunch.

But then it better be, otherwise who'll bother to go there next time. I know I won't. Because for me, the ‘gastronomical’ journey I undertake with my friend here is rather secondary to the emotional joy-ride I take when I sit opposite her and indulge in talks, ranging from the choir girl I would love to fall for, to how vast her chocolate wrappers collection is.

Yes, I know what is going through everyone's head now. Who is this friend, who's eccentric enough to collect wrappers and end up having a treasure huge enough to fill up the entire cupboard in her room and who fights tooth and nail for it when her roommate tries to clean the mess.

Well, the people who know me think I myself am a weirdo at times. So I guess we are just friends made for each other.

Anyway like I said, we are in this Thai "island" in the middle of "Tam-Bram country" and I am not the least worried whether what we eat is authentic or not. It looks, smells, tastes and even sounds OK to both of us. The food was great. So our gourmet curiosity is satisfied.

But beyond that, the whole experience, at least for me, was not a flight to Bangkok, but a flight to the roof of the room we were lunching in! A trip which showed me my inner self in relation to the special friend opposite me.

A trip I took, when I was sitting in front of her, eating my desert, while she had already finished hers and was eyeing mine with suspicion. Yes shedug into my dessert bowl as well, that’s what makes her special. No cosmetic airs about her at all...

Coming back to the flight; I floated up to the ceiling, had an outer body experience so to speak. I was above the table and I could see us both chit chatting. What are we doing there? No beating around the bush here. I wanted a straight forward answer. So Leslie, what's up doc?

Can't you see? We are finishing our lunch and with it, we are finishing another page of our "Friendship Log". A page which has some weird "leaf and peanut laced in a sweet sauce" appetiser, a chicken starter wrapped all over in bamboo shoots, pan-fried noodles, lamb, and dessert - all Thai style.

But more importantly a page which also had, the speciality of the day - "the chets and molus" fermented in love, the sweetest of ingredients known to any chef, and of course, the words of mutual respect, admiration, and, how can I forget, the small fights...

And yes, the three dots mean the story will never end here, it'll continue, my hope is... for eternity, if not forever.

Thy name is woman

Think of it, the world never leaves us with any time to rest. It revolves, evolves and the cycle of creation and ‘re-creation’, which also involves a fair bit of destruction, has left us huffing and puffing, just trying to keep pace. It has been happening since eternity, scary right.
We humans call ourselves ‘masters of this world’ now, a title we earned through our race’s perseverance amidst the earth’s unending supply of life-enriching gifts as well as its life-changing and punishing ways of the ‘cycle of change’.
But we persevered and in some style, and the reason………

Thy name is woman

I myself fell into this trap once,
a pit where all men fall.
Being born with the ‘stronger’ tag,
I was told “you’re to rule the world”.

History’s made by men, they said;
Kings, Nobles and Prophets all.
Slipped I did, Oh yes I did,
Ignorant of the real truth that was.

Men were born to rule it all,
But the ‘kings’ were made by the humble ‘You’.
Long back when ‘You’ kept us safe,
And fed us through your very veins.

If men were born to climb and soar,
The wings were given by the loving ‘You’.
Long back when ‘You' carried us all,
And made sure we're not grounded at all.

The World has to move, has to grow;
And without ‘You’, it would never fly, would never soar.
Survive we have to, and you’re the source;
Rise, thy name is woman!

Today is Women’s Day, but in reality every day is the celebration of the most divine of creation…

Vox Populi - "budget for the common man"

It depends on who the "common man" is. The Union finance minister P Chidambaram (PC) presented the 2008 budget in parliament yesterday and the question I ask is - did the minister make history by presenting a budget for the ordinary man. It would be a landmark when you consider that no budget in the history of mankind has been poor-man friendly. Maybe an exception is the budget presented by Mahabali, the legendary Asura king who ruled Kerala.

But he did create history, according to our prime minister Dr. Manmohan Singh. " The government has made a generous gesture in announcing a loan waiver for farmers. It has given Income-Tax relief to the middle class. It is an 'aam aadmi' budget. It is pro-investment and Pro-agriculture budget," said the economist.

