My 100th post - Porphyria's lover

I started my blog with a prayer to Muse on Jan 7, 2008.

I wanted my 100th post to be special... special to me. Though I call my scribbles poems, I love to read poems from a old poetry collection of mine.

Porphyria's lover by Robert Browning is the one I go to, when I am distressed, when I am happy and when I am anything in between.

Publishing the poem here, my way of sharing it to my readers.

My friend read it out for me and I am adding that record here, he had given life to this poem. "Thank you so much and God bless you dear. You can't even guess how happy you made me! Thanks for your time."

But his first reaction was, "The guy is crazy and you call this poem your favourite?". Yes. It's a favourite poem of mine, the hero of the poem behaves like a psycho. But the delivery of this poem and the shock we get out of those lines is where Browning's success lie. The anger and helplessness we feel is what Browning set out to achieve and he did just that.

It goes this way!

Poetry recital

Porphyria's lover

THE rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listen'd with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And call'd me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me—she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I look'd up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily opened her lids: again
Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untighten'd next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propp'd her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorn'd at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gain'd instead!
Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirr'd,
And yet God has not said a word!

-Robert Browning

Hopes forlorn

The sleepless nights I had then, 
I had something to dream about, 
Hope waiting at the end of the tunnel, 
The life I loved, waiting out there to live. 

I had known, the dreams won't last, 
Not forever, not for a score, 
Yet, I hoped my hope won't desert, 
Now that it did, I stopped to think. 

The sleepless nights I have now, 
I have nothing to dream about, 
Hope forlorn, no light in vicinity, 
My life I lead, hollow and ridden of life. 

Before the world shuts down for me

I wish to keep turning pages, 
One page every day, 
I will pen a line on every page, 
It will start with your name and
End with yours, 
Everything in between is our story of love. 
The pages may age, 
My hands may wither, 
The writing shaky, 
Your name scrawled, 
But, I will continue 
Till the last page or my last day. 
You will be the end of my story, 
Your name will be the last I utter. 
My only prayers to the great lord, 
That you hear my last whisper and
Your face is the last I should see. 
When my eyes close gently, 
I would still fight to get another glimpse, 
Another glimpse, 
And another, 
Yet another
Before the world shuts down for me. 

Look at me

My eyes are the screen for you to watch.. 
Thousands of emotions playing for you
You might see or you may miss, 
But, it's there for you to see.. 

They are bereft of curtains, 
Except when I tear up, 
Amidst the droplets, 
You are welcome to watch.. 
The million expressions,
Whether angry or happy
They speak to you
About a beautiful heart. 

When you are absorbed with other things 
When I speak to you from behind, 
Turn and look at my eyes for a second, 
They hold several hundred shades of love. 

Look at me now
Look at me again
Look at me for a hundred times, 
In your eyes I will reflect, 
And in mine yours.. 
A billion times in and in
Our tale of love never dims. 

Two women, two states, one goal


A tale of two women, who were obsessed about Krishna, the yadhu kula prince. Govindha and Kesava, as he is fondly called, is followed by the cows and calves, his hair is adorned with Peacock feathers and plays venu, his flute. The magical music risen from his flute envelops everyone and make them forget everything but the divine music.

Andal, daughter of Periyalwar, a foundling, adored by her father, was brought up with verses on Krishna. She lived and loved Krishna. After hearing her father sing verses in praise of the divine child, from bala to kumara, Andal fell in love with Krishna. She imagined herself as a Gopika and followed the practices of Gokula. She wanted to marry Krishna. She had the support of her father, who not for a moment thought his daughter's idea of getting married to the lord himself is a crazy one. Her Naachiar Thirumozhi has a padhigam  where she creates the wedding scenario of her getting married to Krishna right from wedding procession to the lord marrying her. Every small details are captured with the most beautiful words, like fresh honey dripping out of honeycomb.

Meera, born in a royal Rajput family was a mystic poet. Her love for Krishna is evident in her poetry.  She has the wish of marrying Krishna. She clung to the idol of Krishna and he was her playmate and soul mate through her childhood days. Unlike Andal, she wasn't given the freedom of being unmarried.  She was married to the Bhoj Raj, the crown prince of Mewar. Meera holding on to Krishna bhakti never paid heed to the political and personal chaos around her. Her only thought was Krishna and her love for him made her invincible, who tried to even kill her. She kept singing about Krishna amidst poison being served to her or snakes trying to get a bite out of her and even when she was ordered to drown herself.

