“The notion that ‘poets are born’ is dead and gone. Inspiration, creativity and talent have become misnomers as far as poetry is concerned. The saying now is ‘poets are made’. Yes. Poets are made, not by any intensive study of the masters of that art, but by the all powerful Lord MONEY.”
(‘If you have got the money they will make you a poet’)
“It is said that wise men read books but only the fools buy them. Beware! There are many wise men around.”
(‘Book Snatchers’)
“I will show you fear in a handful of dust,” wrote T.S. Eliot. But what the Christian poet could show in a handful, Hindus could with just a pinch of ash. All that one has to do is to go to a temple and stretch one’s palm before the poojari.”
(“Fear freezes up the heart of life’)
“While the conditions of women are changing all over the world, nothing dramatic has happened to Indian women. Blamed be our culture.”
(‘Women’s Lib. and the Indian psyche’)
“I have seen my father shouting at my mother whenever he found in his food a long hair immaterial of its ownership. It took days for my mother to cool down. I too have shouted at my wife for that same flimsy reason and got back nicely when the hair was a small one. What we say to others matters little while what really matters is how we say it. This is applicable to all those who care for human relationship and want to establish a pleasant form of rapport with others.”
(‘Small Things Matter’)
‘Female mosquitoes are real vampires. None can escape their wrath-filled tiny needle like sucker. Many of these winged vampires get killed when we are awake. And when we are asleep they administer slow poison to us. Without our knowledge we barter away a few c.c. of our precious blood for the wide variety of diseases they hawk. And that happens almost every night. The only consolation the scientists offer (let us have faith in them) is that the mosquitoes do not have AIDS for sale. Praised by Allah, Jesus and the Hindu Trinity.”
(‘Mosquitoes are thankless creatures’)
These are some quotes from P.Raja’s essays and the readers could assess the vibrant feelings of the author about which Professor R.K.Singh writes, “P. Raja writes with experience. He is motivated by the inner need to live more deeply and fully, and with greater awareness to know the experience of others and to better his own experience. He shares with readers his observations and evaluations, and thus, creates new experiences for them, well-formed and focused, imparting a better understanding of our world.”
P. Raja is a known profile for IWE readers and has published articles,short stories,poems,interviews,one act plays,reviews,skits and featuresin more than 300 newspapers and magazines, both India and abroad.He is also a script writer for All India Radio (Pondicherry & Karaikal)) and Doordarshan (Delhi). He has contributed special articles to Encyclopaedia of Post-colonial Literatures in English [London], Encyclopaedia of Tamil literature in English and several edited volumes. He is also a regular contributor to The Hindu, The New Indian Express & The Statesman.
He belongs to Sarojini Naidu’s family and now he resides at D 88, Poincare Street, Olandai Keerapalayam of Pondicherry with his family. Busy Bee Books is his publishing house, established and managed by his wife Periyanayaki
Periyanayaki was his constant inspiration and she is the woman behind writer’s success.The writer married her when he was twenty three.P.Raja and Periyanayaki have three children. 
Their first son is Raghu , an M.A., M.Phil in English. After a short stint in a local college as lecturer he chose to become a copy-editor in an e-publishing house in Pondicherry. He is also a writer and regularly contributes to newspapers. He is married to his colleague Niranjana. They have a daughter Ranjeetha, two years old.
Author’s second son Rajni is M.S. in Agro-Economics. He works for Novpo Scotia bank, Toranto as Risk Analyst. He is married to his classmate Jothi and now they are settled in British Canada.
The writer’s third child is a daughter. She is Radhika Devi. She has completed her MCS degree and is hunting for a job. she is very fast on the computer keyboard and so she is of great help to the writer in his writing career.
She is Ranjeetha , a living doll for P.Raja and Periyanayaki
SELECTED POEMS OF P. RAJA
13 DIFFERENT WAYS OF LOOKING AT BREASTS
NOT YET MANHANDLED
Good grenadiers
at attention.
Spiked helmets –
spikes standing up
like pointed thimbles.
Juicy jugs and
mammoth melons
topped with a straw
awaiting thirsty lips.
Two globes –
the seats of drunken pleasure
headed with
two rich round rubies –
a feast for the unwearied eyes.
Upturned goblets
holding wine of life
solidified,
ready to melt
at the touch of magic wands.
Two sullen officers
blocking the passage
to a woman’s heart –
an ocean of mystery.
Soft buxom pillows
for the dizzy head
to rest.
Wonder fruit
from the Hanging Garden of Babylon
not edible, yet tasty.
Fair hills with a narrow gap
where little Raja takes his nap,
when mystic masseur gives him a rap
O! see the hills are full of zap.
Tempting round bubbies
heaving with delight
provoke a sensation
too killing to bear.
Oh, those two black bees
resting on those shapely mounds!
What are they up to?
The Hill of Dreams
on which manly eyes –
both young and old –
rest riveted and let
the mind roll in fantasies.
Restless companions
vying with each other
to feel men’s pulses
only to set them aflame.
A Book of Twins
with layers and layers of
mystic meanings
only to be read
on a cosy bed.
***
TEA WITH BELLES
Over plum cakes and black coffee
I chit chat with
well chiselled Italian belles
about
promiscuity in a permissive society.
My mediating poet-wife
charmingly dressed for the occasion
enlivens the situation
amidst a cloud of tobacco smoke.
“Marriage and children
may find no place
in the 21st Century
Italian Dictionary,”
says a belle
lighting a third cigarette
while the other two stubs
still smoulder in the glass ashtray.
“On a par with gays!”
I chortle and proceed to add,
“What will happen to Italy
in the next century?
That’s my only worry now”.
