The Confessions of a Quinquagenarian

"Dont worry pumpkin. Apply for divorce. You deserve better. I am there for you always. I will take care of you."

I might be assuming here. But this is an underlining thought in quite a few men like me. It is never a question of whether I can provide for her. Of course, I can.

Being a 59 years old does not necessarily mean I can't have my wishes and desires to long for, in my life.

She is my only child. And these traditions have made me marry her off early to a puny little coward and separated my dear one away from me.

When she was five years old, my hands would spontaneously cover the table's sharp and wicked edge to avoid her head getting hurt. There is a part of my soul that lives for my daughter. Always. It is with so much affection that I brought up my girl child.

Anyone advicing me would have told me to make mends in the small fight my daughter had with her husband and to urge her to continue the life. But I might be selfish here to encourage her to take the divorce and come back to live with me. For no one, even her husband, would take good care of my daughter like I would.

It is not a big fight that she had with her husband. But I could not control my cunning self-centred urge to use this chance to separate her from her husband. This would mean she could live with me forever along with my grand children.

No matter what you might think of me. I am still a hero to my daughter. She would still hug me with love and warmth murmuring how I am the greatest dad in the world. You might think I am selfish, crooked or sadist but she would still attribute all these to how much I love her.

While I sit at this rusted steel bench in the busy yet lonely park and run all these through my mind, I have to remind you that there are quite a few fathers who belong to my breed. I might have company in many fathers of daughters. Some express it like me even if what we wish for doesn't happen. And some others might bury the thought deep inside, labelling it the devil. Others don't have to understand.

And anyway it is difficult to explain my last thirty years of life to you, who is ready to judge me in less than thirty minutes of conversation. By the way, I forgot to mention who you are: you are the seasoned side of my already wringled brain.

After all, I just chose to break the taboo and to vent out.

Vishy
29 Mar 2017.

See Five Sicily.

Act One:
In the theoretical Winter of 1989 at Madurai, Vel remembered vividly the nine-year-old-mediocre-self learning the game of chess. The regular knowing of another game. It was a mere coincidence, he learnt it. There wasn't much to it apart from saying 'I know to play chess'.

At the same time, in another unassuming town Rajapalayam, 85km Southwest of Madurai,  Sri was completing his school and preparing to enter college to study Physical Education. Perceived as another arguably ordinary major in college. When he went to the college, he didn't know that he and his field of study is going to changes lives. Many lives. Forever.

Four years later, the magician Sri joined the school as Physical Education teacher in which Vel was studying eighth standard. Sri believed in Vel equally like many of his other students and nurtured the chess skills of Vel. Later he would go on to inspire the whole school to play it. It had become a little movement among schools and talking point among many parents in the town and popular in the district.

Act Two:
1.e4 c5. On that sunny afternoon, Vel replied the opponent with Sicilian defence in the hut classroom of the school where the district chess competition was being held. Everyone including Vel himself knew that he was a substandard player paired against a reputed one. At the end of the middle game, Vel placed a knight fork for the two 'reputed' white rooks. Such a move was considered half won during those times showing such dominance on the opponent. The advantageous exchange-up was soon nullified to losing the pawns.

If that was a fork, in the next game, Vel was paired against the top seed and was chasing the top seed's king to take his Bishop to enforce a stalemate. It was indeed a thorough spectacular series of moves.

Hours later. After the games, Vel came out crying. He had lost both the games. Sri took him to the petty shop and bought him a chilled locally made Cola, paying from his thin wallet and consoled him.

Act Three:
Since then. Even after many years, Vel never knew why he cried, which was mistaken for losing. But it was just that he found himself. He never thought that he could do something like that until that day.

Be it finding himself, or be it the inspiration called Sri, or be it the Cola, Vel's life changed forever. He was even offered his college admission for his average chess skills. It was one of the many lives which was changed by Sri.

It all started with the Sicilian defence.
c5.

Vishy
6 Mar 2017.
dreamvis.blogspot.com

Folded and Untold

Today, I was picked up for a change after a long time. I felt the touch of your skin. That sensuous touch. Felt a little melancholic to be remembered after a long time.

It is surprising sometimes to be a victim of racism even though I am white. I have been around for ages and, been the true and only representation of what comes out of your mind. I have gone through abuse, crushed and thrown.

May be, I am replaced as much as possible. But I will never be extinct.

In the most intimate and difficult times, I have seen your blood and lipstick.

I am the Paper. And this is my monologue. I have carried several of your stories all through my life, and this is my story while I battle my depression.

Imagine this. Just before every award function, the anticipated notes with names to thank gets written on me and kept folded in the chest pocket. Only one wins the award and rest bites the dust as nominees. Four out of five times I never get opened. I remain folded and often end up abandoned.

