Iraivi, the evil in good hearts

Around 8 or 9 years ago, in a cozy home in Jubilee Hills, Hyderabad, Vaidehi and I had a conversation about her applying for a teacher’s job in Kodaikanal, in the Sholai internation school. We spoke of her working there and me, either working as a teacher with her or just sitting and writing. I don’t recall how the conversation ended, but I think it ended with a laugh about how absurd an idea it was. At least perhaps in my head.

Why?

Because, like the director Arul says in Iraivi’s climax, “Aambalai. Nedil. AAN... pen”.

This is not a movie. It is a magic mirror that when held to the face of society, shows all the tiny disgusting warts and pustules that we’ve nurtured in the name of tradition. It doesn’t bother itself with the gross manifestations of sexism and thereby ending up male bashing, which is what happens in most movies, be they “women-centric” or otherwise. We have heroes and heroines who take up cudgels (and in the case of heroes, the cudgels are literal) against rape, trafficking, dowry harassment, female infanticide and so on.

But what about the unwarranted pain that is created in the lives of people who lead seemingly happy normal lives by this demon? What about the harm that good people with good intentions inflict upon each other just because they are expected to act out their gender, their role.

That is the first point that Iraivi scores. Every single man in the movie is a good man, who loves the woman in life and as the ironic and poignant closing remark of Arul goes, “want to be happy”. For the first time since K.Balachander (whose influence is clearly acknowledged even before the title shows up) made movies, someone has made a movie concerning sexism and female oppression showing how it affects men as well. Had Arul been a woman, he wouldn’t have lost his life in the attempt to get his movie released. Had Michael, portrayed subtly by Vijay Sethupathi, been a woman, he would have never tried getting back to his earlier lover or put his loyalty to his employer over his family. Had Jegan been a woman, he would have never tried to ruin another man in an attempt to “rescue” the woman he loved. Men’s lives revolve around themselves and women’s around their bonds. We raise them to think and act like this and Iraivi in a tragedy that mirrors the work of both K.B. and Balu Mahendra shows the disastrous results of such conditioning.

The highlight of the movie as everybody is aware of now is the revelation of S.J.Surya as an actor. Playing a role that K.B.’s Rajnikanth or Kamal would have killed for, he shines in a manner that almost obliterates all the trashy movies he himself has directed. There is a sense of deliberation in all his actions, which aptly contrasts his irrational outbursts.

But there is equal credit due to Bobby Simha as well, who portrays his brother, the apparent voice of women’s rights, who correctly recognizes and empathizes with the travails of the ladies but comes up with the wrong panacea. It is good to see both him and Vijay Sethupathi not get carried away with the “mass” image that is being created for them and turn out solid performances.

Speaking of the ladies themselves, it is interesting that in a “female-centric” movie, they are in the backdrop. Yazhini and Ponni both merely go about their lives, trying to make sense of the chaos that is wreaked upon them by their men. It is possibly the character of Meenakshi, Arul and Jegan’s mother, that actually highlights this aspect of women being tossed about in the maelstrom of male actions - she is bed ridden by and is attended to by her repentant husband, but it is all too late, as it is for the other women too.

That is the other thing that makes Iraivi stand out, very much like the K.B. movies of yore. The movie has a strong plot, wonderfully etched out characters and engaging visuals while still delivering the message it set out to deliver. The sub-plot of idols of female deities being smuggled reinforces the message in a subtle manner - the men give a noble mission to their actions, that of rescuing the deities from languishing in oblivion and raising them to the pedestal where they belong. Karthik Subbaraj, take a bow sir.

The movie excels in editing and dialogues.

*SPOILER ALERT*

We are not spared the violence of Michael’s brutal murders, but when it comes to Michael himself being murdered, we don’t see it.