“Hei! Come on, yar!
We Indians
will easily compensate their loss,”
coos my writer wife across the table.
A discussion on ‘Italian Courtesy’
starts with a bang
but ends with a chuckle.
“Is that why
you like to visit Italy?”
giggles the passive smoking belle
admiring her own proud breasts.
Women rarely guffaw.
But Italian women do.
Their gleaming teeth
overshadow
the flashing light
of the clicking camera.
My poet wife holds her temples.
Smoke affects her sinuses.
Amidst the rattling
of cups and teaspoons,
the maid cleans up
the oval dining table.
***
THEORY OF RELATIVITY
On the left wing
of your comely nose
snugly sits that golden dot.
The winking gem inlaid
beckons my pounding heart
leaving my head reel
with the poser
whether by your nose
the gem is graced, or
by the gem
your nose is graced.
***
YOUR NOSE
Your well chiselled nose
impressed me as my eyes
buzzed over your physique
in full bloom.
The Divine Shaper, I know,
is a moody fellow.
Badly shaped noses
betray His bad moods.
I know for certain that
an impressive nose as yours
is loved by the air too it breathes –
the life energy that supports
every nerve, bone and hair too.
I for one believe that
a lovely nose speaks
for all its dependants.
The nose in its proper shape,
then everything else in their proper places.
***
AT CLOSE QUARTERS
Do not come so close to me, O beauty!
if you want me to lend you my ears.
At close quarters,
my inquisitive eyes,
as if propelled by a sensor,
start roving around you.
Your ivory teeth vie with
the splendour and radiance of your skin.
Your wavy, shiny black hair
puts black velvet to shame.
Your doe eyes and quivering brows
teach me lessons in love.
Your beaming face with that cute little nose
casts a spell and muffles my words.
Don’t you know now, my doe, my dove,
why I go dumb and deaf
when you want me to speak to you
or listen to your whispering voice?
***
THE WOMAN BEHIND
(July 17, 2002)
Small was my world.
It dawned on me this day
that the world is wide.
You are the dawn.
I was on all fours.
The helping hand came.
Now I am determined
to stand on my feet.
The hand is yours.
The struggle was long
to know myself.
Now I know who I am.
You are the discoverer.
I was only half a man.
Now I see myself neatly clothed.
I’m in love with myself.
You tailored my clothes.
“A somebody out of a nobody,”
Your sincere wishes for my future.
Behind my sure success
You’ll be the woman.
***
A JOURNALIST’S LIFE
To make both ends meet
I work like the minute hand
Running after
the sluggish hour hand,
all to increase
my bank balance,
only to feed the mouths
I brought on myself.
I cringe before my speeding clock.
Deadlines have to be met.
The clock is sympathetic
but not always.
Insults have to be stomached.
Tension mounts,
callously gobbling up
my pathetically earned time
without any qualms.
Your feathery touch,
your energizing kiss,
your warm hug,
your affectionate look,
your enticing smile –
Oh, they put my tension to flight!
You know, my angel!
I would have gone mad,
had I not found you
at this half spent hour of my life.
***
PARADISE LOST
The greasy alien cap
between you and me
curtails the pleasure
of our stolen moments.
Stolen fruits are sweeter.
Trespassing is real thrill.
It’s fun to enter
a forbidden land
especially with no slipper on.
To merge with the land
is to feel its vibration.
Cap and slipper
are symbols of precaution,
artificial though.
Yet they deny us of
the boon the nature
has in store for us.
With them on, it is Paradise Lost.
***
EMBEDDED
Of late, I’ve stopped
squeezing my eyes.
Motes are born trouble-makers,
an embodiment of mischief.
Yet I’ll not squeeze my eyes.
Let streaming tears
wash them away.
I’ve become blind
to what others see,
for all that I have
in my eyes is your image.
***
TO LIVE IN HIGH LOVE
Cover me, my sweet heart,
with all your love,
and let us wing our way
to lands forlorn.
There we shall walk hand in hand
on the shores of ever active sea,
and sing melodious notes
that no maestro ever dared to play.
There you shall pluck fruits
standing on my willing shoulders,
and together we shall dig up roots.
Rain shall be our nourishing drink.
Under greenwood trees we shall bed,
to count every tiny mole and bulging wart
and grace all with our roving lips,
before we dovetail in a tight embrace.
There, my love, we shall forget forever
the green eyed society we left behind
and live merrily in high love till
cruel Death lays his icy hands on us.
***
A LONELY MAN FORESEES HIS DEATH
Cheated by the near
and the dear ones
of all kinds of love,
this uncared for
love-crazy lonely man
felt his long and cold days
weighing heavily on him.
Has his life’s journey
come to a close?
Is his sojourn on Planet Earth
a waste of breath?
When such posers began
eating into him,
a lady kind to the core,
came into his life,
with soothing balm in her eyes
and comforting oil in her lips.
The man and the woman
drove their loneliness
by unburdening themselves
of their ill-fated past
to rejuvenate their present.
Is not life worth living
if only the trauma
of the past gets
submerged in the
Ocean of Amnesia?
The deserts of their lives bloomed.
Music of buzzing bees
and humming birds returned.
Fear, perhaps fear of the unknown,
gripping the unhappily-happy woman,
she brought back into her life
the Sadist who once made a fool of her,
all to save herself
from slander and ignominy.
What bush can hold
two robins?
What scabbard can hold
two swords?
Will the lonely man
be left to his loneliness again?
Will the woman
whom he considers Heaven sent
prove to be a bird of passage?
The day she leaves him
will be the day of his funeral.