The budget is pro-investment - yes. If by investment the honourable leader means disinvestment in the public sector. But is it pro-agriculture, pro-common man?.... Not in your wildest of dreams.

Define the common Indian Mr. prime minister. By any yardstick, I would say the common Indian is the majority Indian. Not the billions of our fellow countrymen who follow Hinduism. My brother, now-a-days the citizens are divided not into religious classes but economic ones.

The common Indian is the Sathyaseelan I see lying on the street, after a day of hard toil under the hot Chennai sun. He has no roof of his own, his annual income is Rs. 11000/=, way below the Rs. 1.5 lakh ceiling for taxation.

Sathya represents a class, which forms almost 60 per cent of the 100 billion. The common man like him won't be munching on corn flakes for breakfast or run to the nearest car showroom because the manufacturer has cut down the prizes of small and hybrid cars - another gift for the "aam aadmi".

Maybe Sathya should buy a car and live in it since he doesn't have a house to call his own.

PC has handed a lifeline to the struggling farmers, waiving their loans, to stop them from taking their lives. A generous gesture. But he forgot one basic fact. He can't waive the loans those poor souls have taken from Shylocks. It is the local private money-lenders who harass the 'son's of earth' to such an extend that they give up on God's one and only true gift - life. So waiving bank loans, doesn't make the picture rosy, but rather makes it more grim as ultimately all the waivers put pressure on the tax payers, the middle class, for whom the finance minister has presented such a populist budget.

From the time PC got involved in our country's finances, his so called success mantra was disinvestment. The populist budget has provisions to continue this selling culture - this time the focus on oil fields, insurance, among others.

"Oh my Mother India". That's not me who cried, it was the Father of the Nation turning in his grave. Don't sell her, our mother, to neo East India companies and Harvard B-school graduates.

PC has shown one more time that he is a quintessential capitalist, who will be more at home running a MNC than the multi-billion strong ethnically and economically variant country like ours. But who knows; all the disinvestment and "open" strategies he uses could even burn Microsoft Corporation's arse if he runs it.

Ultimately who is to be blamed. We should decide whether to let Naturalised citizens, failed economists, buffalo wranglers, hard-core capitalists, fascists, actors, old-world Marxists and power brokers to run our mother land.

But we really don't have any other choice. The cream of our Nation has left and are wandering in the Silicon Valley in search of the promise land, in the process, helping the likes of Bill Gates make millions.

But even if the "nerd brigade" comes back, one thing will remain the same. There will never be a "common man's budget". Vox Populi - never here...

Transit friend

Definitely not!
I am talking about Mr. Agnello Felix Ceasar, Indian born Australian. I must re-phrase it. He is Indian to the core and wants to marry only an "Indian chick".
"I am tired of Aussies dude. They just don't measure up," he says, with that trade mark naughty smile of his.
Aggie, the guy could never speak malayalam without making us laugh. This after he spent the first twenty odd years of his life in Kochi, among us full-fledged mallus.
Your guess is correct. My friendship with Aggie dates back to our school - St John de Britto Anglo Indian Boys High, and to our college - Sacred Heart (SH), Thevara.
The college where Aggie ruled as the undisputed cycling champ with the boy next door charm. Girls loved him to the same degree they hated me. If he was the boy next door, I was the Al Qaeda man of SH.
Now the kid's a sailor, in his words, "sailing between Tasmania and Melbourne and not getting much fun out of it".
Oh boy his school boy charm has still not left him and I realised that talking to him this day at Chennai Airport, where he had a six-hour stop over, on his way to Kochi from Melbourne.
Two days back he had called me saying he would be spending some time here and if possible we could hang out. We did have some catching up to do as the last time I spoke to him was a year before, Christmas time. Besides I was never going to miss a chance to meet a friendly soul in this city.
He messed up the day he was arriving though. Good old Aggie. Always had trouble communicating in Malayalam. He could have used his Aussie English with me. I ended up waiting for him yesterday. I called it a dry run for today even though I was cursing him and myself.
I spent the whole day with him at the airport, all the while telling each other that we chose the wrong career. Should have been pilots. See the lovely chicks around dude.
He was doing transit to Kochi and the reflection made me laugh. Aggie was my friend. But is he just a passing face in my life. Bull shit! He is never gonna transit through my life. You're going to stay, aren't you buddy?
We just can't be the hi-n-bye type because of many things. As starters, we were sportsmen, the fact which Aggie is so proud of. Now retired of course.
We are from the infamous Fort Kochi area in our town and that in itself is a distinction and a bonding factor stronger than a Fevicol joint.
We have done things together in college that would make today's kids look like art movie action heroes. He was my student too, in the Way of the Empty Hand - Karate.
But I can't explain this any more. It ain't easy you see. I guess the only thing to say is he is my friend, as simple as that. No fine print. Just a good friend.......... Never a transit face.