*SPOILER ALERT END*

Malar’s lines when she talks to Michael’s uncle are reminiscent of Kaivtha, played by Sujatha meeting her lover’s mother in Aval Oru Thodarkathai. Did I tell you the movie is heavily inspired by K.B.? :-) The closing lines of the movie will forever be etched in the hearts of every educated man and woman who sees it. The irony of the “Aambalai” dialogue which has so often be used in movies in the past for men to inflict violence upon men...Wow! The camera is at ease whether capturing the idyllic beauty of Ponni’s home town (Thirunelveli?) or the claustrophobic alleys of Madras. The background score aptly compliments the movie, but the songs are not much to write home about.

Go watch Iraivi if you haven’t yet. It is a movie that every man and woman must watch to learn from, to realize how male privilege, patriarchy and sexism destroys lives of men and women alike. It is a movie that every man and woman must watch, as early ass they can so that they can go beyond their roles and gender and try to do what they all actually want - to perhaps eke out a simple life as teachers and poets in kodaikanal...

to be happy...

Rama! Rama!

Dawn's eyes tremble on the eastern horizon.
A few early birds stretch their wings and look skywards with expectation.

On the sea shore,
Hanuman towers in Jambavan's eyes,
one brimming with pride, the other with awe.
The monkeys all shout "Ram! Ram!" celebrating victory already.
And Sampati totters about joining them.

In a far off forest,
Lakshman carves a path through the bushes
searching for Sita
thinking of Rama.

Outside Ayodhya,
Baratha forgets his morning ablutions chanting "Ram! Ram!!"
In Ayodhya,
Kousalya's breasts heave in her sleep, "Ram! Ram!"

Across the ocean,
Vibhishana wakes up and looks into his palm "Ram! Ram!".
Ravana stirs in his sleep and sighs in a musical note that resonates with Rama.

Now,
Hanuman folds his palms and closes his eyes.
He intones "Ram! Ram! Ram!" as his right foot takes off the ground for the leap.

Below the great Asoka tree, Sita sits in penance.
The leaves in her garden prison gently rustle as Hanuman leaps.
Sita does not waver.
She breathes in and out "Ram! Ram! Ram!"

The name is taken up by the wind and carried to the sea.
All of creation reverberates with Ram!

The sun rises.

Ram opens his eyes and sighs ‘Sita’.

Another moon

I saw another moon she says.

I consider correcting her, telling her that this was the same moon we saw before the bike turned left and headed out of the layout into the clearing.

But then is there really only one moon? The same moon chasing the same sun in her sable chariot night after night in an endless hunt?

Is there not a moon that appears as a dosai and is eaten away really slowly by a distracted god kid?

Is there not a moon which is actually a coin that some kid tossed too high before starting a game of cricket?

Is there not a moon that rains down cool nectar making the thousand petalled lotus bloom in the poet's mind?

Is there not a moon that burns with the fire of a thousand suns even on a winter night because the shoulders of beloved do not meet?

Is there not a moon that drips exquisite poison maddening a nervous heart and filling it with fantastic terrors?

Is there not a moon conspicuous by its absences, telling us tales of what might have been, of a future that is now orphaned with neither a past nor a present?

Is there not a moon that glows with ethereal beauty, whispering all the secrets of the universe that nobody ever sees or hears because our timid little hearts are buried in insignificant troubles?

So yes, my daughter, you are right.

We saw anana moon and we always will.

Jackfruit preserve

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

Would you like a recipe?

It doesn't start with the jackfruit.
It starts with you.

Ready?

Note book open?

Pen on the mark?

Oil your hands. Halve the fruit. Cut along the radial lines. Scoop the fruit out. Deseed, chop, boil, stir.
Sugar, stir. Salt, stir. Lemon juice, stir.
Boil, stir. stir, stir, stir, stir.
Pot in a jar. Serve on toast.

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

How do you recall the sheen of the oil?
How do you remember the symmetry of the radial lines?
How do you store the delightful stench that hits you even before the knife pierces the fruit?
How do you embalm the tenacious hold of the tenuous fibers?
How do you pot the exultation of freeing every last imprisoned fruit?

