Friday, August 3, 2007

The History of the Ramasami Lineage: The Hidden Truths

The History of the Ramasami Lineage: The Hidden Truths

S. Ramakrishnan (Tamil)

Trans. Latha Ramakrishnan

It was a completely unexpected morning that had to be confronted. The crowd, thick and dense, moved in rows. Where they were coming from was not clear. Sitting on the Gemini Flyover, legs dangling, many were conversing. Two people were atop the stallion warrior statue, taking photographs. News kept coming that the crowd was larger and thicker along the beach road.

Whose brainchild all this was, none could tell. Indeed, it is highly doubtful that a similar event had ever taken place before. ‘An assemblage of everyone endowed with the name “Ramasami”—the first of its kind in the whole stretch of human history’—so the news flashed across the pages of all leading dailies. Ramasamis from every nook and corner of the world kept coming to attend the Grand Convention. You can’t dismiss it with the old line, ‘What’s in a name?’ How can any other name stand on par with Ramasami?

‘Ramasamis of the world, come together. Your world is coming into being at Seerani Arangam’1—so the clarion calls went out all over Tamil Nadu. There were posters and banners everywhere in the city. In the three-day Convention, literary, agricultural, medical, linguistic, political, philosophical, post-modernist, social, religious, realist, irrealist, surrealist, structuralist, intellectual and the tri-Tamilist Ramasamis were taking part in large numbers. As the news spread everywhere, those who were not Ramasamis were listening to it intently and agitatedly.

The special guests of the Convention were Umbarto Ramasami of the country of Kango, Edwarti Ramasami of the nation called Nuva, the popular super-star who was also the renowned linguist of Hollywood, Arnold Ramasami Wasnekkar, and also Ramasamisky, Su en Ramasami (U.N. Special Emissary). Thus, more than a handful of special Ramasamis were to come.

And, I would like to place before you, objectively as well as impartially, led by my inner vision and thirst for truth alone, historical truths of those grand days where lakhs and lakhs of Ramasamis gathered under one roofless roof. As information and data are brimming and overflowing within my senses, let me cast aside some of them and tell you some others with the help of my imaginative power.

The Ramasamis had begun to assemble there the day before, coming in lorries and buses. We had been informed that some eight thousand Ramasamis were apprehended in Tambaram Railway station for travel without a ticket. For the purpose of the Ramasami Convention all fourteen floors of the L.I.C. were vacated, and all fourteen floors were filled with Ramasamis. With the fluttering, freshly-washed dhotis hung up to dry, faces could be seen in all the windows. Right from one-year-old to too-old-to-remember-how-many-years- old, so many a Ramasami stood there. They were wandering, their faces changing colours and contours with time. When someone clapped his hands, calling ‘Ramasami’, innumerable faces of varying ages turned, swelling like a huge wave. The B.B.C. made an official announcement that four crores of Ramasamis had gathered. To maintain that revolving bed, two hundred Ramasamis toiled day and night.

Outside the convention tent, martyr Ramasami portraits were kept. Ramasamis themselves saw those portraits of Ramasamis, where all faces looked alike. Beneath every portrait a packet of salt was kept. Tasting salt, the Ramasamis remembered those salty days when they extracted the salt filling their minds, and they shed tears for the martyrs.

Bringing the torch for the convention from Andaman was the duty handed over to Aaravayal Ramasami. A thousand Ramasamis joined hands and set out in a ship from Andaman. Many Ramasamis had assembled in the port to give them a warm send off. They waved and waved to the voyaging Ramasamis.

Inside the ship, Ramasamis faces were everywhere. Sitting atop the roof of the ship the great freedom fighter, Aaravayal Ramasami, gave forth a spirited speech of independence. Some thought-provoking excerpts of it are as follows:

My dear Ramasamis, we had proven to the British in those bygone days that Ramasami was a name distinct from other names, that it was unparalleled. Ramasami is the symbol of Tamil identity. Even if he is at the other end of the world, a Ramasami would never lose his exclusive, special nature. Ramasamis alone have preserved Tamil life, politics, philosophy, and literature for centuries. The very first man who set foot on the moon was a Ramasami. History has concealed this veritable truth. But who can ever refute the fact that the pages of history are so full of Ramasamis. (Applause) As our dear genius of philosophy, Hegel Ramasami, claims, ‘Ramasami’ is a name that remains the same. And, this great convention will determine the future of Ramasamis , my dear Ramasamis…

Before this speech could conclude, the sea’s rage had worsened and the waves began to lash higher than the ship. Caught in the sea’s grip, the ship lost its sense of direction. The Ramasamis who had to sleep listening to the roaming waves throughout the night were afflicted with yellow fever, with the result that by the next afternoon, 999 Ramasamis had breathed their last. With those bodies lying spread on the deck like wood blocks floating on the salty water, Aaravayal Ramasami, standing on the deck of the ship, sang ‘Behold, the precious flag of Mother’, in an effort to get rid of his gripping fear. The ship loaded with the bodies of 999 Ramasamis wandered aimlessly. Aaravayal, all alone with the corpses, stood staring at the sea. Wild birds hovered in circles above the ship.

