Ann's Blog: Ann's Blog

Ann's Blog: Ann's Blog

BHARATHI

BHARATHI
Bharathi the daughter of Bharat
The fragile palm of your right hand
Clutched on the window frame rod
Tightly for the fear to be taken off
By the tides that took away with it
Dearest of dears to you and many like you
Father, mother, brother, sister and entire dear
Taken away to make orphans to wail alone
Entire life with tearful memoirs to avail

We look at your eyes that glow
Hopefully to rear you to be normal
See the furious sea in them raging
With tears and fears wavering filled
What are there to fear my dear when
We are there with you to share and bear?
Hopes and whoops of you reveal real
Like the calmness of sea that ceded
Come to the calmness of your mind

Accept the fate and recede to believe
Your life that need to be heaved among
Hearts of kindness extended to you
Rely on almighty, He safeguards you
Remember Bharathi, tsunami made a plan
For Bharathi’s sisters and brothers to join
Under the roof of one home of love.
One father and one mother you had
But Tsunami gave you lot of them now

God has plans on you to be accomplished
Lot of them as your parents wished
You are to accomplish them bravely
We are to accompany you to move on
You are our dear daughter in love
Catch our hands and hold your hopes
Let us move forward to a brighter world
Let us start, let us move, and let us rove
Relieve and recover from fear and tear to revive

ANNIE JOSEPH
Inspired by a photo clipping in Indian Express during the Tsunami disaster in India.
This I am posting now for Dhanya in reply to her post “Orphaned” in the blog Ruminations.

THE ARCHITECT

Mores, images, carvings, monuments
He creates of people great, of things
beautiful and precious to preserve
Value of it he evaluates himself as own

Look at them each in perfection
To admire, adore and possess
Unique to unite people too curious
to identify the architect to admire
Who is he, where from, enquiries
of fans , to launch vans of vanity
creator of images, envisages images
in brains of world in his own envision

“As it is viewed it is believed,
As it is believed it is viewed to be”
Two elevations of same design
Credence on imagination is imperfect
Than belief after better and utter vision
To be preferred or referred as desired

Go on creating imaginations of designs
Architect the smart to create cavern
Walk a long way to turn back, speculate,
Architectures of mine are vivid to view
Who is my architect? Who am I?
Where am I? Why am I here?

Powerless to imagine own image
Walks back architect in search of origin
Looks at his own creations to resemble
Stumble on the factor of similitude
Ensemble own image in creator greatest
Accomplish solace in Creator of creators
His own image in His creations absolutely
To perform perfect as he is just and right

ANNIE JOSEPH

SMILE

Seasons and persons bring smile
Reason and response turn to smile
The day made me write this smile
Brainy and brownie smile alike
On a fool’s day that is foolproof

Pretty is the smile while seen
Jasmine buds in two rows
Like pearls between two petals
Pink or dark and bright of rose
Happy when human mind erstwhile

Soak the sorrows while asleep
Smoke of death is the sorrow
Sprout the smile when awake
Because smile is substance
Lead us to success in life

Blissful smile of care on lips fair
Rear them, bear and walk a mile
Child of rude or wild that heir
Nurture its smirk straight within
Splurge the life in smile as one

If a spark of fire ignite to flame
A sparkling smile lighten the blame
Making in life a long memory
In mind and kind to carry along
To light the spark of life in time

Contact causes smile of positive
Confidence is the virtue born
Smile of shy or smile of fail
Smile of victory or smile in history
A smile changes lives in impact

A word of soothe is sole enough
To burn high or blow the glow to low
Catch up those precious words, friends
The words of love that ignite act
Striking smile to glisten lives to life


A loving word, a soothing concern
Each other a gist of smile gorgeous
Be cautious to share it out
Be cautious not to blow it out
The smile of delight of you and me


ANNIE JOSEPH

A POETIC VILLAGE

While posting this , I remember, poet and politician Late Shri Kadamanitta Ramakrishnan and the lavish sadya in the plantain leaf which he arranged specifically for me and my husband when we visited his place to write this article .