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

How do you store the tree's penance? The wisdom of the roots? The lucidity of the leaves? The passion of the rain? The love of the soil? The empty buzzing of the bees? The summer sun that pierced the fruit open with sensuous fingers?

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

Would you like a recipe?

It doesn't start with the jackfruit.
It starts with you.

With you forgetting the recipe,

forgetting to preserve;

forgetting yourself.

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

It starts with you forgetting the jackfruit.

The vampire's call

Behold! Behold! A pallid moon!
Its limpid light hypnotic swoon.
Afar, afar, some wolf does croon.
Awake! Awake! My bloom of June!

Alive and dead I'm split in twain.
I rest in boon and roam a bane.
I sing, I pray to gods profane.
Come, come to my hunger's refrain.

You pale white flower of winter snow.
You fertile bed left fallow.
My sickle's stalk honeyed meadow,
Take, take this seed that I do bestow.

Your lilting breasts they swing and sway.
Your gauzy robes they spread and splay.
Your eager feet tiptoe ballet.
Hark, hark, my willing reluctant prey.

Behold my eyes of crimson fire!
They light the path to taboo desire!
Your pain, your pleasure they fain inspire!
Kneel, kneel, my slave I am your sire!

Now bare your soul, yes, bare your neck!
That soft and taut and white white neck!
No, don't be scared, t'is but a peck.
Yield, yield, my girl yield to my beck!

O! Writhe and moan as I drain your bloom.
I grunt and growl "Hoom hoom! Hoom hoom!"
Your dreams, your fears forsooth consume.
Feed, feed pristine and endless flume.

Alas! Alas! The deed is wrought!
Another soul to evil brought.
A sweet pure bud that spring begot,
You fade, you fade and come to naught.

Sweet, close your eyes let sleep befall.
Avast! Avast! All life's cabal.
'Twixt tomb and womb languish my thrall.
Die, die, star spark...

until I call.

Abduct my Seetha

Why do you need covert plans and sinister strategms? A golden deer, a mendicant's bowl and a plan to abduct? Do you think she is a bottle of perfume locked in a cupboard to be anointed only a limited number of times? Do you think she is a draught of nectar that can only quench a single thirst, a single time? Have you not heard? She is her father's daughter, a soul of the soil. She is her country's princess, the body-less one. She is a jasmine bloom that shall exude fragrance till she drops to her mother's lap. She is a bubbling cascade that throws up water unmindful of anybody's thirst. Come to our hermitage then. Not at the crack of the dawn, at high noon or at dusk For I shall be lost in penance and she shall be lost in my penance. Come just after the sandhya and partake of our fruit and drink. I shall then go to gather some firewood. Talk to her and know her soul. She loves strumming her vina but is still an amateur. She likes listening to stories, especially those of the magical northern lands. She doesn't like ambition, so do not talk of your battle and wealth. She doesn't like harming animals, so do not talk of your love for meat. If you must indeed abduct her, then do it with your words, your heart and your soul. The flight in your vimana will be all the more pleasant if you are not distracted by her struggling or in battling guardian birds. But bear this in mind. She is not yours, not mine. The bow was not broken to make her mine, but to gain her respect. So, come, sit, talk and gain her respect. Then carry her away if she comes. But before that O wise ten headed one teach me to sing Vasanta, for she craves that in the evenings.

Till life does us apart

Death my queen! My one true love!

I ache, I pine for your caress.

Your kiss, your womb, your earthy cove

Sans thought, sans word, sans distress

My thought, my deed, my destiny

all swirl towards your fatal end.

My song, it swells to an elegy

always always its paths thus wend.

Life, the witch, the faerie queen

She has me in her trance like thrall.

Lust and angst and hope and spleen

like whips they fall in endless squall.

Her spells, her charms, her lifeless art,

they cast me like a leaf in breeze.