Both Andal and Meera sang songs that were dipped in love and bhakthi for Krishna.

Andal songs are romantic, carefree, playful, cheerful and she owns Krishna to an extent she even mocks at him in certain places.

Meera on the other hand sings soulful songs on Krishna. It has a melancholic touch, being married to the King and in love with Krishna, makes her long for her union with lord, at the Same time making it difficult to remain with her husband and going against societal norms. This drove Meera to the brim of despair, hoping against all odds and naturally her songs were full of despair, loneliness, yet the longing in her words, stirs at the heart of people. 

Andal her songs are not just about Krishna, everything surrounded him. She describes krishna, his various avatars, his conch, aadhisesha, his disc called sudarshana Chakra. She talks about Napinnai (Krishna's wife), yasodha, balarama, nandhagopala, devaki, vasudeva, the gopikas, the butter, curd, even the rope that was used to tie Krishna.  all the asuras who were sent by Kamas to kill Krishna. Andal's description of krishna is just not him, she loves everything that belonged to him. She has the audacity to even address Nappinai, Krishna's wife to give Krishna along with her fan and mirror.  Fan, mirror and krishna? It's a praise for Nappinai that Krishna had given her all the rights to handle him the way she can handle her fan and mirror. "Ukkamum thatoliyum thandhun manaalanai, ippodhae emmai neeraatu“.

Meera on the other hand sings about the dark skinned Krishna with his 'mor mukut' (peacock feather) and 'peethambara'  (the golden yellow dress Krishna wears) and 'bansuri' (flute). She immerses herself in her Khanna and doesn't give heed to the surroundings. She is content to have Krishna and the surroundings doesn't matter.

Chala wahi des,
Preetam pawa, jalaan wahi des
Kaho kusumal saari rangawa,
kaho tho bhagawa bhes.
Kaho toh motiyan maang bharaawa,
kaho chhitkaawa kes.
Meera ke prabhu Giridhar naagar,
sunagyo Birad nares.

Let's go to that region, to be one with my love. It does not matter if I have to wear colourful attire or saffron robe. It does not matter if I have to decorate my hair with pearls or to have dishevelled hair as long as Meera be with her lord of love, Giridhar.

If Andal and Meera meets...

Meera sings:

Mor mukut pitambar sohe
Gale vaijanti mala
Varidawan mein dhen charave
Mohan murli wala
Mane chakar rakho ji

Andal sings:

Karpuram naarumo, kamala poo naarumo?
Thirupavala chevvai thaan thitthithirukumo?
Marupositha madhavan than vaai chuvaiyum naatramum,
Viruputru ketkinraen solaazhi vensangae.

Meera:  Kodha  means creeper? You are the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I have a question for you.  How did you escape the clutches of the samsara? How did you escape getting married to a human? 

Andal: Meera, I was created beautiful for Krishna. You look serene and your untouched beauty was created for Krishna too. This body is just a vessel to hold the love for Krishna. My father Vishnu Chitha like nurturing a plant, nurtured Krishna's love in me.

When I was ripe for marriage, I prayed to Kamadeva(the lord of love). 

"Oonidai aazhi sangu uthamarkku endru unnittu ezhundha en thada mulaihal, maanidavarkku endru paechu padil vazhahillaen kandaai manmadhanae". 

(My bosom beats and waits for the lord who holds the conch and disc and I am not meant to live with human (the mortals).)  My father stood for me. 

Meera: Your poetry is full of beauty. Nature, birds, Krishna's avayava. I am so immersed in your poetry now and I do not want to spend my time away from it. 

Andal: Meera, I knew you were put to so many tests before you became one with him. How did you face them.  It is so easy to give up than stick on. Not having the support of your own family, the enmity of your in-laws, you are the bravest and the determined.  I respect you and want to join you in your bhajans. Let us slowly walk to Vrindavan.  Let us sing and dance and enter his fort to be accepted all over again. 