***
SWEET FIFTY
Can there ever be a present
more precious than
the invaluable fifty
you magnanimously planted
on the vital parts of my anatomy,
all in celebration
of the fifty miles
I’ve traversed in my life
filled with deserts and thorns,
now transformed
into a garden of Eden
by your magic lips?
Ah! Will fifty million sovereigns of gold
ever equal one of the fifty
you’ve showered on me
with all your love?
Or will fifty thousand women
ever show the affection
you’ve poured on me
with all your heart?
Or will the innumerable varieties
from your expert cuisine
ever be able to satisfy
my insatiable heart
the way your sweet fifty
went tingling down
to make it whisper
‘Ah! It’ll last for a life-time’.
***
ON LOOKING AT A PAINTING BY SEEMA DEVI
Surely you’re waiting
Oh, you faceless young man
Of robust build!
Who’ll wait in this wilderness
But a lover crazy to the core
Anxious about his beloved’s arrival.
I know, you gleefully feel her breast
In the lotus bud that you hold
And unite yourself with her
In the leaf that sits cutely
On your eager lap.
Oh, how I love to see your
Hair hidden face brighten up
And watch your love-laden soul
In your glee filled eyes!
Ah! Who’ll do that for me?
Will it be your beloved
Making you wait so long
For reasons known only to her stars?
Or will it be your Brahma, Seema Devi,
By sending a whiff of fresh air
To this breezeless wild?
***
WOMAN POWER
Without you, my man,
O my identity card!
mine would have been
a vegetable life.
I would not have ever known
the errands of wifehood
had you not
spared me a rib!
I would not have ever known
I am fertile
had you not tilled
my virgin land!
I would not have ever known
the pleasures of motherhood
had you not made my sleepy womb
throb with life!
I adore you, my man,
for guiding me
from one stage to another
enhancing my identity every time.
For divulging my woman power
O my man!
I will forever remain
your prized possession.
***
DISTURBED FLOWERS
I had never seen them there before.
Those engaging flowers afar.
They must have been buds yesterday.
But I saw no bud there.
I knew for certain that
Crotons never took pains to bear flowers.
Yet I saw them there now.
Was there a plant ever blessed
With such flowers? –
Flowers of different sizes
That challenged the hues of the rainbow.
Amazed beyond amazement
I moved to have a closer look.
Alas! The disturbed flowers
Took to their wings.
***
COLD STEEL
It saw its death in my eyes
And hell in the cold steel I held.
The poor partridge in chains.
Fluttering its clipped wings
It struggled in vain
For a freedom of flight.
It prayed in a breath purer than rain.
The holy god in his great goodness
Played deaf.
I mumbled a hurried prayer
Before the eager steel could lick
The blood of the helpless bird.
The holy god in his great fear
Heeded mine. Oh, who will not
In the presence of cold steel?
But I heard Him whisper thus:
“Claws – needle sharp – can’t pierce
A heart cold as his steel.”
***
THE TRAITOR
He had never heard
Such music before –
A music so enthralling and sweet.
What power in those clinking discs!
Dreaming of his good fortune
He strode. Cheerfully they jingled
As the wallet at his belt
Swayed with each step.
What use!...What use
Should he make of them?
Those thirty pieces of winking silver
Must be a Heaven’s worth.
Should he buy
The honeyed lips of a harlot
Or the century-old casks of wine
To wash his lips of sin?
His head was thronged with ideas.
His heart, like an army in rout,
Raced in blinding darkness.
At the tunnel’s end he saw Light.
He found solace in a piece of rope.
The all-powerful discs laughed
With their eyes at the heavy heart
Of the dangling Judas Iscariot.
***
A BALANCE LOST
The clock died of a heart attack
at 8.50 a.m. on January 26, 2001.
The chicken hearted clock
took the great leap,
before the citizens of Bhuj
could make a guess:
Did Mother Earth lose her balance?
Or did she heave a sigh?
Then there was no one to answer.
Blessed are the buried dead
for they have no tears to wipe.
Think of the maimed.
Think of the bruised.
Think of the orphaned,
the destitute and the damned.
Around them only grief and anguish,
loss and destruction.
No amount of aid
from reincarnated Karnas,
no words of consolation
from the wise and the revered,
no holy man with all his
miraculous powers mustered up,
could ever barricade
the cascading tears of the fated to live
or bring back the dead mother
to her surviving suckling.
Time never stands still.
And the Earth has to move.
***
MY FANS
They are veritably my fans
Though
They never proclaimed themselves so.
From cover to cover
They have gone through a pile of books
All authored by me,
And they were glad enough
To leave their impressions
On every page.
“O” is the grade
They have generously marked
Systematically and without a break
On all pages.
“O” in academic circles
Represents “Outstanding”.
Oh! What a great writer I am!
Don’t my fans, the worms,
Tell me that my books
Are worthy enough
To be chewed and digested?
What is fame if not this?
***
CIGARETTE
A submissive white woman
graciously ready
for immolation
any time,
any place,
braving any weather,
all for the kiss of
manly lips and
a ruffian touch.
***
Their first son is Raghu , an M.A., M.Phil in English. After a short stint in a local college as lecturer he chose to become a copy-editor in an e-publishing house in Pondicherry. He is also a writer and regularly contributes to newspapers. He is married to his colleague Niranjana. They have a daughter Ranjeetha, two years old.
Author’s second son Rajni is M.S. in Agro-Economics. He works for Novpo Scotia bank, Toranto as Risk Analyst. He is married to his classmate Jothi and now they are settled in British Canada. The writer’s third child is a daughter. She is Radhika Devi. She has completed her MCS degree and is hunting for a job. she is very fast on the computer keyboard and so she is of great help to the writer in his writing career. She is Ranjeetha , a living doll for P.Raja and Periyanayaki SELECTED POEMS OF P. RAJA
13 DIFFERENT WAYS OF LOOKING AT BREASTS
NOT YET MANHANDLED
Good grenadiers
at attention.