Unaware of this great tragedy in the history of the Ramasamis, crowds and crowds kept on alighting at Central Station, causing great tidal waves everywhere. The world-famous poet Theppa Kulam Ramasami, neo-critic Little Finger Ramasami, Waterfall Ramasami (who cares to pen international novels alone), and also Uproar Ramasami, Realism Ramasami, Romantic Ramasami, Extravaganza Ramasami, Ever-Your Ramasami and their near-and-dear ones, readers, fans, well-wishers, ardent lovers, suicide squads. Joining these Ramasamis, an abundance of Ramasamis kept on crowding the special Literary Locomotives.

In each and every station non-writer Ramasamis thronged to catch a glimpse of writer Ramasamis. There were placards bearing the name ‘Ramasami’ heaped everywhere along the entire stretch of the platform. The train came to a halt at the platform.

‘Hot-pot novel, sir, steaming short-story, sir, poems, sir … novel, sir, story, sir…”—so shouting, the blue–shade employees went along, selling the books. Waterfall Ramasami, who was sitting in his A.C. coach, spoke to his dear disciples: “The novels of this place read too well……. the idiosyncrasies of the place are such…”

No sooner had he spoken these words than his dear disciples leaped out to buy a novel each, and they began to read these novels the very next moment, breathlessly. When the train arrived at Kokkalanchery Station, spotting senior writer Pavalakodi Ramasami who was sitting there all alone, Little Finger Ramasami clapped his hands and called out, ‘Ask him to come in. He is the senior writer who used to write in Pavalakodi, long ago… call him inside.’

Eighty-year-old Pavalakodi Ramasami boarded the train with his eighteen unsold books. Little Finger Ramasami gave him a place to sit. As the senior writer was in the habit of chewing Thangapaspam tobacco, he sat near the window. As soon as the train began moving he began pulling out tales and anecdotes from the pages of his old ‘Pavalakodi’ days. The Ramasamis went to sleep.

Uproar Ramasami at the next coach was narrating all his uproarious memories to his followers. His recent rebellion took place in front of Thaluk office. Along with a hundred and odd Ramasamis, Uproar Ramasami staged a protest outside the office rejecting the recent growing literary ‘isms’ in Tamil: magical realism, post-modernism and others. A petition to the effect was handed over to the Thasildhar. This uproarious protest took place in all the district capitals. The complaint made by Uproar Ramasami was inscribed on a tin plate and given to the Thasildhar which the latter promptly returned with a zero and so the rebellion was declared a resounding victory.

Proclaiming Seerani Arangam to be ‘Ramasami Arangam’, participants continued their preparations, including honoring Ramasami, the first fountain pen writer. Prior to him everything was written by dipping a peacock quill into ink. In those days, only Ramasami had the guts to start using the pen, an innovation for which he should get all the credit. At the Convention a huge painting of him with one hand on his cheek and the other holding a pen, was drawn. A gigantic ink bottle was spilled in front of his house as a mark of respect to his memory.

Sitting at the rear side of the Ramasami Arangam, Realism Ramasami was penning his new realist novel 17:17:17. The Agro-farming Association had come forward to publish it. While writing that novel which deals with the ways and means of harvesting cotton in summer, he sobbed and sobbed, unable to control his emotions, breaking three pen nibs.

Meanwhile, the ship, gone astray with its direction lost, dashed against the shores of TeluguLand2 and came to a halt. Ramasami, who had slept with the torch, set out on foot to visit the rural areas of Andhra. The dogs eventually began to chase him and so, changing his walk to a run, he came towards Chennai.

At Egmore Station innumerable Ramasamis were waiting to welcome the Literary Locomotive. The other popular Ramasamis who were to be honoured at the Convention were escorted to various lodges. Under the leadership of Pon. Ramasami, a hundred and eight or so had gathered and were busy preparing a memorandum.

Meanwhile Levistro Ramasami of the Department of Anthropology, inside the caves of Mainalla Draw, was writing by candlelight a historical document entitled, ‘The History of the Ramasami Lineage: The Hidden Truths’. An excerpt follows:

In the beginning, all the Tamil letters started with the first letter ‘Ra’. From that the Tamils came to be named ‘Ramasami’. Ramasamis from time immemorial have cultivated a civilized style of make-up and couture, and this truth was amply substantiated by significant archeological evidence gathered in Rappa, located on a small strip of land near Mohenjo-daro. The clay-pots excavated in this region bore the letter ‘Ra’ which could be seen distinctly. (See photograph, courtesy Rappa Archeological Research). Veteran archeological scholar Na. Altan Singalo Ramasami himself confirmed this claim. Therefore it is beyond doubt that the first name of the world was none other than ‘Ramasami’ (Ra.Va.Sa PR 24)

The very sight of Pavalakodi Ramasami, who spoke ill of modern stories with his mouth full of tobacco which he chewed incessantly, was disgusting to Theppakulam Ramasami. With the literary quarrel between the two reaching an ugly peak, Theppakulam pulled out the tobacco wad and threw it away. The senior writer then pulled the alarm–chain, bringing the train to a halt. There erupted a bitter fight between the Ramasamis regarding the humiliating treatment meted out to the veteran Ramasami. At that point the train was standing half a mile away from Virudhachalam Station.