Pathanamthitta is the spiritual capital of God’s own country. This fast developing Southern district of Kerala with hillocks and valleys is rich in pilgrimage and rural tourism. Small waterfalls like white threads hanging between the huge black rocks are a breath taking scene. River Perumthenaruvi and its banks are gorgeous other than River Pamba, where the pilgrims to Sabarimala have a dip before entering the Ayyappa temple. “Vasthuvidya Gurukulam” a centre for consultancy and training in traditional architecture is another charm of this district.It’s a new ideal village sculptured in the harmony of nature and life and that is the Poetry and Sculpture Village of Kadamanitta. “Hey Traveller, stop for a minute here, tell me, do you recognize this approach?” These are the lines carved at the entrance of the village. It is not a scenic rural village, but a sculptural groove in Kadamanitta, the birthplace of the great Malayalam poet Kadamanitta Ramakrishnan. An idea, a word or an image is expressed as a sort of natural life of the inhabitants of Kadamanitta in his poems “Kadamanittayude Kavithakal” (poems of Kadamanitta). The ‘poet MLA’ as he is popularly known, sculptures the characteristic images of his poems into a village. When poet Kadamanitta Ramakrishnan’s poetry ensembled with the creative talent of Prof. K.P. Soman, the contemporary Delhi based sculptor who teaches sculpturing in various schools and colleges of fine arts and is the visiting professor of the renowned Fine Arts College of Baroda, a separate form of world-class art took shape and the result is the creation of this Poetry and Sculpture Village. Poetry transformed into sculpture testifies that when the talent of both the poet and sculptor come in to effect simultaneously, two forms of art, creations of different origins have become inseparable and intensive alike in a Sculpture Village. Rage, fear, dilemma, sorrow, happiness and serenity of life and its natural existence are the icons. As we step inside, we feel like playing hide and seek inside the hub of a typical civilization and culture. “Yes, it is the original life and nature of Kerala villages as a whole depicted in the form of sculptures” says the poet. The sculpture of Patayani, a ritual art of Kadmanitta village which is a celebration of ten days, depicts the unity and unanimity of the people of Kadamanitta. The approach to inherit poetry is something very new here, that is sculpturing of poetry in a village, as a village, and an open theatre. The anecdotes, a stanza or a verse carved near or on the statues are valuable and thought provoking literature which imparts a first hand knowledge of Kerala culture itself. Once we are in the middle of the sculptures, we will be in a frenzy to decide as to where to stand to photograph them lively with the themes and characters involved in each of the work. Each figure seems to be like the places, people and other inhabitants of earth we perceive in our day to day life as well. The Sculpture of a hen represents his poem “Kozhi” (Hen) where the agony of a cohabitant of man, even a bird, when it separates from its young one advises it ‘your life is your own business, you have to go away from me.’ The most judicious concept of independence is communicated through these verses. “Kurathi” is his poem characterized by the sculpture of a member of the downtrodden caste of Kerala. The ‘Kurathi’ as she is called here, voices the rage and sorrow of her community against their oppression by the upper class people. A youth holding a pen like a glowing torch looks towards the tiled roof of Kadamanitta Higher Secondary School, which is visible from the sculptural village. Perhaps it may be poet’s vision to inspire the youngsters to march forward for an educated life. Thus the sculpture village as a poetic icon is a novel and historic approach imparted as a heritage to the generations to come. These idols must inspire traveller cum travel writers who visit the place to carry with them messages of hope for a better future to the world. Sculpture of mating snakes, crippling children, flying birds, lagging old people etc. add to the naturalistic approach to the art. Travellers to Kerala will be at an irretrievable loss if they miss seeing this sculpture village – a novel and historic assimilation of culture and tradition of this state of India. A visit to the place is worth memorizing in recognition of a precious tribute from the great poet, artist, politician and activist, to the human race. Is poetry blooming in your mind and versed out from your lips as you step out of this village? ••.

Note:This is one of my articles published in a Tourism Magazine. There are several with me like this. Any takers?