Spiked helmets –
spikes standing up
like pointed thimbles.
Juicy jugs and
mammoth melons
topped with a straw
awaiting thirsty lips.
Two globes –
the seats of drunken pleasure
headed with
two rich round rubies –
a feast for the unwearied eyes.
Upturned goblets
holding wine of life
solidified,
ready to melt
at the touch of magic wands.
Two sullen officers
blocking the passage
to a woman’s heart –
an ocean of mystery.
Soft buxom pillows
for the dizzy head
to rest.
Wonder fruit
from the Hanging Garden of Babylon
not edible, yet tasty.
Fair hills with a narrow gap
where little Raja takes his nap,
when mystic masseur gives him a rap
O! see the hills are full of zap.
Tempting round bubbies
heaving with delight
provoke a sensation
too killing to bear.
Oh, those two black bees
resting on those shapely mounds!
What are they up to?
The Hill of Dreams
on which manly eyes –
both young and old –
rest riveted and let
the mind roll in fantasies.
Restless companions
vying with each other
to feel men’s pulses
only to set them aflame.
A Book of Twins
with layers and layers of
mystic meanings
only to be read
on a cosy bed.
***
TEA WITH BELLES
Over plum cakes and black coffee
I chit chat with
well chiselled Italian belles
about
promiscuity in a permissive society.
My mediating poet-wife
charmingly dressed for the occasion
enlivens the situation
amidst a cloud of tobacco smoke.
“Marriage and children
may find no place
in the 21st Century
Italian Dictionary,”
says a belle
lighting a third cigarette
while the other two stubs
still smoulder in the glass ashtray.
“On a par with gays!”
I chortle and proceed to add,
“What will happen to Italy
in the next century?
That’s my only worry now”.
“Hei! Come on, yar!
We Indians
will easily compensate their loss,”
coos my writer wife across the table.
A discussion on ‘Italian Courtesy’
starts with a bang
but ends with a chuckle.
“Is that why
you like to visit Italy?”
giggles the passive smoking belle
admiring her own proud breasts.
Women rarely guffaw.
But Italian women do.
Their gleaming teeth
overshadow
the flashing light
of the clicking camera.
My poet wife holds her temples.
Smoke affects her sinuses.
Amidst the rattling
of cups and teaspoons,
the maid cleans up
the oval dining table.
***
THEORY OF RELATIVITY
On the left wing
of your comely nose
snugly sits that golden dot.
The winking gem inlaid
beckons my pounding heart
leaving my head reel
with the poser
whether by your nose
the gem is graced, or
by the gem
your nose is graced.
***
YOUR NOSE
Your well chiselled nose
impressed me as my eyes
buzzed over your physique
in full bloom.
The Divine Shaper, I know,
is a moody fellow.
Badly shaped noses
betray His bad moods.
I know for certain that
an impressive nose as yours
is loved by the air too it breathes –
the life energy that supports
every nerve, bone and hair too.
I for one believe that
a lovely nose speaks
for all its dependants.
The nose in its proper shape,
then everything else in their proper places.
***
AT CLOSE QUARTERS
Do not come so close to me, O beauty!
if you want me to lend you my ears.
At close quarters,
my inquisitive eyes,
as if propelled by a sensor,
start roving around you.
Your ivory teeth vie with
the splendour and radiance of your skin.
Your wavy, shiny black hair
puts black velvet to shame.
Your doe eyes and quivering brows
teach me lessons in love.
Your beaming face with that cute little nose
casts a spell and muffles my words.
Don’t you know now, my doe, my dove,
why I go dumb and deaf
when you want me to speak to you
or listen to your whispering voice?
***
THE WOMAN BEHIND
(July 17, 2002)
Small was my world.
It dawned on me this day
that the world is wide.
You are the dawn.
I was on all fours.
The helping hand came.
Now I am determined
to stand on my feet.
The hand is yours.
The struggle was long
to know myself.
Now I know who I am.
You are the discoverer.
I was only half a man.
Now I see myself neatly clothed.
I’m in love with myself.
You tailored my clothes.
“A somebody out of a nobody,”
Your sincere wishes for my future.
Behind my sure success
You’ll be the woman.
***
A JOURNALIST’S LIFE
To make both ends meet
I work like the minute hand
Running after
the sluggish hour hand,
all to increase
my bank balance,
only to feed the mouths
I brought on myself.
I cringe before my speeding clock.
Deadlines have to be met.
The clock is sympathetic
but not always.
Insults have to be stomached.
Tension mounts,
callously gobbling up
my pathetically earned time
without any qualms.
Your feathery touch,
your energizing kiss,
your warm hug,
your affectionate look,
your enticing smile –
Oh, they put my tension to flight!
You know, my angel!
I would have gone mad,
had I not found you
at this half spent hour of my life.
***
PARADISE LOST
The greasy alien cap
between you and me
curtails the pleasure
of our stolen moments.
Stolen fruits are sweeter.
Trespassing is real thrill.
It’s fun to enter
a forbidden land
especially with no slipper on.
To merge with the land
is to feel its vibration.
Cap and slipper
are symbols of precaution,
artificial though.
Yet they deny us of
the boon the nature
has in store for us.
With them on, it is Paradise Lost.
***
EMBEDDED
Of late, I’ve stopped
squeezing my eyes.
Motes are born trouble-makers,
an embodiment of mischief.
Yet I’ll not squeeze my eyes.