At the Ramasamis Convention, they turned Gemini Flyover into a dais for the purpose of conducting literary debates. Arrangements were made for the crowd to stand on the roads beneath and listen to the speeches. When the lists of the literary speeches were announced, the Ramasamis vied with each other to read the titles.

Under the title, ‘The History of the Universe and the Art-form Called Devarattam3’ Horror Ramasami spoke; Little Finger Ramasami spoke on ‘My little finger and Tamil Literature’, and Realism Ramasami delivered ‘Go Hang the Storytellers’. Thus, unheard-of varieties of international titles had found a place. For Pavalakodi Ramasami alone the exclusive freedom of selecting his own title had been given.

As soon as the train stopped at Egmore Railway Station, Ramasamis ran to receive the new load of Ramasamis. Giving each a fountain pen and a badge bearing the picture of Ramagirisami, they escorted them along with the dance of a Karagattam4 team. The Ramasamis of the ‘Tamil Readers’ clan who travelled atop the roof of the train wandered all over the city in search of water to bathe. Seeing the waterless corporation-taps making strange moaning and hissing sounds, they sat beside them and wrote complaining odes on the woeful state of affairs. Some Ramasamis were fast asleep in the Burma Bazaar Road. The religious Ramasamis multiplied their religiosity by having a mouthful of neyyappam5, sitting in the corridor of Mylai Kapaleeswarar Temple.

Apart from these, one Ramasami from Erichanatham, a remote area situated in the southern end of Tamil Nadu, sent a translation of his, along with a milk can, in city bus number thirteen. The Ottanchathram Ramasami, after completing his long–term dream of writing a four-thousand-page novel, divided it into two segments and hung the two on either side of a kavadi.6 He bore his Kavadi Novel from Palani to Chennai and some eighty budding poets accompanied him carrying his Kavadi Poem. In each and every village en route, throngs of women gathered to watch the ‘novel pilgrimage’ of the Ramasamis and welcome them with great pomp. They even arranged for a ‘Feeding of the Poor’ to mark the occasion, but all these events form part of a separate story.

Before Aaravayal Ramasami could arrive with the torch, the Convention had commenced. The welcome speech was given by Nunna Konda Pettai Kadhavu Ramasami, a Gandhian and the former Governor of Andhra Pradesh.

‘Ikkadalu, Ramasamigalu, Maanaadulu, Nassalu, Nadakkalu, Akkadalu, Kavidhailu, Sirukadhaiyilu, Vimarsanamilu, Raasilu, Nobalu Parisulu, Pettraarulu, Ramasamigalu, Edhir Kadamulu, Nammalu, Desathalu, Mukyamalu, Ulagaramasamigalu, uttrumaigalu, vallargalu”. [any meaning or pure gibberish?]

Before the speech was completed, Aaravayal Ramasami came on the dais with the ever-glowing torch which his men helped light. As the torch was lit a bit belatedly, it was then that Ramasami told the Ramasamis of the deaths of the Ramasamis. With tears welling up, those at the convention postponed it for half a day, in memory of the 999 Ramasamis. Also, Ramasami placed before the Ramasamis an appeal to the Central Government that a stamp with Aaravayal Ramasami floating in the ship along with the dead bodies of 999 Ramasamis be released.

As the convention was postponed, the writers dispersed hurriedly and went with their groups. Small-Magazine Ramasami went round amidst those Ramasamis present, selling small books with captions like, ‘You have made me a Ramasami to Ramasami etc.

If I were to narrate all that which took place between the Ramasamis, it would prove another ‘Angaputhran Tale’ of counting sand grains. I think it would be better just to give the self-introduction of the wireless and leave it at that.

Among the senior writers was Pazhath Thoettam Ramasami, who had so far waved aside all awards; he, the great warrior, is alone the Godfather of the world of Tamil Story. Beyond all doubt, no one can excel him in writing. This unparalleled writer was for a while the disciple of Piggymount Swami (Pandrimalai Swami) and then was deep in philosophical ponderings concerning Nietzsche, Soban Heera and others, and then got involved in the arts, putting his heart and soul into it. His inward silence had a distinct artistic clarity, said many critics. In an anthology compiled by them there is an article called ‘On Some Times in the Life of Pazhath Thottam Ramasami’; it would prove fruitful to you to read a portion of it:

There are different varieties of fruit trees all around the abode of Pazha Thottam Ramasami. His friends always call him ‘Sulthan’. He never writes when there is no fruit smell surrounding him. Every morning, after completing a story, he shows his excitement in his success in arriving at a real artistic peak by plucking and eating the fruits. In that over-joyous state would be a treat to watch. He also owns a publishing house called ‘Mukkani’ (The three primal fruits) – (Some Times in Life – Para 18)

Of the lot of neo-critics of Tamil literature who branched out from Pazhath Thoettam Ramasami, Little Finger Ramasami is quite important. For delivering the loads of books that came to his address every day to be reviewed by him, the postal department had reserved all eight employees who toiled day and night, running a kind of relay race from the Post Office to his house and back and forth.