REPENTANT MEMORY OF AN ONAM

Yesterday being ‘Onam ‘ festival day my loved one was recollecting her childhood days’ onams in Bangalore and Thiruvananthapuram. Going to local temple with her friends wearing new dress after a lavish bath, playing thiruvathira wearing the bath towel, duppatta etc. as the set mundu , all such stuff we shared and laughed at ourselves. Nostalgia evaded her on the previous day itself and she took off from College on onam day. A three member family, father at Trivandrum, we in Bangalore, she had to celebrate her onam this time by watching two movies , thanks to Asianet and contacting her friends in mobile and internet. I was busy in office. We made a small sadya . Payasam I didn’t plan because nobody to take. Pappadam in hurry worry I forgot to fry.


Somewhere in my heart an ache started in the evening when she asked me to narrate the onam celebrations of my childhood. But I could tell her proudly that my childhood onams and youthful onams were celebrated in the same way we celebrated your childhood onams. “Now the case is different for both of us. So let us forget it.” I said . She was not to leave me and wanted to know about my school days, half of which she heard from my cousin of my same age studied in same school.. I narrated the way boys used to play the out door game of gambling with cashew nuts instead of cards. As a child viewing such games was my hobby. Once I was hit by the stone indented to hit the cashew nuts in the pit. My forehead got injured. Blood fell on my yellow silk frock, which was considered to be very costly dress those times. One of the teachers washed my wound and frock and made me sit in the class wearing only underwear covering my chest and back by the jute school bags of another two students, held by them sitting my both sides. This is when I was in first standard. She wonders and laughs a lot without understanding the circumstances this happened. Those days the upper caste girls were supposed to cover the full part of their body with good dresses whereas under castes were left to their choice to cover or not to cover. In order to uphold the custom without fail for a couple of hours until the frock is dried in the sun, the teacher made such an adjustment in the case of a 5 year old. That was the kind of moral support we used to get those times. Nuns we used to call adding amma with their names. There were pettirikshamma
( Sr. Patricia) , Rotticossamma( still I don’t know her original name), Placeamma
( Sr.Bless/Blaze), Lusiferamma( Sr.Lucina)etc. Though we got a good education there, they used to reprimand us more severely than other children, because my maternal uncle was a well known communist activist of EMS’s time. A small stream which was to be crossed on the way to school looked like a river for me those days. Me, my siblings and cousins were a group of 10 members from one house to same school. Grandma used to accompany us from home with a stick in her hand to handle the lazy ones. She holds our hand and make each one of us cross the stream after the paddy fields . She was so keen to save from drenching our dress especially. From there we go our own and she goes back home to bring break fast for the labours in the field. By evening she comes up to the stream, make us cross the stream and stays in the field until the labours finish the day’s work. As our grandfather died in her youth, grandma became a very strong woman of those times and used to manage all outside works attached to the land and people of the house while her two sons managed the business. Starting days of schooling, each one of us were unhappy to leave home . I am the one who was most fuzzy. Fear to cross the stream was my pretext to bunk school when grandma is not free. Eldest cousin brother takes charge of grandma in such occasions and his beatings, I still remember, with the same stick grandma used. It resembled the way a shepherd take the lambs to graze. The taste of the very tender paddy inside the bud he plucks and give us on the way is also unforgettable. By the reaping time there will not be paddy on the plants near to the both sides of the small bunds we used as foot path. There were no facilities of communication like present time, but interaction was far open and better. Now how easy it is? But how sophisticated it has become?. Adjust children! Adjust! What else I can tell you. We also feel suffocated. Dear daughtoo, the single girl child, when I restrict your freedom as the situation calls for it, I remember the innocent way we used to enjoy the same freedom that I restrict to you now. I am not protesting, but protecting you by that, because I know prevention is better than cure.

Thus another onam is over leaving the reminiscences of suffocating repentance. No one is happy as much as they deserve to be happy. But all are satisfied within the available satisfaction level. After all and at the least, all are equals on onam day, isn’t it?