Let streaming tears
wash them away.
I’ve become blind
to what others see,
for all that I have
in my eyes is your image.
***
TO LIVE IN HIGH LOVE
Cover me, my sweet heart,
with all your love,
and let us wing our way
to lands forlorn.
There we shall walk hand in hand
on the shores of ever active sea,
and sing melodious notes
that no maestro ever dared to play.
There you shall pluck fruits
standing on my willing shoulders,
and together we shall dig up roots.
Rain shall be our nourishing drink.
Under greenwood trees we shall bed,
to count every tiny mole and bulging wart
and grace all with our roving lips,
before we dovetail in a tight embrace.
There, my love, we shall forget forever
the green eyed society we left behind
and live merrily in high love till
cruel Death lays his icy hands on us.
***
A LONELY MAN FORESEES HIS DEATH
Cheated by the near
and the dear ones
of all kinds of love,
this uncared for
love-crazy lonely man
felt his long and cold days
weighing heavily on him.
Has his life’s journey
come to a close?
Is his sojourn on Planet Earth
a waste of breath?
When such posers began
eating into him,
a lady kind to the core,
came into his life,
with soothing balm in her eyes
and comforting oil in her lips.
The man and the woman
drove their loneliness
by unburdening themselves
of their ill-fated past
to rejuvenate their present.
Is not life worth living
if only the trauma
of the past gets
submerged in the
Ocean of Amnesia?
The deserts of their lives bloomed.
Music of buzzing bees
and humming birds returned.
Fear, perhaps fear of the unknown,
gripping the unhappily-happy woman,
she brought back into her life
the Sadist who once made a fool of her,
all to save herself
from slander and ignominy.
What bush can hold
two robins?
What scabbard can hold
two swords?
Will the lonely man
be left to his loneliness again?
Will the woman
whom he considers Heaven sent
prove to be a bird of passage?
The day she leaves him
will be the day of his funeral.
***
SWEET FIFTY
Can there ever be a present
more precious than
the invaluable fifty
you magnanimously planted
on the vital parts of my anatomy,
all in celebration
of the fifty miles
I’ve traversed in my life
filled with deserts and thorns,
now transformed
into a garden of Eden
by your magic lips?
Ah! Will fifty million sovereigns of gold
ever equal one of the fifty
you’ve showered on me
with all your love?
Or will fifty thousand women
ever show the affection
you’ve poured on me
with all your heart?
Or will the innumerable varieties
from your expert cuisine
ever be able to satisfy
my insatiable heart
the way your sweet fifty
went tingling down
to make it whisper
‘Ah! It’ll last for a life-time’.
***
ON LOOKING AT A PAINTING BY SEEMA DEVI
Surely you’re waiting
Oh, you faceless young man
Of robust build!
Who’ll wait in this wilderness
But a lover crazy to the core
Anxious about his beloved’s arrival.
I know, you gleefully feel her breast
In the lotus bud that you hold
And unite yourself with her
In the leaf that sits cutely
On your eager lap.
Oh, how I love to see your
Hair hidden face brighten up
And watch your love-laden soul
In your glee filled eyes!
Ah! Who’ll do that for me?
Will it be your beloved
Making you wait so long
For reasons known only to her stars?
Or will it be your Brahma, Seema Devi,
By sending a whiff of fresh air
To this breezeless wild?
***
WOMAN POWER
Without you, my man,
O my identity card!
mine would have been
a vegetable life.
I would not have ever known
the errands of wifehood
had you not
spared me a rib!
I would not have ever known
I am fertile
had you not tilled
my virgin land!
I would not have ever known
the pleasures of motherhood
had you not made my sleepy womb
throb with life!
I adore you, my man,
for guiding me
from one stage to another
enhancing my identity every time.
For divulging my woman power
O my man!
I will forever remain
your prized possession.
***
DISTURBED FLOWERS
I had never seen them there before.
Those engaging flowers afar.
They must have been buds yesterday.
But I saw no bud there.
I knew for certain that
Crotons never took pains to bear flowers.
Yet I saw them there now.
Was there a plant ever blessed
With such flowers? –
Flowers of different sizes
That challenged the hues of the rainbow.
Amazed beyond amazement
I moved to have a closer look.
Alas! The disturbed flowers
Took to their wings.
***
COLD STEEL
It saw its death in my eyes
And hell in the cold steel I held.
The poor partridge in chains.
Fluttering its clipped wings
It struggled in vain
For a freedom of flight.
It prayed in a breath purer than rain.
The holy god in his great goodness
Played deaf.
I mumbled a hurried prayer
Before the eager steel could lick
The blood of the helpless bird.
The holy god in his great fear
Heeded mine. Oh, who will not
In the presence of cold steel?
But I heard Him whisper thus:
“Claws – needle sharp – can’t pierce
A heart cold as his steel.”
***
THE TRAITOR
He had never heard
Such music before –
A music so enthralling and sweet.
What power in those clinking discs!
Dreaming of his good fortune
He strode. Cheerfully they jingled
As the wallet at his belt
Swayed with each step.
What use!...What use
Should he make of them?
Those thirty pieces of winking silver
Must be a Heaven’s worth.
Should he buy
The honeyed lips of a harlot
Or the century-old casks of wine
To wash his lips of sin?
His head was thronged with ideas.
His heart, like an army in rout,
Raced in blinding darkness.
At the tunnel’s end he saw Light.
He found solace in a piece of rope.
The all-powerful discs laughed
With their eyes at the heavy heart
Of the dangling Judas Iscariot.
***
A BALANCE LOST
The clock died of a heart attack
at 8.50 a.m. on January 26, 2001.