I want to sing with you,

"Yaad aave yaad aave
Vrindavan ki mangal leela
Yaad aave yaad aave
Krishna kanhaiya chhail chhabila
Yaad aave yaad aave
Sakhiyan ke sang jana
Nirmal jamuna neer nahana
Sab mil kar lalan gun gana
Kabhi kabhi val dars na pana
Yaad aave yaad aave
Nabh pe taro ka jhilmil na
Murli dhun sun dil khil milna
Kunjan kunjan mohan milna
Yaad aave yaad aave
Chandai madhu chandai raat mein
Ras rachana
Rup mantar se prem jagana
Krishan roop mein kridyan gana
Aabha ko parbhu ko mil jana
Yaad aave yaad aave
Koi kahe ye hai mitha sapna
Krishan kahani savimal rachna
More nahi kachu kahna sunna
More to brij lalan lalna
Yaad aave yaad aave. "

(Won’t those days when Krishna was growing up in Vrindavan comes back again? The son of nanda did so many miracles those days. Won’t those days comes back again?

All the people gathered and sang the praise of Krishna and bathed in the river Yamuna. They wandered all over the forest looking for Krishna everyday in order to get a glimpse of him.

The herd of Does was put to shame by the gopis. They and the sages were enchanted by the music of flute played by Krishna which made it feel that humanity is superior to celestial life.

He used to go to the forest accompanying the cattle to let them graze. He used to get dirty all over by the dust floating around. The celestials witnessing that desired to visit earth.

Ignorant Meera’s heart is occupied by giridhAri (one who held Govardhana). The lotus feet, sought by scriptures, sages, and Brahma--- must have hurt while walking the forest. Won’t such days come again?)

Meera: Giridhar stayed with me in my hearts and the belief in him, took care of all the obstacles. As you sang, he doesn't need weapons to destroy enemies. He didn't lift one during the great War of Mahabarath and he made me not to lift one during my war within me and with those who stood between me and Krishna, my lord. 

Holding their hands Meera and Andal sings in unison, language doesn't matter.. Only true love and devotion.  Their songs reverberated and reached Vrindavan, even before they reached the gates of Vrindavan. 

Image courtesy:
Meera: Meera Ho Gayi Magan in Sketching by Naveen Kumar Singh


Inside the cocoon of swirling waves, 
I swim gently, awaiting the splash. 
The lights distorted, surrounding me, 
Creating an illusion of the northern lights.. 

I swam first rushing along, 
Avoiding the splash as much as I can, 
I slipped on a current and missed a breath, 
I saw the water making its fall.

The wave huge about to swallow me, 
I couldn't back down,  but was ready to surrender. 
Waiting for the strike, to make me breathless
Down it came crashing on me. 

When I stopped fighting, 
The waves enveloped me, 
Like an oyster protecting the pearl, 
I felt cherished and cocooned. 

The false sense of security 
The lull setting me to settle in, 
Didn't realize, it wasn't my home, 
The hugging waves, started to kick. 

Mango, the fruit of endless surprise

If at all there is a fruit that can make you madly fall in love with it, it has to be Mango.   Mango, a sage in saffron that has the power to open up the gates of heaven.  

Whenever I gaze at this rich, succulent, plumpy fruit all juicy, oh! I go so weak on my knees.  I had to have it. It needs preparation to enjoy this fruit. You can't just peel and dig in. You hold it, look at the ways it lies on your palm so beautiful.  Then take a bowl or go near the kitchen sink and take a deep bite. The juice will drip all over your jaw, chin, hands and on your shirt. The river of divine pleasure.  Who cares?

This time take a bigger bite and suck the juice. Don't mind the sound (the slurpier the better) or the juice that flows through your palms and races on your arms. Lick it clean and get your attention back to your mango. Turn the Mango, gaze at the untouched half.  Did I hear you calling me messy?  Maybe I am. Where was I? Yeah, turn the fruit, gaze at it and decide from which side you should attack it.  Sink your teeth just the way a predator does to its prey. Only difference is the fruit is a willing prey. It doesn't fight or evade, it is slippery and may tease you a bit but it doesn't fight you back, a temptress that makes you pine for more, a willing prisoner. 

Now you consumed more than half the fruit, you will slowly start to feel the astringent of the skin, you cluck and get back to the rest.  Usually you won't stop till you gobble up the skin, pulp and left with the seed that now have hairy fires sticking out.  Like a wet cat with bristles sticking out?  No! Mangoes are mangoes no comparison. You are done licking everywhere and about to shove the seed off in a dustbin. 