Little Finger Ramasami never handled those books with his hands. He would turn the pages using only his little finger. If his little finger signaled that it was a good book then he would start reading it. The rest he would press hard with his little finger and force them deep beneath the floor where they would remain buried for ever. And, with books so buried the house swelled in size. The books which had the good fortune of earning a mention from Little Finger are but half-a-handful. As the little finger is crowned with the status of Class-A critic, it started viewing the other fingers with scorn and disdain, feeling so proud of its stature. The other fingers, taking note of the elevated position enjoyed by the little finger, became afraid of it. Still, every now and then there erupted literary quarrels, fights and wars between little finger and the other fingers.

The other fingers: You, Little Finger critic—who is crowned with literary reviews, who tells tale to the scarecrows?

Little finger: You goddamned straw-scoundrels, don’t you dare blabber about such things as story, tale…the beautiful blend of the inside and the outside is what is called ‘story’.

The other fingers: Then, what do you have to say about the ‘story of betrayal’ of the jackal called ‘Abandhaga’?

Little finger: Whatever the others say, I am the unparalleled emperor of criticism!

In this way the discussions and debates continued. From all the rural and urban regions of India, people came in large numbers and vied with each other to have a glimpse of the little finger of Little Finger Ramasami. He would always walk concealing his little finger with his dhoti. How he became the one and only one, unique ‘little finger’ in the entire gamut of the field of literature, is a separate episode.

Among the novelists, the skills and expertise of Waterfall Ramasami defy all description. With only the words that remained after not having been washed away by the waterfall, he would bring out a book. His most popular novel The Counterfeiters and the Hundred Little Lambs was an existential novel nominated for the Nobel Prize thrice but rejected due to errors in proofreading. In this, he constructed the central theme around a lamb that goes to an empty house every day and looks at itself in a mirror, thus dealing with the essence of life on a philosophical plane. His novel, A Big ‘No’ to Conversing with Cats, was going to be released at the Convention.

Apart from these, Realism Ramasami would prepare blank white sheets at home with his own hands, and, on principle, would only pen his creations on these handmade white sheets. He was a man capable of writing about anything and everything he comes across. His stories are being used in the U.N as ‘pocket-books’. He has the habit of taking snuff, and every cough comes out ‘realism’, ‘realism’.

Apart from these, some hundred more Ramasamis were honoured at the Convention. Kalladaikurichi Ramasami, Boli Ambur Ramasami, Nellivalai Ramasami, Thisayanvalai Ramasami, So.Pa. Ramasami, Ko. Ramasami (ex), Ramayya Pillai Pulimootai Ramasami, Ettu Veettu Ramasami, Moopan Ramasami, Thamizh Ramasami, Esthapan Ramasami, Britto Ramasami, Ramasamy Kumar, Kavik Kizhaar Ramasamy, Nadai Vandi Ramasami, and so the potential of many Ramasamis gained special attention at the Convention.

The next day at the Convention, thousands of Ramasamis kept wandering down to the beach in bikinis to bathe. Some Ramasamis lay on the lawns and sang poems. Other Ramasamis read and applauded themselves on their own reading. On one side, a christening went on for those who were not Ramasamis. The name ‘Ramasami’ was suffixed to their names and thus Britto Ramasami, Farook Ramasami, Alexander Ramasami, Mubaraq Ramasami entered directly into the Convention.

As the cry went on, soaring higher and higher, Alleluyah Ramasami, who lived in Gemini complex, was afflicted with verbiage-fever. Standing around him, the Ramasamis who went along with his ‘word-blabbering’ sang ‘alleluyah’ day and night. On the walls of his house, the saying, ‘Ramasami never leaves you’ could be seen. When the Convention reached its dizzy heights the torso of ‘Alleluyah’ Ramasami twisted and jerked and jumped and leaped in frenetic frenzy.

Though a Ramasami, a man in black was not allowed inside. Leaning against a signal post outside, he lamented: ‘What good things our reverent Ramasami made and made possible this day… But for him, could we talk like this today? And, Mandhrasamis have become more powerful’.

Outside the decorated roof of the Convention some Spanish speeches could be heard, so some went in that direction. The Special Convener of the Ramasami Convention was giving a speech on how his fountain pen leaked and drenched his shirt. The crowd outside the tent turned delirious. In its midst, Counter-Culture Ramasami stood, while men circled all around him. Raising his hands to heavens, he said: ‘I am a fan of Umberto Ramasami. I have come here to listen to his speech. After he finishes I will leave at once. Please go away from here.’

When Umberto Ramasami was said to have come in his ‘Awaiting Rose-Tamil’ in some other’s name Counter-Culture Ramasami made a hasty retreat and left the place. Outside, a person was selling non-linear lollipops.

The memorandum of the Convention was read out. Resolutions were passed to the effect that Ramasamis, in order to stress their uniqueness, should wear dresses of a particular shade, that free bus-passes should be provided to Ramasamis, that Ramasamis should shun non-linear writings, that the residential areas where Ramasamis dwell should be renamed ‘Ramasamisthan’, and much more.