Brothers in arms

To a dear friend

Which is the greatest of all human relationship? The obvious answer everyone points to is that between a mother and child. The divine relation. But ask me and friendship comes a close second.
Sure there are arguments like - how can you even compare a mother-child relationship to friendship? Have you forgotten the ten-month old bond of the umbilical chord?- and so on.
Well frankly even the blood that runs through your veins are gifts from your mama, everything I would say. Except the man you are. That is where friendship comes in.
Our character, the manhood or womanhood in you, is formed from our childhood as layers. But the last layers are laid during our adolescence by our best of friends.
In my case, that's where Manjush comes in..........................

Teaching me to walk

Well, not literally of course. But my first steps as a wrestler were guided by none other than my buddy Manjush. And as a destiny or something, my last steps were also guided by him - as my coach.
We were brothers in arms. Learning the trade of man to man struggle, using it for glory, sharing the pain, the trials and tribulations that came with it.

Guarding each other's back

It's a challenging world when we are teens and to add to it the rivalry of competitive fighting. Our's were a different fight. One that involved emotions that were in essence the same as every other gang fight with the stark difference being we fought for a cause. Glory in the arena. I still remember bleeding my nose out on to Manjush's T-shirt in a place called Poonjar and he supporting my desire to fight and fueling it. But I'm sure inside him there was also that genuine concern for the safety of his friend. That same concern, he used to express when I was in no man's land career-wise.

The bond

It's something beyond the ring. It must be amusing for my friends to hear this. But it was Manjush who showed me what friendship is all about. He is an example of an ideal friend. Wait a minute, there can't be an ideal friend. So I would say, he is the one who is closest to an ideal friend you can ever get.
And this truth made me get close to him and respect him. The unselfish gestures he would show is something out of this world, considering the state towards which this commercialised world is moving.
I shouldn't be writing this at all because whatever I write won't be enough to describe what he means to me. But one thing I want to reiterate here is that no matter how much I try I can never be the man my buddy Manjush is. You're the man dude........

"Angelus elatus"

Yesterday, in between the daily routine of making pages, the expected duty of a sub-editor at a news paper, I received a call from Antony Dsouza (Dizou), my friend from college.

No I am wrong. He is more than a friend to me. The man behind me getting through graduation in physics is definitely more than a friend to me. Usually he doesn't call me during my work hours as he knows how tough it gets, especially when it nears page deadline.

And here the phone was ringing and I pick it up with a little bit of a worry in my heart, his wife Veronica (Rilja) is expecting a baby and the date the doctor set was 15th. Hope everything is all right.

A happy Dizou greeted me from the other end and revealed the good news. "Angelus elatus" - An angel is born. He has become a dad.

I couldn't conjure up any words to say to him and ended up giving a blank congrats and the usual blabbering about a party and all. My mind was pre-occupied you see - with the pages. But I felt a sudden surge of elation in me that couldn't be described with any words I have in my arsenal.

Dizou had surprised me when he called up an year ago saying he has found the love of his life in Rilja and they are going to marry last December. Just a year before he had said he won't marry in a hurry and had promised he would give me company. I am a long way off from the sacred act of matrimony you see.