The chicken hearted clock
took the great leap,
before the citizens of Bhuj
could make a guess:
Did Mother Earth lose her balance?
Or did she heave a sigh?
Then there was no one to answer.
Blessed are the buried dead
for they have no tears to wipe.
Think of the maimed.
Think of the bruised.
Think of the orphaned,
the destitute and the damned.
Around them only grief and anguish,
loss and destruction.
No amount of aid
from reincarnated Karnas,
no words of consolation
from the wise and the revered,
no holy man with all his
miraculous powers mustered up,
could ever barricade
the cascading tears of the fated to live
or bring back the dead mother
to her surviving suckling.
Time never stands still.
And the Earth has to move.
***
MY FANS
They are veritably my fans
Though
They never proclaimed themselves so.
From cover to cover
They have gone through a pile of books
All authored by me,
And they were glad enough
To leave their impressions
On every page.
“O” is the grade
They have generously marked
Systematically and without a break
On all pages.
“O” in academic circles
Represents “Outstanding”.
Oh! What a great writer I am!
Don’t my fans, the worms,
Tell me that my books
Are worthy enough
To be chewed and digested?
What is fame if not this?
***
CIGARETTE
A submissive white woman
graciously ready
for immolation
any time,
any place,
braving any weather,
all for the kiss of
manly lips and
a ruffian touch.
***
And a short story by the author
SORROW OF SANITY
Professor Arasu parked his car in front of his house but hesitated to get down. Something in him stopped him from doing so. He was a straight forward man and took little time to take decisions. And once he took his decisions he never went back on them. Yet on that particular day he wavered to push open the car door.
The little ‘glitsch’ sound that came from under the car, sent tremors down his spine. He was sure that something alive got crushed under his wheels. The very thought of it made him dizzy and uncomfortable.
To say that Arasu is a pure vegetarian would only amount to exaggeration. In fact, he is a connoisseur of good food and spends a fortune in getting them on his table. He is one among those who believe in the saying: “The sin of killing gets washed down the gullet once the killed is eaten”.
Once when he was heading towards his house on his motorcycle after visiting a friend in a village, a cock flew from somewhere and got hit by the speeding wheels and became immobile. Professor Arasu had no regrets. He picked up the dead cock and carried it home to make chicken soup.
Arasu was sure that it was not a fowl that got crushed by his car.
During his boyhood days, Arasu’s father never said ‘no’ to him and he got him all that he wanted just for the asking. Wild rabbit, mynah, love birds, white rats were brought home to be Arasu’s pets. And along with the pets, Arasu’s father brought in skilled carpenters and made beautiful cages to house the pets. He was happy to see his son wallow in joy.
One of his favourite pets, a white rabbit, once fell a prey to a stray dog. The dead rabbit was kept in the same position till Arasu came back home in the evening after school. At the very sight of his dead pet, Arasu screamed, cried and howled, and thereby created such a scene that the entire village gathered in front of his house to console the bereaved boy..
On another occasion he helplessly watched a cat carry away his pet parrot while the bird screeched for help in human tongue.. The pitiable sight of the pet got so deep into his heart that he fell sick and had to be absent from school for days together.
Arasu never loved to have a cat or a dog for his pet. His father had once told him of a French lady by name Madame Monier who was willing to give away an Alsatian pup in exchange for a male wild rabbit of his. But all that his father got from Arasu was a scream and a howl. And his father had to cut a sorry figure before Madame Monier for not fulfilling her desires.
Arasu’s refusal to have a dog or a cat at home as his pet should not be construed that he had no love for them. He never hurled a stone at them. He never poured boiling water on them. That was proof enough to show that he had no hatred for them.
Arasu had gone all the way to Velankanni Church to marry a girl of his mother’s choice. And on his way back home in a taxi with his newly wedded wife, the taxi driver mercilessly killed all the stray dogs that crossed his way.
At first Arasu took them for accident. But when the driver did it for the third time, Arasu was a bit shocked. In a perturbed tone he told the driver: “Your rash driving makes many a dog loose its life”.
The driver guffawed. “Auspicious days demand sacrifices, sir”, he said casually without slowing down his speed.
Arasu lost his temper and gave a bit of his mind to the driver. As a professor he invariably lectured to his students that castes and religions were all man made; there can be only one force that can rule the world; and all the stupid beliefs have to be erased from the earth.
Imagine what would happen to such a man if one talks of blood sacrifice. The driver found himself in a quagmire of silence. Broken hearted he slowed down his speed and could not raise it above 40 km per hour. At the sight of a stray dog at a distance he had no way but bring down his speed further and helplessly watch cyclists overtaking his taxi.
Such was the love our professor showed to stray animals on the streets. Buses, lorries and other heavy vehicles that mercilessly commit daylight murders and also murders in the dark under the pretext of accidents have given him sleepless nights.
What if it is a cat or a rat? A life is a life. When we can show a lot of sympathy towards a man killed by a speeding vehicle, what deters us from having such a feeling when it comes to stray animals? That was our professor’s philosophy and question.
Hence it was no wonder that the crushing sound he heard from under his car disturbed his heart to its very auricles and ventricles.
But how long can one afford to hide inside a car? Mustering up all his courage he put his right foot out and bent himself sideways and turned his head as far as he could stretch. He then began his search. He could find nothing. He then bent down even to the verge of breaking his backbone and looked at the two wheels to his right. He found nothing.
He sniffed like a police trained dog to know if that spot smacked of fresh blood. His olfactory senses could not detect anything of that sort.
With stupid confidence he placed his other foot too out and got out of his car and banged its door shut.
He then took just two steps forward towards the back of his car. His feet got arrested. At least that was what he thought. The sight was quite unbearable. And his face turned pale.