Many Ramasamis who disagreed with the memorandum discussed it near the Gandhi statue. Pavalakodi Ramasami spoke for more than four hours about his first-ever poem ‘Murugesan in the World of Fools’. The crowd wandered and dispersed. The moment discussion on the memorandum began, uproar ensued. With many staging a walk-out the Convention was postponed by half a day. That day, many Ramasamis left for Thirupathi and returned with tonsured heads. In the evening it was officially announced that the Convention of the Ramasamis was split into two owing to ideological differences.

There came to be two groups—the moderates and the radicals. Writers, political personalities, traders, poets, publishers, doctors, historical researches, copy-writers, health-officers and so on, everywhere the two divisions came to stay.

‘This ideological split, both vertical and horizontal, is a historical event!’, cried both Ramasami groups. A statue along the beach road stood stretching its finger, asking ‘Are you Ramasami?’. ‘Yes, yes’, swayed the heads as they walked past. That day, when this great historical phenomena of Tamil Nadu took place, the city of Madras suffered nature’s fury in the form of a storm. Convention tents became de-constructed and papers flew away. The next morning those who were not Ramasamis came, saw thousands of books and photographs of Ramasamis lying scattered all over the beach, and then dispersed.

1 an open-air stage on Marina beach, built in the 1970s and used by political parties, evangelical groups, and others. It was demolished in 2003.

2 He has hit the coast of mainland India a little too far north, in the state of Andhra Pradesh, just above Tamil Nadu.

3 a folk-dance from Tamil Nadu.

4 a popular kind of dance from South India, often performed for Hindu festivals.

5 a traditional South Indian sweet often used in festivals.

6 an upside-down, U-shaped canopy, supported on the lower ends by a wooden rod. The rod rests on the shoulders of the bearer, someone who has gone through strict abstinence to earn the right to bear the kavadi is in a southern Hindu religious festival.

HOW TO GET LOST?

HOW TO GET LOST?
translated from tamil - Sudha

Once while I was standing the banks of River Narmada, I came across this young lady who was stunned by the ferocious flow of the river and was running away from it screaming, No, no, like a child. Her fresh thali smeared with turmeric and her blushing cheeks were clearly revealing that she was a newly wed bride. With folded hands, she gaped at the flowing river, as though it were a ferocious animal running behind its prey. Her young husband was trying to drag her into the water. She kept repeating, I am scared, I am scared.

Fear This word was hidden within me since long. It stuck to me like a mole on my body. Each one of us carries different kinds of fear, as per our choice. Fear never ages.

As we are fed food, we are fed fear too! Fear has bloomed all over like a magical flower. Fears of many kinds, big and small, keep growing along with us. People who have vowed to overcome fear have just seen its foot prints and never faced it and won over it.

The only way to win over fear is to accept it and walk past. Some fears do vanish just as dry leaves wither away, as the days pass by. However, there is no man on this earth who has never had any kind of fear.

Childhood is the fertile period where fears germinate. Friendships are required to share fears. Most of the children exchange stories based on fears.

It is strange that the same cat that we see during the day can create fear in us during the night! I am also full of fears. One of them is that I may get lost. There were many reasons at home, for this fear. My uncle, who was an art teacher, once visited us, drew a peacock for my sister and returned, but never reached home. We have been looking for him till today.

Another uncle of mine was struck with amnesia after a road accident. After coming back from the hospital, one day we went out to buy vegetables but never returned home. In a family where people got lost like this, there is no wonder that everybody had the fear of getting lost.

I was lost once when I was just four years old. I had been to a fair when I visited my aunt and in the crowded fair, I kept gaping at the apple shaped balloon which was floating away from its string and never realised

when I lost touch with the hand which held me. Just as water gradually gets suck by sand, my aunt had been separated from me. The balloon kept going around above all the heads. Only when I banged myself against some people who were digging the sand on the river bank for drinking water and fell on the sand did I realise that I was alone.

I got up frightened and started looking for my aunt in the crowd. In the noise that the river was making, my voice was never heard. My legs were covered with sand, as I ran in the wet sand. How can I reach home? Where were all the people who came with me?

Fear started raising in an antâs space and gradually engulfed my entire self, leading to pain. Looked like I had forgotten everybody and everything. I could only cry and hence started wailing loudly.

I realised no weapon was as strong as crying to save us in this world. One person observed me crying loudly and he asked me, why are you crying?. I could not reply. I held his hands and cried incessantly. He bought me a water balloon. I reduced my volume.

He held my chin and gently asked me, why are you crying? I heaved as I could not talk and kept sobbing. I had no other language then. He started looking for my aunt, with me, all along the bank. My aunt was not to be seen. He asked me to sit on a sand mound below a palm and went to drink water from the river. One of my aunts neighbour just then was walking past me after filling the river water in a bucket.

The moment I saw her, I ran to her, calling out and held her legs. She carried me and asked, Arre! Where is your aunt? I had forgotten all words. I could not remember even a single word. She caressed me and gave some water to drink. I forcefully drank the water making noise. I felt the river made no noise now. She held my hand and led me into the crowded fair.

My aunt stood tired on a sand pit, with dishevelled hair and tense eyes, after searching for me all over. The moment she saw me, she hugged me and started crying out aloud. She cried till she felt comfortable. As I was returning home, I took out the water balloon from my pocket and started playing.