Vishy
27 Feb 2017.
dreamvis.blogspot.com

Nagila

When first @Siva was asking @kk over the phone about nagila nagila nagila from the Kaadal Sadu Kudu song of the movie Alaipayuthae, I thought WTF is wrong with these guys :D then, i took a deep dive and found a few interesting correlations. First of all, it is Nagila and not Nagida (courtesy: Headphones). Nagila comes from Hebrew, in which hava nagila means "Let's rejoice". This belongs to the jewish and israeli music. Infact the song "Hava Nagila" is very famous. Hence, the use of nagila in the lyrical context, musical context and situational context (rejoice with love) is justified. As i said the song "hava nagila" is very famous as you can see that Prakash Raj will be dancing to this song (in towel after bathing) in the movie "Mozhi". And wait. if you listen to the instrumental version of this song, you will find the tunes of Ilayaraja's "En jodi mancha kuruvi" from the movie Vikram. So, what say now ?

- the most blessed are those who encounter the toughest times... because, God thought you are the strongest to handle these toughest...

Making of "Suicide" and "Dreams in a Matchbox"

Last week will go into my book of memories. Yet another time, I created something satisfying to me. I never thought I could write poem on a given theme and time. Always felt it flows in your feel. But to my surprise, I was able to write the two poems on the themes "Change" and "Childhood". I never expected I would even qualify for next round. No modesty here. This is due to the fact that there cannot be any measuring gauge for literature and also I started writing based on Rabindranath Tagore's lines, "..those who is not productive in other fields, can at least produce literature".

Coming back to the discussion, the first theme given to us for the poetry was "Childhood". Also we were told not to google for poems. I decided to write a very simple poem by recycling some of my earlier verses. And this is not any plagiarism. This is my own work. There came Sath and told me to include a central idea in the poem and gave one. Child Labour. I could easily relate my town. Started working on it and came up with what is called "Dreams in a Matchbox". Looked good. I read few of the others' poems. They were good and some of their lines and thoughts were terrific.

To my surprise, I got through and went to the finals. Here, we were given one hour time and a theme, "Change". I could not think of anything. Was blank for the first 40 minutes. I tried to write something on love (which was easy) and then call it 'my first change in my life'. What a stinking thought !! (WTF) At last, thought of the weather outside, then about the Bangalore city, then about the dry weather, then about the change in the weather of the city, then about the theme Change, then about the sub-theme 'Climate Change'. Phew, got a theme finally. But when it came to describing the earlier climate in Bangalore, I chose to recycle my earlier verses and stay green :D

This yielded the poem "Suicide". I wholeheartedly liked this piece of my work than the earlier one. I got the first prize. Several people appreciated the poem. I was happy only until when I came to know that 22 April is Earth Day which I did not know when I wrote it. Shame! I didn't regret for I am just committing a suicide. (Read the poem posted to understand this)

The other work which took the hell out of me and was equally satisfactory was the tourist promotion for Somalia. I am OK with the entire work of ours. But I know I just did not meet the internal standards I set for myself. Long way to go.

Bye for now. Have some Most Important Moments of Life to catch by.

- the most blessed are those who encounter the toughest times... because, God thought you are the strongest to handle these toughest...

Suicide

Visvanathan Balasaravanan

Moist gale. Hissing drizzle. Shy trees.
The garden hugged me into itself.

‘Those maiden city bus rides.
Images that trespass through my window…
Wet tree trunk. Fresh road signs.
Drenched leaves, that make the sky green.
Mobile chat outlets. Chatters on mobile.
Family crammed in an umbrella.
Attached lovers on motorcycles.
And the girl in the window of the other bus.’
Those pluvial scenes, I felt.

Enough of the past, that didn’t last.
Sun empires now.
Shrouding the flowers and leaves,
stood tall, the walls we made.
Mass burial, we walk over everyday.

The day is not so far.
When we will be buried and walked over.
Who said we killed the nature?
Just a Suicide, we are committing.


- the most blessed are those who encounter the toughest times... because, God thought you are the strongest to handle these toughest...

Dreams in a Matchbox

Visvanathan Balasaravanan

A time,
when life had only beginnings…
We met. Our eyes smiled.
I gave my kite; you gave your matchbox.

With time vaporing out, together, we played.
Dry glue covered our fingers; had different reasons.
I made kites, pasting it to a thread.
You made matchboxes, to buy your bread.

That naughty finger of mine,
locked into your bangles that shine,
pulled them out to break.
Broken bangles made your eyes brim.
You pushed me strongly, against my chest,
and ran crying, ‘Maa…’

Disappearing into the darkness,
you returned no more.
My heart whispered yours, “Sleep deep.
You have dreams to catch by.
In your life, only dreams to catch by. Bye”


- the most blessed are those who encounter the toughest times... because, God thought you are
the strongest to handle these toughest...