Something was found lying there like a pouch, used by oldies half-a-century ago meant for carrying in it betel leaves, nuts, the round quarter anna with a big hole in it, the square half anna and the curve edged one anna.
Two further steps…he felt as if a little ray of lightning were crossing his body.
Poor thing! It was a dead cat. A very young one at that…may be a month old.
Arasu felt a sharp pain darting deep into his heart; a deep sense of guilt entered him. His mind was so thoroughly confused that he felt as though his heart got pounded in an electrical mixing jar.
Unable to bear the sight of the kitten lying almost folded twice, he walked into his house and fell on the sofa with a thud. The sponge too turned hard like a stone for him. He stretched his legs forward and leaned back and rested his head on the top spine of the seat. As if unable to face the world he closed his eyes.
His mind, now a drunken mad monkey, began to hop from one branch to another. It danced a gruesome dance. Showing all its ugly teeth it teased him. And finally it bit the professor here and there.
Arasu being very sensitive, it took several days to find himself healed when he was just scratched by the monkey. But now it has bitten him. Only his Creator knows whether it will take weeks or months to heal.
A voice that came floating from his back served as a boost and he propped himself up.
“Huh! Hours ago I told you people to throw the dead cat into the dustbin at the street corner. It is still lying there. What obedient children I am blessed with?” said Periyanayaki, the Professor’s wife, as she entered the house.
“Oh! You are already here. You look so tired, dear!. Wait a minute. I will make lemon tea for you,” she said to her husband.
Periyanayaki looked cute in her new yellow coloured silk sari. A long string of jasmine flowers adorned her pepper and salt tresses woven into a pigtail. A kumkum tilak on her forehead, a platter in her hand carrying a coconut broken into two halves, a few betel leaves, areca nuts, a little string of different flowers and a couple of ripe bananas all spoke to the professor that she was straight from the temple. And to the professor she looked as if the Goddess herself had entered the house to console him.
“Wait a minute,” he said to his wife as she was moving into the kitchen. “You said something about a cat. What is it all about?” he asked with curiosity filled eyes.
“Oh! That’s a story,” said Periyanayaki, “I got ready to participate in the special pooja arranged by the poojari in Gangai Muthu Mariamman temple. When I moved out of the house, I saw a frightened cat running here and there vainly attempting to cross the road. A speeding auto rickshaw bumped it off and the kitten badly hit was thrown in front of our house. It fell with a thud. It wriggled like a worm on hot sand before it breathed its last. And as I left for the temple, I told our children to throw the dead cat into the bin. I told them two hours ago. And look at the response I had from our children. The carcass should be removed immediately before it could make a mess of itself.
Professor Arasu sat up as the haunting guilt slithered away from him. He felt the sofa seat as soft as ever.
SORROW OF SANITY
Professor Arasu parked his car in front of his house but hesitated to get down. Something in him stopped him from doing so. He was a straight forward man and took little time to take decisions. And once he took his decisions he never went back on them. Yet on that particular day he wavered to push open the car door.
The little ‘glitsch’ sound that came from under the car, sent tremors down his spine. He was sure that something alive got crushed under his wheels. The very thought of it made him dizzy and uncomfortable.
To say that Arasu is a pure vegetarian would only amount to exaggeration. In fact, he is a connoisseur of good food and spends a fortune in getting them on his table. He is one among those who believe in the saying: “The sin of killing gets washed down the gullet once the killed is eaten”.
Once when he was heading towards his house on his motorcycle after visiting a friend in a village, a cock flew from somewhere and got hit by the speeding wheels and became immobile. Professor Arasu had no regrets. He picked up the dead cock and carried it home to make chicken soup.
Arasu was sure that it was not a fowl that got crushed by his car.
During his boyhood days, Arasu’s father never said ‘no’ to him and he got him all that he wanted just for the asking. Wild rabbit, mynah, love birds, white rats were brought home to be Arasu’s pets. And along with the pets, Arasu’s father brought in skilled carpenters and made beautiful cages to house the pets. He was happy to see his son wallow in joy.
One of his favourite pets, a white rabbit, once fell a prey to a stray dog. The dead rabbit was kept in the same position till Arasu came back home in the evening after school. At the very sight of his dead pet, Arasu screamed, cried and howled, and thereby created such a scene that the entire village gathered in front of his house to console the bereaved boy..
On another occasion he helplessly watched a cat carry away his pet parrot while the bird screeched for help in human tongue.. The pitiable sight of the pet got so deep into his heart that he fell sick and had to be absent from school for days together.
Arasu never loved to have a cat or a dog for his pet. His father had once told him of a French lady by name Madame Monier who was willing to give away an Alsatian pup in exchange for a male wild rabbit of his. But all that his father got from Arasu was a scream and a howl. And his father had to cut a sorry figure before Madame Monier for not fulfilling her desires.
Arasu’s refusal to have a dog or a cat at home as his pet should not be construed that he had no love for them. He never hurled a stone at them. He never poured boiling water on them. That was proof enough to show that he had no hatred for them.
Arasu had gone all the way to Velankanni Church to marry a girl of his mother’s choice. And on his way back home in a taxi with his newly wedded wife, the taxi driver mercilessly killed all the stray dogs that crossed his way.
At first Arasu took them for accident. But when the driver did it for the third time, Arasu was a bit shocked. In a perturbed tone he told the driver: “Your rash driving makes many a dog loose its life”.
The driver guffawed. “Auspicious days demand sacrifices, sir”, he said casually without slowing down his speed.
Arasu lost his temper and gave a bit of his mind to the driver. As a professor he invariably lectured to his students that castes and religions were all man made; there can be only one force that can rule the world; and all the stupid beliefs have to be erased from the earth.