Everybody looked at me with wonder that night. They kept advising me as to how I should learn to tell my address, if I get lost and also started exchanging stories about how children were kidnapped for jewels or for beggary and sold in strange cities. Nobody bothered to ask me as to who got me that water balloon!

I kept wondering in the night, wont that man who had made me sit on the sand mound and gone to drink water look for me when he did not find me on coming back? Why did I return without telling him? Why did he buy me a water balloon? Would he have ever lost anybody? Whom should I approach for answers to these questions?

In my eighteenth year of age, I desired to get lost from my house. Then my house was scary to me. The rules of discipline, the control mechanisms and the limits of decency that were imposed at home had created a sort of fear in me. To escape from all this, I had devised a plan of fleeing away from home. One book inspired me for this peculiar desire. In his autobiographical book A vagabonds journey Rahulji had said, ˜the first step that a vagabond has to undertake is to get lost from his house.

Fleeing implies going away to an unknown place. I did not know where that meant! Finally I decided to leave a four worded chit reading, I am leaving home and go away to Kanyakumari, where I could decide about my further steps. It was late night when I reached Kanyakumari. I could not envisage the vastness of the ocean, even when I went close to it. I slept on the sands.

I kept thinking about my home town. People at home might start looking for me only in the morning. Where would they first go and search for me? I shaved my head just to ensure that nobody could place me immediately. I myself felt I looked like some stranger. Just to stay from the scorching heat of the sun, I rented a room at a lodge in a fake name and address and felt proud that I was a lost person.

Lying on the wooden cot of the lodge, I thought of Buddha, who had shunned his home. I had taken a book The Essence of Buddhato pass time during my journey. The Buddha smiled at me from the yellow cover page of that book.

I lay in that room, from where I could hear the roar of the waves and started reading the book. Buddha leaves his home after kissing his sleeping child. As I read, the scene of that night unfolded before me. My mind keeps wandering. Buddha never kissed anybody after that. He had given the last kiss from his lips to his child. All the kisses on Gowthamaâs lips froze into smiles.

I went off to sleep with Gowthamas book lying on my chest. All over the world, there are crowds of lost people roaming around without any direction. Now I am also one among them. I will roam this way and return home one day as a sailor or a saint or a adventurer. I may become a philosopher or a gambler. Due to unexpected fortune, I become stinking rich. Thus went on my imagination till night. I could not sleep that night. I started getting nightmares.

The next my purse was getting thinner as I loafed around Kanyakumari. I vacated the room and roamed around hungry in the hot sun. As I sat to meditate in the cool environ of the Vivekananda Meditation

Hall, I kept getting memories of my home and my sisters. I could imagine the happenings of my home, as though I was witnessing them in person. I could get the smell of brinjal fry! For now reason, the very idea of getting lost started raising fear and confusion in my mind. Slowly that fear engulfed me and I felt I had to get back home soon, lest I may never be able to return. I had spent all the money. I had no money even to get back home. I did not know whom to approach.

I kept waiting at the place where tourists coming to Kanyakumari alight for one whole day and night. I felt the ocean and the sound of the waves were mocking at me. I yearned that I could just hop into my home in second. After a long time, I felt like crying my heart out. I controlled myself with great difficulty and kept throwing up handful of sand in the air. Early in the morning,

I found the brown bus belonging to the English school of my home town, parked there. I was eagerly looking for some known face around. I spotted a teacher, whom I had seen a long time ago.
I folded my hands and told him that I had no money to go back home. He permitted me to get into the bus. The students were enjoying their trip making noise all the way. I spoke nothing.

When I reached home, my mom was cooking. As I silently entered the kitchen and stood near her, she continued her cooking, as though nothing had happened. I felt sad that nobody at home asked me anything.

My mom just served me a hot meal of rice and vegetables and went inside.
After nearly 4-5 days I had a sumptuous home meal. As I ate, tears came pouring out of my eyes and I could not eat even half of it. Getting lost is not an individuals issue alone. It is worse than an accident. Even now when I see urchins roaming around on streets all alone, my heart aches.

People who are living in strange places, strange countries, with different identities, without returning to their homes, are sorrowful souls.

If you meet any one of the above people, try staring at their eyes. The day they left their home, their town, their family will be sticking on their eyelids. Try talking to them. They will sound wordless. Move with them. They will reject your love. They can accept hatred but cannot bear love.

Reason getting lost is worse than death!

THE FROZEN SMILE ON THE ROCK

THE FROZEN SMILE ON THE ROCK

Where does a day drop down and vanish? On which floor is yesterday, which gave me so much of happiness and joy, lying? Can we gather the fallen days of our past just as we can sweep together and collect all the leaves that drop off a tree? One day is really a wonderful concept.

Who started measuring life in terms of days? The cave man did not measure life in days. To know day and night, he observed the environment around him and looked at the sky. His clock was made up of the earth and the sun.

As the earth revolves around the sun, the trees bloom, leaves wither, it rains and the stars keep moving away. This clock helped him bifurcate his life.

Even now there is a strange practice among an African tribe. One person keeps running around a village in a forest and time is measured by the number of rounds he makes. One person runs during the day while another runs through the night with a torch in his hand. This has been happening since generations. They fear if they stop running, the world will come to an end and hence they keep running!