One last time, you turn it sideways and with your teeth tug at the bristles from root and draw out the little pulp that's stuck in between those bristles, repeat the process all over and throw the seed finally.  After washing, gargling and cleaning the mess up, there are those particles,  the fibres that's stuck between your teeth, keeps reminding you about your sinful affair with the ripest fruit. The slight raw skin underneath your lips, makes your tongue to rub it and test the sensitivity and a reminder for the rest of the day about you gorging a fruit sinfully. 

You remind yourself to buy a dozen Mangoes that evening.  Atleast this season, I should have Mangoes 'contently'.  A relative term of course. 

Kids of 70s, 80s and 90s

Through centuries kids has been kids. Born in 70s I had witnessed kids of 80s, 90s and millennium.

Starting with a statutory warning, I am not judging and this post is only an observation from a 70s kid.

70s kids

1. We had company.  When we walk down the street we bumped on friends or bullies. The physical them. For survival we made more friends that led to more enemies, (friend's enemies ours too). We took sides, we made some promises, broke some. We crossed our fingers, when we lied. We ran down the street to welcome grand parents, uncles, aunts, unburdened them of their cloth bags or baskets and carried them, wondering about why the bag was heavy and if any sweets, toffees, or if we're too lucky the multi coloured striped rubber balls resting in a corner of the bag.  We shift restlessly till they go to the loo, wash their face, hands, legs, what not...talking all the time to parents, sipping coffee.  We wait not too patiently like a Stork. And when they call your name, you run and stand next to them.  They will remove things one by one and finally hand us a newspaper wrap, that may have some candies or pull the much awaited ball out. We rush out to show the ball eagerly to our friends and they all stretch their hands to receive the ball to admire.   In less than a minute they will start throwing the ball and you go behind them shouting not to and slowly the hours stretch as we play. By night you hijack the torn ball home in the well worn half pant pocket.

2.  With a spring, we were ready to walk any distance.  We just needed a reason to be outdoors and going to nearby chettiar kadai to get 200 grams mustard and 1/4 kg sugar for a 10 paise commission was enough incentive. The ultimate luxury being hiring (h)our cycle and trying to manage the huge bicycle with Monkey pedal. The parents didn't put curfew for their children to play outside, there were kidnappers, murderers, rapists, psychos lurking but it never stopped us from roaming around. Parents asked the children to be careful but they didn't try to instill fear in them.  The children were bold, independent.  All children read together, there were no special schools, we never knew terms like hyperactive, attention deficit etc. There were only three types, intelligent, mediocre, dumb.

3.  If you caught cold, you weren't rushed to hospitals.  There were only 4 vaccines small pox vaccination, DPT, BCG, polio drops.  Once in a year medical checkup in school, the doctor will do eye test just by examining our eyes with torch, check if you have vaccine marks, you were made to remove the uniforms and made to stand with shimmies (shifts) as we used to call then. Boys were checked in different rooms most of them bare chested clutching at their half pants, some of the boys who forget to wear their briefs, their face transparent and their fear  evident, "what if?" I remember there was this element of fear, excitement around.  Flu and malaria was common and we in general used to feel jealous of kids who get typhoid.  Typhoid somehow was looked at as a posh word and taking 15 days leave was really a boon.  The most feared disease was Diphtheria.

4. Ponds or Gokul sandal talcum and in summer days Nycil was the only cosmetics we knew of.  Our hairs parted and combed with oil, our talcum coated faces smeared along with the oil was a common scene.  A lifebuoy soap cut into two pieces lasted almost a month.  We all sang loud while taking bath, our voices gurgling with water poured by a mug, was enchanting.

5.  We never bothered to wash fruits, we brush it on our skirts or trousers and take a bite and offer to
friends, they turn it the other side and take a bite.  Somewhere it all get mixed up.  Moms kept sugar, jaggery on the loft, but we try to take it during noon when they sleep and though we are careful to place it exactly as we took, the CB CID mothers when they wake up, they will turn and ask, "Who opened the sugar dabba?" And we wonder how they knew?

