The eternal Lighthouse, the Guru, the teacher omnipresent, omniscient, reincarnate to guide his own home. Forever.
*my Teachers said …*
My routine broke, as they hushed “Don’t !!”,
Muffled voices echoing faintly across time,
Didn’t care listen, in a hurry, who has time ?
Am in hustle to put one upon my fellowmen,
To Conquer .. the conquest and the victory,
Surrender and subjugation, The Happiness …
But nature cares, for a mother can’t but,
When she sees her child wandering thus,
Her patience for the truants runs short,
Her rebuke, a gentle slap of no avail as she,
Unleashes pestilence, her stormtroopers,
To sweep, clean the home; they do, ruthless,
It seems best is to stay put, clear off streets,
Voice low, no splurge and abide in quiet self,
Closetted with partners and one’s own clan,
Coccooned in quiet contemplation on the ills,
Waiting for her anger to wash over the kind,
It’s message is to mend ; stark one too ..
Seems my teachers said, about this too,
The material, evanescent like the wealth,
It seems he said a time would come, when,
The money is not worth the paper it’s in print,
What to say of success, more than the King,
Who’s mortal hand, as empty as a newborn,
As his mortal was led down the street lined,
Seems they said much more ; now real too…
It is time to hear those faint echoes of time,
Ancients, strange habits seem so in tune,
Let’s put our ears on the ground, let’s listen,
To the faint voices of teachers across time,
For we can hear it better as troopers near..
This sod tosses hapless, to the left and then to the right,
As the Lord’s poetic beauty pulls at it, to have it whole,
He pulls at it with his beloved’s and their poetic beau,
Written on palm, written by him, timeless, faded but kept alive,
Sung by devout, heard by this sod, loved by all,
Helplessly pulled to the beloved it sings,
Like the garland tossed worn once and then twice,
First to the right and then to the left,
Each as beautiful as other, What to choose,
Between the fathomless fire and the conch’s grace,
‘Tis the last month of the westerners days,
With his twelve books under lock,
The Lord in his grace and yearn,
To meet his beloved and unite,
As a morning lore to the sleeping devout,
Sung by friends to raise her to union,
Thus the song goes sung by the Lord,
This month where he yearns his children back,
How beautiful is the next month, when a child sings,
Waiting for his Grace to swoop down on holy bird,
The union she craves, to her Lord she prays, alas,
To the lover demigod she then beseeches and then to her brother,
One month and then the next she waits for her Lord,
His grace does come and she does unite, as,
They call him to receive the palm leaves he scribed,
As Sun moves North after it’s sojourn south,
He moves me from south up to the north,
The south facing Lord pushes my swing,
As it sails north to the hands of the Lord with the conch,
The new rice boils over, sweet jaggery crusted,
Thimble can’t contain the ocean that swells forth.
Maarghazhi is the Tamil month which falls between December – January. Thaai is the next and Maasi after it.
These three months also coincide with excursion of the Sun and it’s travel north, uttaraayana, as per Indian calendar. This is considered auspicious. The festivals of Samkraanthi and associated Tamil festival of Pongal, Paavai Nonbu, Manmadan Nonbu are all done at this time.
Paavai Nonbu, Manmadan Nonbu are Vaishnavite vows where they simulate Aandaal, a lady Vaishnavite saint of Tamil Nadu and her intense longing to unite with Vishnu.
Similarly in Shavite tradition this month is a time where the twelve Thirumurai books are kept under lock and only a section from Thrivaasagam, the ThiruvenPaavai composed by Saint Manickavaasagar is sung. This is a long followed tradition.
Thiruppavai sung by Saint Aandaal and ThiruvenPaavai sung by Saint Manickavaasagar are Vaishnavite and Shaivite hymns that attract the devotee with sheet poetic beauty and surprisingly composed around the same theme raising the devotee to an union with the beloved.
The existential crisis, rudderless feeling one gets as one’s not sure what this body is, what’s to do with this and essentially how to map the world with this, or indeed whether to at all….. In the end one plays his/her part and vanishes but world exhumes the dead for post-truth – buries and burns it again. None is spared from this post-truth. Gods, Goddesses, great men and women are all queued up and exhumed for this ritual. What then one ……