When I think of days, I am reminded of the Puranic legend which says that the days will shrink when the world nears its end and there will be one long day. A destructive storm will rise with fury and the angry water will swallow everything. Just a single banyan leaf will float peacefully on this angry water. The peaceful banyan leaf is more attractive to me than the fury of the storm.

I have seen leaves
Dancing innovative dances in the breeze
Just as our lives;
Each time I hold a leaf
The dance alone hides somewhere!

This beautiful verse of Devadutt makes me feel the dance in which the world around us holds our hands and that unknown moment when our hands are let off. Only when we realise the value of a day, do we understand its length and breadth. Mere appearance does not denote the greatness of something. The snail, which is eager to cross the world with its tiny feet may look greater than the elephant. We love to lose ourselves in the ultimate peace of this great universe. You might have realised how even huge rocks lay suppressed like small seeds, as you travel by huge valleys.

Our loudest voice also gets subdued by the roar of a huge water fall. In front of this great universe, our heart shrinks and falls off gradually like a wet cloth falling off from the string.

I had once been to Shravanabelagola in Karnataka to watch the Mahamasthabhisheka celebrations of Lord Gomateshwara, also known as Bahubali, which is celebrated in a very grand manner, during one of the monsoons. Shravanabelagola is surrounded by small hillocks. The huge statue of Bahubali stands on one of the hillocks. It was raining all along with way. As we ascend the hillock in the wet cool breeze, we get a glimpse of Bahubali`s majestic nude figure with a peaceful face, light smile, huge feet, legs around which climbers have been sculpted. After heavy rains during the night, silence ruled all over the hillock. The station of Bahubali stood proof to the spread of Jainism in Karnataka thousands of years ago.

It was a cloudy day and just a handful of tourists were seen. As we sat before the idol, we saw the wet feet of the Lord. I closed my eyes. I felt peace filling my whole self in droplets, gradually. This feeling was much better than opening my eyes and viewing the huge figure. I opened my eyes and observed the leaves of the climbers around the legs. The leaves of the climber around his left leg looked like fresh green leaves, though they were mere lifeless sculpted leaves and stood still at that massive height.

Were they depicting our desire to attain total peace within our hearts, with no disturbances, whatsoever?

The Jains had contributed a lot to Tamil literature, in the form of epics, grammar and dictionaries, which are permanent assets. Jainism simplifies life. It preaches sharing of love and purity in life. What we experience in front of the great Bahubali is just absolute silence. Besides Sharavanabelagola, I have also climbed the eight Jain hillocks around Madurai. The beds of Jain saints and the schools that they established lie in ruins on those hillocks. The very word ˜Palli to mean school in Tamil, is a contribution of Jainism. The Tamil history says thousands of Jains lived on the hillocks and the caves around Madurai.

It is believed that Thiruthakka Devar staged his Seevagachintamani on the Perumal Hill near Madurai. There is another hill to the south of this hill. It is the Kizhakuyilkudi hill. There are Jain idols on this hillalso. I climbed this hill during one night. As we gradually ascend this hill, we can see the city of Madurai like a small patch. A huge banyan tree which is at the base now looks like small shrub. It was a bright night and the moonlight flowed upon all the rocks like clear water. We sat near the idol of a Thirthankara on the top of the hill. As the day broke, mild early morning sunrays started spreading on the hill. It seemed like the morn spread silently like the deep silence of Jainism. We went down the hill, as the second day extended.

I realise that as each day withers, it leaves behind its marks on our body, in the nature around us, in the river, breeze, sky and everywhere. A famous Zen line the grass is growing very well records that the grass keeps growing every second. Buddha too says the same thing as follows:
There is no place on this earth where things do not burn. Every thing in this world is being burnt by a fire which we cannot see and is nearing its destruction. Nothing on this earth is immortal. Everything struggles to survive. If you can see this hidden fire, you can realise the truth of the worldly acts.

The popular Malayalam writer Vaikom Mohammed Basheer had once said,
˜There are innumerable number of days in the treasury of Allah. He has graced me with more time than I actually require. He is very generous.

Each day is granted to you in the form of 24 coins. You start spending as you like. As we return home in the night, we have either spent or wasted or just let go the coins without purpose. As we wake up the next day, we again find those 24 coins and once again the game starts. I have not heard of any game which is so endless as this. Have you?

Translated from tamil by Sudha



THE DOLL SHOW S.Ramakrishnan.

THE DOLL SHOW S.Ramakrishnan.
Transaltion from Tamil Sudha.

If the cot is the garden where dreams bloom, can we equate the ground below it as the floor of the garden where these dreams lay scattered?

In homes with children, the space beneath the cot is normally used by the children like secret caves to hide themselves in a game of hide and seek or to hide articles, which seem to have been lost and searched for tirelessly. You must have definitely had the experience of finding a toddler for whom you have looked around the entire house in vain, finally sitting under the cot and secretly chewing a piece of paper!

The space beneath the cot in a house is like the floor of a deep ocean with full of secrets. Whenever one bends and looks under a cot, one definitely finds some article or the other. Sometime ago, when I went crawling under the cot looking for my missing key bunch, I found a doll deserted by a kid after he was tired playing with it.