Imagine what would happen to such a man if one talks of blood sacrifice. The driver found himself in a quagmire of silence. Broken hearted he slowed down his speed and could not raise it above 40 km per hour. At the sight of a stray dog at a distance he had no way but bring down his speed further and helplessly watch cyclists overtaking his taxi.
Such was the love our professor showed to stray animals on the streets. Buses, lorries and other heavy vehicles that mercilessly commit daylight murders and also murders in the dark under the pretext of accidents have given him sleepless nights.
What if it is a cat or a rat? A life is a life. When we can show a lot of sympathy towards a man killed by a speeding vehicle, what deters us from having such a feeling when it comes to stray animals? That was our professor’s philosophy and question.
Hence it was no wonder that the crushing sound he heard from under his car disturbed his heart to its very auricles and ventricles.
But how long can one afford to hide inside a car? Mustering up all his courage he put his right foot out and bent himself sideways and turned his head as far as he could stretch. He then began his search. He could find nothing. He then bent down even to the verge of breaking his backbone and looked at the two wheels to his right. He found nothing.
He sniffed like a police trained dog to know if that spot smacked of fresh blood. His olfactory senses could not detect anything of that sort.
With stupid confidence he placed his other foot too out and got out of his car and banged its door shut.
He then took just two steps forward towards the back of his car. His feet got arrested. At least that was what he thought. The sight was quite unbearable. And his face turned pale.
Something was found lying there like a pouch, used by oldies half-a-century ago meant for carrying in it betel leaves, nuts, the round quarter anna with a big hole in it, the square half anna and the curve edged one anna.
Two further steps…he felt as if a little ray of lightning were crossing his body.
Poor thing! It was a dead cat. A very young one at that…may be a month old.
Arasu felt a sharp pain darting deep into his heart; a deep sense of guilt entered him. His mind was so thoroughly confused that he felt as though his heart got pounded in an electrical mixing jar.
Unable to bear the sight of the kitten lying almost folded twice, he walked into his house and fell on the sofa with a thud. The sponge too turned hard like a stone for him. He stretched his legs forward and leaned back and rested his head on the top spine of the seat. As if unable to face the world he closed his eyes.
His mind, now a drunken mad monkey, began to hop from one branch to another. It danced a gruesome dance. Showing all its ugly teeth it teased him. And finally it bit the professor here and there.
Arasu being very sensitive, it took several days to find himself healed when he was just scratched by the monkey. But now it has bitten him. Only his Creator knows whether it will take weeks or months to heal.
A voice that came floating from his back served as a boost and he propped himself up.
“Huh! Hours ago I told you people to throw the dead cat into the dustbin at the street corner. It is still lying there. What obedient children I am blessed with?” said Periyanayaki, the Professor’s wife, as she entered the house.
“Oh! You are already here. You look so tired, dear!. Wait a minute. I will make lemon tea for you,” she said to her husband.
Periyanayaki looked cute in her new yellow coloured silk sari. A long string of jasmine flowers adorned her pepper and salt tresses woven into a pigtail. A kumkum tilak on her forehead, a platter in her hand carrying a coconut broken into two halves, a few betel leaves, areca nuts, a little string of different flowers and a couple of ripe bananas all spoke to the professor that she was straight from the temple. And to the professor she looked as if the Goddess herself had entered the house to console him.
“Wait a minute,” he said to his wife as she was moving into the kitchen. “You said something about a cat. What is it all about?” he asked with curiosity filled eyes.
“Oh! That’s a story,” said Periyanayaki, “I got ready to participate in the special pooja arranged by the poojari in Gangai Muthu Mariamman temple. When I moved out of the house, I saw a frightened cat running here and there vainly attempting to cross the road. A speeding auto rickshaw bumped it off and the kitten badly hit was thrown in front of our house. It fell with a thud. It wriggled like a worm on hot sand before it breathed its last. And as I left for the temple, I told our children to throw the dead cat into the bin. I told them two hours ago. And look at the response I had from our children. The carcass should be removed immediately before it could make a mess of itself.
Professor Arasu sat up as the haunting guilt slithered away from him. He felt the sofa seat as soft as ever.
***
MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
He was recipient of
Literary Award (Pondicherry University, Pondicherry-1987),
International Eminent Poet award (Madras-1988),
Michael Madhusudan Academy Award (Calcutta-1991),
Gold medal and citation (American Biographical Institute, USA-1996),
Best Poem of the Year Award (Una Poesia Per La Vita, Italy – 2002),
Academy of Indo-Asian Literature Award (Delhi, 2003);
Nalli Thisai-Ettum Award for Translation (Chennai – 2007);
Indian Literature Golden Jubilee Literary Translation Prize (Sahitya Akademi, Delhi, 2007)
Excellence in Literature Award (Govt. of Pondicherry, Pondicherry, 2009)
Literary Award (Pondicherry University, Pondicherry-1987),
International Eminent Poet award (Madras-1988),
Michael Madhusudan Academy Award (Calcutta-1991),
Gold medal and citation (American Biographical Institute, USA-1996),
Best Poem of the Year Award (Una Poesia Per La Vita, Italy – 2002),
Academy of Indo-Asian Literature Award (Delhi, 2003);
Nalli Thisai-Ettum Award for Translation (Chennai – 2007);
Indian Literature Golden Jubilee Literary Translation Prize (Sahitya Akademi, Delhi, 2007)
Excellence in Literature Award (Govt. of Pondicherry, Pondicherry, 2009)
P. Raja can be reached at : rajbusybee@gmail.com
or at +91-9443617124
