Tin Fish and Sleeping Buddha

Morning:

A Tin fish
Swimming in silence
Pleaded
Buddha to deduce
Emerging dreams

Behind Buddha
A halo
Waiting to rest on his head

For a tin fish
An ocean is a dream
A pond is a dream
Water itself is a dream

Since
Nothing can quench his thirst.
Buddha never wanted
To comprehend
A liquid dream

Night:

There was a void between
Tin fish and water
Buddha and dreams

Meditating
Buddha doesn’t wanted
To infer a limpid void

Slowly the halo rested
On the stillness and
Knowing smile of Buddha

Away from water

Without answers
Tin fish
Slept with Buddha

He has created the heavens
And the earth
With the truth,
And has given you shape
And made your shapes
Beautiful: and to Him
Is the final Return

- The Holy Qur-an


God has endowed man with unique aptitudes, faculties and capacities which raise him at his best to the position of vicegerent on earth. The land between the sea and the trellis of water flowing into it – was a gift to him. Obscure memories form Paleolithic age to modern history made the sands of this town silver white. Alleppey, this quaint little town is gracefully old now.

A small seashore town. Cool, aromatic, salty, antique and regal. Two canals end to end of the township, roads and connecting bridges were its signature – quiet, beautiful like my grandma. Both were content, spiritual and loved and ruled us with their heart.

Call for prayer from the Mosques, smells of coir, old pepper, kitchen and salty heat were the day. It ended under the soothing old blanket of my grandma at night. I called her Angumma in my language. I was the favorite spoiled grandchild from an army of different aged grandchildren from her Kingdome. And stories at night were my privilege. My summer holidays were always filled with narrations of her past, Arabic and animal stories.

When about three, my schooling started at home on a Vidhayrambham Day by Teacheramma. She was old, tidy and scholarly and lived alone in a small house nearby. My youngest uncle was like a son to her and later a will bestowed all her possessions to him. As per tradition most of us young ones started writing the first letter on rice by her. Still I can hear Teacheramma’s faint laughter and smell of betel leafs emerging from the corners of our ancestral home. Speaking in a slight Tamil accent she too narrated stories and past. In our home, there were always an aura of art, music and literature.


My grandma lost her husband at a very young age. He died of tuberculosis, forcing her to live alone with seven small children. The youngest was only seven months old. Living in that big house, even with her brother was not easy. The scars those years were made etched to her eyes for ever. But with enormous will power she kept the life flowing for them. Seasons changed and children got settled but nobody understood the pain and fire she locked away in her core.

It was not the only resemblance of my town with my grandma. Like her, every mark of pain concealed, it lay confined to its past. Many times in my thoughts they merged inseparable, intervened and surged into the ocean like a stream of roads.

The town rain is a beautiful experience. Sea with mountain like waves, a lighthouse immense in its structure and drenched as a scarecrow, football fields with rain water, coconut trees, bridges – especially Muppalam – the three bridges together near the sea shore, canals, crows, cows, bicycles, cycle rickshaws with its insect like look, lazy people with beedies in their hands, school children with their sullen look, silence escaped from the old calm structures - all participating in the celebration of monsoon. As an artist molding sculptures in an enormous space, sky with its cloud exhilarated the ambience. Monsoon with its drizzle and fury made everything fresh and sparkling.

My grandma’s mood was always good when raining. She conversed with every drop and comforted them to settle in the new atmosphere of fresh earth. It was nature and mother speaking through the chatter of monsoon. She heard. She understood. She shared.