The beheaded torso of the doll must have been lying there for quite some time. Its light yellow rubber body seemed to have shrunk. Though it was just a doll, the beheaded torso disturbed me. The fact that it happened to be a female torso increased my sorrow.

I remembered how that bright yellow doll looked when it was bought newly with silky soft hair neatly combed into two plaits, pink skirt and dotted brown top and glassy eyes. The boy would drag it along wherever he went. It ate, slept and chatted with him. I remember how on many nights, when I gently pulled out the doll from his clutches, after he slept, he would suddenly wake up and start crying. Many a time when he fussed to eat, we have baited him with the doll and fed him. He would believe that the doll might eat his food and keep staring at its eyes.

I remember a scene from movie The Last Emperor The last heir prince of the China works as a labourer in his own palace after having lost his country, palace and all the wealth. He would be explaining the history of the palace to the tourists visiting the palace. When the tourists enquire, œhow come you know all this, he replies, I was the prince of this palace The kids among the tourists do not believe this.

To prove his point to them, he looks around for a doll, which he had hidden in his childhood and shows it to them. That is the only proof of his having been the crown prince. Maybe only a few toys are the remains of each one childhood!

How come a doll, which shared so many, hugs and kisses got beheaded and thrown? When I brought the headless doll and showed it to my son, he pulled his eyes away from the cartoon channel for a second, looked at the doll with full of distaste and said, junk. Throw it out daddy and got into Papaye show once again.

Does this headless doll prove that once desire dies down, what is left over is just disrespect? Is it the fault of the doll not to have grown along with him? Where is its head?

Every house has its own corner, which cannot be cleaned up. Maybe in the kitchen or near the bathroom or under the staircase, wherever this corner is, lot of articles remain dumped after people are tired of using them. I started looking for the dolls head in such a corner. I found many things but not the head. I emptied gunny bags and rummaged through the stuff. I found the head of another doll. Its body was missing. When I tried matching that head with the torso I had in my hand, it looked terrible.

Suddenly I was reminded of the Kalinga battlefield. I started imagining how a mother would have gone searching for her son`s body among those beheaded bodies. Heads and torsos lie scattered all over. It is not clear as to which head belongs to which body. Among so many heads, which is her son`s? The mother`s hands turn over bodies and heads mutilated beyond recognition and lying in a pool of blood and flesh.

All corpses look alike. That increases her sorrow. Have the enemies taken away the head? Can there be any worse violence than taking back mutilated heads as a gift from the battlefield? Vultures and vampires are waiting on the trees to feast on the dead bodies. How many heads have been cut in the battle? How many headless bodies are lying there?

Though I was looking for just a doll`s head, my mind is restless. I remembered the beloved who demanded as gift, the head of Yahova on a plate. Cut heads have their own history. My mind bangs against thousands of lines from various books and echoes Thomas Mann`s novel and
the exchange of Vikramadityaâ`s head with that of Patti; the story of Lord Parasuram, who beheaded his mother to obey his father; the description of a Gillett used to behead people in Dostoveski`s novel Idiot and so on.

My son, who returned from the playground looked at me, went into one of the inner rooms, brought the soaked head of the doll and handed it over to me. How do only children know where to find lost items? The doll had lost its eyebrows. The hair is dripping. Must have been lying in water for many days.

Mud and water adorn the head and the scalp was exposed in many places because lot of hair had fallen off. The soft hair has lost its colour and is fully knotted. Where was it? I asked. It was lying in one of the flower pots. So replying, he went looking for the remote control. Since it was lying in mud along with a plant, its face was red and muddy.

I thought of fixing the head with the body but it refused to match. The head had expanded and hence refuses to fit into the neck. I looked helplessly at the head and the body. My son, who entered the room to switch on the light, plucked the doll from my hand and went out. After a few minutes, I heard him call me. When I went out and saw, he had filled the rubber body with mud and planted a small sapling in it. Look daddy, a new head has grown for the doll, said he laughing. Young green leaves were waving in the breeze.

The doll stood along with the other pots. I enquired about its cut head. He showed the street. The head lay still among the plastic garbage. I could not bear to see that and turned away. Does the mere fact that blood does not flow in a doll`s body make it a doll? Do you like the song

`You are a doll, I am a doll; think over and all are dolls`, sung by Jesudas
That was the day I started liking that song!

Writings of s.ramakrishnan tamil writer

Short story collections

1) veliyil oruvan
2) katin oruvam
3) Thavarangalin uraiyadal
4)Veelaikonduvarrungal
5)Palya nathi
6) Nadanthu sellum neerutru
7) pathinettam nootrandin mazhai

Novels

1) Upa pandavam
2) Nedumkuruthi
3) urupasi
4) Yamam

Non - Ficition

1) Dhunaiezhuthu
2) Kathavilasam
3) vakkiyankalin salai
4) desandhiri
5) ellaikalai veyakkum maram
6)Eppothum irrukum kathai

Cinema

1)World cinema
2) Pather panchali
3) Ayal cinema

Children Books

1) Ezhuthalai nagaram
2) kirukiruvanam
3)Kaal mulaitha kathaigal