And my respect for this guy grew. I have always believed it takes guts to marry. Dizou is one guy who has guts, believe me. His decision to join the merchant navy after a graduation in physics, when there were easier, closer to land, options available is evidence enough that he is a special guy who doesn't shy away from any adventure. And marriage is one big adventure.

I couldn't attend their wedding as it was in Kochi and I was stuck with pages in Chennai. And it was late in January this year that I first met Rilja. That was in Chennai. Dizou was doing a course here as part of his officers training for the merchant navy and they were put up at a place in a private beach on East Coast Road - a nice romantic place for a honeymoon.

The first time I talked to her, I knew she was the right person for him. What struck me was her attitude, the same as his. If there is anything like the saying "made for each other", then this is it - a match made in heaven I would say.

And now eleven months later they are blessed with an angel, a baby girl. May God shower her with His never-ending love and blessings.

The belief is that man was made in the image of God to do his will on earth. He was the creator obviously, and one of his first commands was to fulfil the destiny set upon man as masters of the World.

To produce ones own kind is like doing God's work as we are taking part in His creative efforts. Dizou, my man, you lucky dude. Finally you have joined that elite club.

It's great and you don't know how happy I feel for you guys. I can't express it with the simple grammar I am aware of as a human or the three languages I can speak and write.

A few lines I present you and to your lovely, and I would say, better half - a gift to the new born and her proud parents.

Angelus elatus

It’s a path we are born to,

life in this beautiful world.

Full of shadows yet so bright,

the scape that surrounds us through.

A while ago you trod that path,

alone with your soul as mate.

Now your mate is the one

– whose fruit you behold in your arms.

Ain’t she lovely, the little one;

sparkle in her eyes to learn it all.

And spirit real in her heart,

to soar and fly like a bird.

Blessed is this gift divine,

who brought joy to all far and near.

Love her like your very life,

Angel that she is – an Angel born.

Martial status

Its not a typo error like you might have thought. It's martial status I want to talk about today and not marital status which usually plays in the mind of guys my age.
Don't get me wrong here. Martial status is just a symbolic word I'm using to present the legacy I got from my dad and a generation before him. I received two separate versions you see.
I remember vague pictures from my childhood where men clad in whites executing precisely designed movements in unison to the sharp command of my father. That was the legacy I got from him. Karate.
From the time I could comprehend words, I heard about the heroics of my dad's uncle, who happens to be my grandpa in a way, about his mastery of the locks and the throws. That's the legacy I got from him. Wrestling and through it the martial art of Judo.
I was literally born into a dojo. My dad had a karate class at home along with the few he had at various other places and a whole lot of students. He was one of the senior masters of the art in Kerala, my home state, and a respected Sensei in karate circles.
What karate has given me is hard to summarise. I would say - everything. It gave my dad. It defined my relationship with him; with my uncle, who is also a first dan in the art. It nourished the mutual camaraderie and more than average love I share with my brother. Above all, it shaped the man in me.
Of course I got my mama without the art ok. Mama is just mama, no other fineprints there.
When I first started my blog, I named it Life, Philosophy n martial arts because I had planned to write just that. My life. My life has its philosophy which I sometimes boast to friends as an unadulterated one. Unadulterated by books I mean. But influenced by a host of other factors. I needn't mention that martial arts is one of them because it is the primary one, I dare say.
But karate, judo and wrestling were missing from the issues I addressed in my blog till now. The reason is I have moved away from the way ever so briefly - last two years, because of my physical injuries and professional duties. Practising the sacred art became less frequent and I lost the light in me to talk about my experiences as an artist.
How can I write about the art when I don't practise it. Now that I have resumed training, hopefully I shall soon bridge the gap between the real me and what I've become now.
Once that happens, I would be at peace with myself on a daily basis which is not the case now. Now peace comes in small packets for me here and there. Frankly I am tired of it.
Now, slowly I would be able to say...... "I travel alone in this world. But I fear no one because I have my two empty hands" - the words of my great grandmaster Sensei Zenryo Shimabukoru of Japan.
It epitomises the philosophy of the art I practise.
Karate - Way of the empty hand.