Soulful

It is magic when words and tones come together to create meaning, a sum greater than its parts. Jigsaw pieces, meaningless by themselves, eerily revealing when together.

Perfect. Strains of the voice of the vocalist. Why do certain tunes elicit certain emotions? Why does the chill pass through my spine?

Claustrophobia

Rain depresses me. I wriggle through puddles of water that've formed in the narrow lane inside my housing society, carefully side-stepping them. I live wary of the soiled floor, damp socks and blistered heels. Thunder strikes through the buffalo-skin of my office. There's water painting on my road. Water drips from leaves and I'm paranoid about my sparkling white shirt. I like them elsewhere, elsehere.

Rain is completely at home in the company of its brotherhood. Still-green mountains, gleaming brooks carrying water, that look delightfully cold. Grey silence punctuated, for contrast, by the vroom of the solitary bus' tired engine. Naked, tired feet revealed by folded, soiled dhotis, underneath wide black umbrellas walking back on winding hair-pin bends. They've fallen behind yet. I crane my neck through the window, waiting.

Dream

"Eeram vizhundhaale nilathile ellaam thulirkudhu,
Nesam porandhaale odambellaam yeno silurkudhu"

Pregnant clouds umbrella me.

Infant beads of rain slip off leaf tips and dissolve in the lines of my palm.

Wet crystals of sand cuddle into my toe spaces.

Ilayaraaja's wrapped around my head. Insulating me from noise and thought.

My shirt flutters. Greetings from the breeze.

I step into lake placid. The hostile cold turns quickly into the warmth of home.

Intimatrivia

Life would be more peaceful without,

Crumpled clothes on the sofa, my bike's stiff side-stand, dust on my key-board, dandruff, the need to shave everyday, my love handles, the fact that my boss sits right next to me, that pot-hole on the Eastern Express highway and my waning interest in cricket.

Ilayaraja saves the day, everyday. When that solo-violin plays, what travels from it to touch my most intimate fibre for me to feel that vulnerable? It almost seems to be a physical phenomenon! And how does the same thing happen with different songs? The tone of the music endearingly touches the joy, pathos, remorse, pride, attraction, repulsion and the entire multitude of experiences that make my memory, all at once.

There is a romantic urge to tell myself that this does not happen with any other kind of music or any other music-director. Though I do my best to resist that, I find it difficult to not relate it with the humility of the creator.

There is this moment when a song ceases to be melodious, rhythmic or catchy. And I haven't felt this with too many numbers. It becomes an ego trip with no effort from my side! It transforms into a motif representing you. You fail to hear the violin after that. But if it had not been for the violin, you might not have felt the same.

Ilayaraja is no hero. I will not chant his name. I will not read his personal life up. I am past that stage. Because now I realize, Ilayaraja is me. I can't see his countenance. I can't hear his violin. He is within.

Why Sivakaasi Doesnt Deserve A Good Review

This is about this , this and this.

Characters, situations and predicaments are timeless.

Not now-cute-now-outrageous-now-pretentious Vijay, Not buffoon Perarasu, Not loud Prakash Raj or his hysterical mother-in-law.

Fifty years down the line our grandchildren will watch Sivakaasi on DVD and LOL.
Perarasu might explain that he just means entertainment and doesn't necessarily want to create a timeless piece of celluloid. But when a creator says that, he is effectively admitting his inadequacy in creating anything worth reviewing. Because the creation then becomes as ubiquitous as soap.

Next time Perarasu makes a movie like Thirupaachi or Sivakaasi, why would anybody have to read a review? You know even as the movie goes on the floors that it is going to have the hero hit people, break windshields, make smart moves to outwit the villain(s), bring families together and romance the babe when the audience wants to lighten up a bit.

I for one, read reviews (especially the Hindu's) before I watch a movie. I would like them to add value to my decision to watch the movie or otherwise, rather than stay redundant and applaud any loud and crassy filth.

I am being sexist

Heather came, a deep frown lining her mouth. Darene stood waiting for her at the bus stop.

"He makes me puff and pant every second! I have taken it thus far. But not any further.", Heather threw those words at Darene the moment they came within hearing distance.

Darene smiled. Heather had been saying the same thing in several ways ever since she met him.

"How is Jeet to you? He treats you like another human being, i'm sure." she enquired, in a way only jealous wives could.

"Jeet is good! I am really happy when I'm with him.", Darene replied and realized she had not said what Heather had wanted to hear. "Come on, Heather. You know how men can be. Give this some time and you'll like it, I'm sure."

Heather appeared comforted. She thought for a while, looking emptily at the road and smiled. "But there are these moments when I go weak in the legs. Binay can be really cute sometimes.", she giggled.

Then route no. 385 came. Both secretaries boarded it, relieved for the day by their respective bosses.

Refraction

My shoulders ached. I had been carrying a heavy backpack to work and it was starting to take its toll. My shoulders had never ever been broad enough, I observed as I climbed the last few steps to my flat.

I pushed the door open and found my three room-mates lying sprawled on the floor. Crumbs of fish and chicken lay sprinkled around them on plates and otherwise. Four bottles that read "Antiquity Rare Premium Whisky" stood one behind other, arranged in a method only inebriated enthusiasm allows, on the dining table.

"When is one ready for a relationship?" mused one of them, not even noticing my entry into the apartment. "It is such a pain! Can I drink every Saturday then?", he continued. He waved his hands agitatedly as he spoke.

I sat on a chair by the dining table and tried looking through the erected line of bottles. His image was muffled and danced through the thick glass. The bottles were empty. They had very strong, broad shoulders though. And crucially, their caps were removable.