I float, I flit, I drift apart;

a sinking boat in shore-less seas.

She keeps me there at the brink of death,

teasing me with transient joy.

I die, I die and yet take breath.

Now a man now just a toy.

But I live, I hope and fain aspire.

For you are there Lethe's,[1] draught.

In all my work and all desire

T'is is you, t'is you, t'is you I sought.

So make my bed, my funeral pyre.

Tarry not, my beating heart.

The end is nigh, o nigh, my sire,

T'is only till life does us apart.

[1] - pronounced lee-the (rhyming with pithy)

Gods' death

I write a verse in bleeding red
The chaste god dies of lust
in the arms of the long nailed siren
trading principle for kisses,purity for pleasure.
Videha's princess is the forest queen
She toils in the day, dreams in the night
And at dusk strums the demon king's lyre.

I sing a song of soothing black.
The shepherd god never steps out of the sheep's pen.
He knows no battle, no stratagem, not a lie.
Herds in the morning, sings in the noon
and at dusk becomes hi beloved's footstool.
He ages, forgets and fades in oblivion.
He dies in sleep, a shepherd's son.

I sing a song of verdant green
The god of gods is but a grocer
His bounteous wife borrows to make ends meet
and loses sleep over her errant sons.
The elder is a glutton and the younger philanders.
Their home after all could be next to ours.

You, mortal, go ahead and
Worship
Build
Murder
in the name of your god.

I close my pen and put it away.
Endless gods die in its stillness.

தமிழில்

Ondhymandian, the spotted owl(et)

Ondhymandian had a big scowl
He looked unhappy and was afou(w)l
For he found it tough
To play blindman’s buff
As he was a tiny spotted owl

Note: Image sourced from https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Spotted_Owlet,_Athene_brama_indica_-_Flickr_-_Lip_Kee.jpg

Winter spring

Winter afternoon
I awake suddenly
Spring's dance on tree tops

Unknowing

Why all this talk of searching, of teaching and knowing?
What matters where we come from or where we are going?
Why speak of solace, of enlightenment, of being whole?
What do we see inside and outside, of body and soul?
Does the mango tree speak of roots and shoots and many sweet fruits?
Does the spring koel speak of notes and beats and many sweet tunes?
Sing my heart, if music sings to you
Bring forth a fruit, if water you drink true.
But speak not of it, nor try to know
Seek not for it wherever you go

For,

Those who fruit, those who sing
They know not music not what they bring.

Descent into darkness

Darkness! Darkness that stretches out to infinity and eternity!

And then my eyes open to darkness of a lesser nature. Darkness of mere mortal night, of mere mortal death.

I know not what sleep, death or spell brought me here. I lay supine, my eyes open staring at a lightless emptiness, my body unwilling to stir. Sediments of stupor cling to my tattered raiment. My chest feels heavy, crushed as though some impassioned lover held me in her desire's embrace. It suddenly dawns on me that I am no longer breathing. I panic into a voiceless scream that is swallowed up by whatever succubus sits on my chest. Fear lends my body motion and I sit up in cold sweat.

I am still not breathing.

I rub my eyes and try to pierce through the darkness. With no light to ally, my eyes beat a hasty retreat to the cave of my soul. My sight broods there in silent defeat. I see vague memories of a summer sun, fair open meadows and love's sport.

My love! My love!

Where is she? My goddess with shimmering robes that could barely contain her budding charms. My verdant spring with hair of sunlight, eyes of lilies, breasts of bounty and fertile hips that welcomed the ploughshare. Joyful love seemed to me when in her keeping was my heart as she lay asleep in my arms. And now I am but alone.

I try to cry, to give voice to pain and loss. But nothing happens. It dawns on me that I can't cry because there is no pain, no loss in my heart. I am only aware of her non-presence. No feeling. Only vague mirages of memory.