6. When once in 6 months or so visit your native village, eager to meet friends whom you made during past summers, hijacking some gifts some broken toys, withered balls, an old shirt of yours or a broken steel torch light, pencils and feel the happiness spread inside you, when their faces beam with joy.  It is also quite normal, the next day you fight with them and ask the gifts back.  You fight, you make it up.  You walk in the paddy field holding a bunch of leaves like actress Sridevi and try to rehearse the sway of hips and sing, "sendhurapoovae sendhurapoovae, jillendra kaatrae en mannan engae en mannan engae nee konjam sollayo?".  Taking bath in the pump set with cousins and shyly watch if your boy watches you.  The boy who shows attention is Kamal Haasan to your eyes and Nambiar to the other boys.

Years moves on.... You step into 80s...

To be continued

Dreamy delights

Art by Vidya Chinnappa

Just like any other day, I couldn't sleep and just like any other day, I was reading, watching a Turkish classic serial.  The grandeur, harem, numerous concubines plotting against each other, killing some, saving some... The majestic palaces, not to forget the most handsome Padishah, his pale green eyes lush as a meadow on a spring gay day, freezing and turbulent on an outdoorsy, angry day... I was so much in love with this Padishah, just like Hurrem Sultanum.  I wouldn't hesitate to poison any woman who gets closer to him. You could say I am in love with this Padishah who lived centuries back.."The magnificent century". Who am I kidding? A man who had a harem full of women, who were prepared for him everyday. Looks like he had so much energy.  Hurrem sultanum who only had two jobs, 1) plotting death on whoever tried to enter his majesty's chamber 2) Announcing "I am pregnant".  While I hated myself watching such a serial, it intrigued me as well.  I got addicted to Turkish. The sing song language.  Started to pick words in Turkish.  No. It's not a romantic serial, it's full of unsolved murder mysteries.

It was 3 AM already and I still couldn't sleep .  The wretched cough, not only affected me, it woke the whole neighborhood and I downed some Benadryl hoping for remedy, if not for cough, at least for my insomnia.

Art by Vidya Chinappa

I can't even imagine, how I gathered courage to sit on that battered airplane that rattled it's way on the runway.  No glass windows. The windows were open.  The wind hit heavily and my ears buzzed with the force of wind and I had to keep my teeth pressed fearing a breathing difficulty.  The plane did take off.  I could see the crowded suburbs below me.  Several feet below.  The familiar weight hovering over my insides; the fear of heights.  I removed my glasses, the way we used to when we ride a roller coaster.  The air was getting colder.  Wished I had a wrap.  Jaws froze. When I believed I will break into two,  the airplane hicupped, stopped for a second, plunged down.  There were no screams, no warning from pilot, no air hostesses, no stewards, just me, not defying gravity accepting without choice.  There was a 'thud', the pilot maneuvered the plane on a terrace of the battered house.  I opened the door struggling, trying to feel my legs.  I was standing at the edge of terrace and alas! my head started to swim.  The woman in navy blue cotton sari (corporation uniform), pulled me back. I stared at her as she brushed me off, called out to the boys on the road with a nod. I stared. I shook myself when I realized the woman was talking to me. She was saying something about makeshift runway. Uh! Runway? She asked me to remove the grills that served as parapet wall of the terrace. Like an automaton, I tried shaking the grill hard and it loosened and I managed to remove one. Slowly I started to remove the rusted grills with bare hands.  I watched from the cloud above, watching me working, the woman commanding all the while wondering who that woman was, her tone quite colloquial.  She pried the driver seat open, hopped inside and started the plane to check if it still worked and the sound of engine, made her nod with satisfaction, she hopped back down. She made the boys fetch cardboard boxes, the grills, the cartons from a godown and arranged them to connect to the next house roof.  The street lights were used as pillars to support the make shift runway. She kept shouting we just got 10 more minutes.  She threw an oil container to a boy and asked him to get petrol, "just incase", I heard her say.  "OK", she called out. "Get in", she said to me and I nodded and got in.  She hopped into her seat again and started the engine, it spluttered but started. With a loud cheer from the kids, the airplane lifted like a chopper, not even using the make shift runway.  The glasses slowly raised itself to close the window, the not so distinct hum, the air hostesses started helping the passengers, a stylish English accent of a woman announcing the altitude, temperature outside while the seat belt warning lit up.  I reached for the seat belt, my rusty hands the only reminder that it wasn't a dream, as I looked at the fluffy clouds and distant lights announcing the arrival of the destination *indistinct murmur*. I turned to look at the European guy sitting at the aisle seat. I smiled trying to fish for a paper towel to clean my rusty hands if in case I land in London Heathrow... I couldn't feel my hands.  My brain stuffed with layers and layers of wool. I tried to peel one layer after other.  The continuous nag of that ringing.