Now the spring turns into an autumn night. I feel a fierce pain in my chest, as if it were rent by the tusk of a monstrous beast. I hear the gurgle of a river that I cannot see, the harsh voice of a sordid man with his eyes like the hollows furnaces on fire, a hungry monstrous worm...

Then all fades away. Like fresh rain washing away the muddy earth, I recall naught.

Then I see her. I see her eyes.

They shine like a lone evening star in the firmament of a moonless sky. From the light of her eyes mine get sight.

She stands by a window of frosted glass. Her majestic height is a striking counterpoint to the infinite langour of her poise. Her skin is the shade of an afternoon sun under an ancient tree. Her tresses are luxuriantly black rippling down in sable streams. She is robed in naught but this rayless cascade of night.

But she is not a vision of beauty that is. She is beauty that was. Her eyes shine with the light of a star that has been long dead. Her breasts are full with youth as the defy the downward pull of age, and yet the heave with sighs of unrequited desires. Her lips are luscious red flower petals, but even without kissing them I know they are cold to touch and yield no sweet nectar.

And then I see her hand.

Curled like the tremulous tendril of a creeper that holds a flower of beauty too flame-like her hand bears a pomegranate. A ripe red fruit whose every seed bears the immense allure of sadness.

I lick my lips as an immense hunger comes over me. It seems as though I have never eaten, not since I was born, not since the universe was born. Hunger now pushes me forward as I move on my knees to her.

She looks at me with infinite pity in her eyes...and yet...and yet...there is a hint of malice in them. That spark of malice travels down her supple shoulders to her lissome fingers. Her cruel nails cut the fruit open in tantalizing agony. The fruit bleeds crimson juice.

Then it dawns on me.

I breath no more...

Fierce pain...

The monstrous beast and its hunt...

And finally, the alabaster tusk ripping through like a pomegranate cut with an ivory knife...

I have no heart, I have no life. Cold is my body and wan are my thoughts. She holds my heart, my living heart, this goddess. Her cruel finger pries it open even as it nestles in her loving palm. I look on ashamed as her baleful eyes gaze into my open heart. She sees it all.

And then she turns my gaze on me. I tremble in fear for I know what is coming. But there is still hope.

For one moment she looks at me with great kindness. Her eyes cool to a moonlike pity as though she would spare me. But as her slender arm stretches out, I know it is not the pity of the tormentor that spares the victim, but pity of one victim that knows what another endures and yet inflicts it without mercy.

Her arm droops like a dying flower, the fruit hanging like a laden cloud above me from the very skies.

"I bid you eat this burning heart..." her icy command resonates off the darkness that engulfs us.

I know all that comes now. If I but refuse, I may go back to light, to spring and the summer sun. Even now, despite the aeons and leagues that separate us I see my goddess of light, her breasts leaning forward to my lips calling out to me, warning me not to taste what is offered. Fro one bite, one taste of the tiniest seed of darkness from this heart fruit would bind me to this sable goddess forever. The world shall still walk over the cool grass and drink of the living stream, but I shall remain here in eternal repose, buried deep in the cold loins of this queen who carries only memories of innocence.

A moment passes that is longer than the eternity of any god.

And then I stumble forward sinking my teeth into my own burning heart. She draws me close as I feed. I look up into her eyes and see that I am now suckling on her soft breasts. I am on her lap, her hands on my head guiding me into those ripened fruits that spew sweet bile, tears and blood into my hungry lips. Her hand ruffles my hair and her eyes shine with the pity of the Virgin Mother.

And then she cries. She doesn't shed tears for she becomes tears. She is now a river that washes over me cleaning the dregs of memory that remained. The furious screams of my spring goddess who has been cheated of her love, her prize are on longer heard. Life itself which just a while ago seemed like a nebulous dream is now erased without as much a trace of its existence.

All goes silent now as I clutch and drink of her breasts. Rest, repose and peace. Nothing stirs.

Nothing except for the faint echo of my queen's voice that is at once hateful, sad and triumphant.

"My prince... my prince..."