I woke up, looked for my hand bag, my eyes falling on my phone, alarm ringing. 

Happy Birthday, Akka!

There are times when you are in a haste, slip to mention important people in your life, who made an impact.

Life has to be celebrated, when it deserves celebration.  To be mourned, when it deserves mourning.

It was on 2nd September, 1994, I stepped in to my husband's home for the first time.  A new bride, stepping with lots of love, hope, expectations, fear.  I was that.  The first one and half month was heaven, life went peaceful for all of us.  Later it was a tough period for all of us, with my mother in law's hospitalization and passing away.

For any bride in India, this can be considered an ill omen.   She can be taunted, troubled with remarks that can hurt for the life time.  Yes! there were couple of such remarks that did hit the mark then.  But, today when I look at it, I don't think those comments were meant to hurt me.  It was their loss of a dear one, passing away without much warning.  Even these trivial remarks were wiped away by my immediate family... i.e. my husband and two sisters.  They protected me, were by my side and made sure that I was safeguarded from the wags of tongue, till it was safe enough to venture out.

The small family that consisted of two sisters, my husband and me (Sucheeth, Supriya were kids.  Balaji, Rupal and Arvind were born and getting ready to enter our family.. Anirudh, Akshaya, Hiyaa yet to make their presence felt in this world :D).  Losing their father barely a year back didn't make this loss easy for them.  But,  the love they showered on me without any reservations is what I can always remember easily even after 22 years of my married life.

So, about this birthday girl.  What is so special about her?  Hemalatha the 24x7 sweet smiling woman, with a spirit that matches the infants.  Enthusiastic, always game for challenges, fighting them all and what more! Winning every one of these challenges.

The hospitality I always received at her home,  I doubt I can ever match her in the way she fed us,rather plied us with sweets, food, juices, savories.  By god, we always leave her home as if we were about to burst in our seams.

Hemalatha akka for me:

an optimist; a vibrant woman with loads of smile
a great intellect, who can carry conversations effortlessly even if it is PM of India.
an arts lover
a sport lover
someone who never shies of competition infact thrives on them.
a woman with great sense of humour; infact I love the harmless sarcasm in it.
someone blessed with a great voice, be it singing or reading news in AIR.
A mother hen for all of us, as I mentioned early, very protective and her love for everyone of us without any reservations is really astounding.

I could have neglected the fourth paragraph, on this auspicious day but for me it's all about people sticking by your side during tough times and not just during happy times.  It is not just Hemalatha akka, it's the family Deepa my other sister and my husband Suresh.  It's not too easy, to lose their mom, it was time for them to mourn but they sheltered me is something that made me love this family, with all my heart.  I may not be the person to express my love in words.  I always write about feelings and very rare I write about people.  But,  I wanted to today.  You might be sitting in a cabin at your office, far away akka, but I want you to know that you are here in all our hearts.

I would like to wish you a very happy Birthday, in my own way and my own style. A small poetry for you.

When monotony turns life in to boredom,
You looked at ways to celebrate the life,
Finding joy in simplest things,
Finding joy in multitudes and sharing them.

It's not easy, to smile always,
But, your name brings only your smiles to our minds..
People change, but you remain, the usual self.
The energy you absorb from, you give us back in multitudes.

Life has a knack to throw a curve at you,
You are equipped to handle it without a sway.
Taking a stride, that threatens some
The stride, that protects some..

I admire the way you live your life,
A world that you created for you and for us all..
Where you lead, love and cherish
A clan that your fiercely guard.

Happy Birthday, Super woman! May god bless you and all of us! Have a beautiful day and a successful year ahead!

wisdom comes with experience

At one, I learnt crawling was fun. At forty one, I still feel crawling is fun #blamemykneesnotme