tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205754602024-03-13T06:14:47.203+05:30pirainilavnaan
yen nila
yen kadalpirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-2484686625254011562008-06-05T17:31:00.003+05:302008-06-05T17:53:16.128+05:30<span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >lock up stories </span><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;"> </p> <h2 style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">repeat offender with a silver touch</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkmk3bw4WnXYStz5Y-g2wNj1DZIcQHU3smpizSPOIMuX3RpFHwtid7mlEwCHmx6fuDsE2EF7oSCwgDgug1BfReoBLNVcTGUA7wGxLy1RwWJqwzNj9bq6ylsoBZV8-wl1-q6eTB0w/s1600-h/untitled.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkmk3bw4WnXYStz5Y-g2wNj1DZIcQHU3smpizSPOIMuX3RpFHwtid7mlEwCHmx6fuDsE2EF7oSCwgDgug1BfReoBLNVcTGUA7wGxLy1RwWJqwzNj9bq6ylsoBZV8-wl1-q6eTB0w/s400/untitled.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208371428616590706" border="0" /></a></span></h2><h2 style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" ><span style=";font-size:100%;" ><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" spt="75" preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"> </v:formulas> <v:path extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" connecttype="rect"> <o:lock ext="edit" aspectratio="t"> </v:shapetype><v:shape id="Pc0020800" spid="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" alt="" style="'width:228pt;height:318.75pt'"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\CPR\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg" href="http://epaper.timesofindia.com/Repository/getimage.dll?path=TOICH/2008/06/05/2/Img/Pc0020800.jpg"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></h2> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">This is the story of a petty offender’s 42-year-long romance with prisons. ‘Silver’ Srinivasan first saw the inside of a jail in 1966. He was arrested for stealing a silver tumbler from a marriage party in Tiruchi. Since then, he has been involved in more than 100 cases and jailed almost as many times. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Now aged 72, he has spent more time in jail than outside it, say advocates and jail authorities who know him well. But ‘Silver,’ as he is affectionately known among fellow prisoners and authorities, has his principles. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Rule number one is that he only steals silver articles. “If I come across about 100 sovereigns of gold, I either leave the entire lot untouched or take just one or two sovereigns. If I take away the entire booty, the family would be completely ruined. But not many would go to the police for the loss of one or two sovereigns, especially if the rest of the jewellery is intact.”<br /><o:p></o:p><br />What if it is silver? “Then I lift the entire lot,” he told an advocate some time back. He fondly recalled a time he was making off with 40 kg of silver. “I was carrying the booty with great difficulty, and a remand prisoner who was being taken back to prison by police escorts recognised me and shouted ‘Silver’. I had to bribe him to ensure he did not reveal my identity.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""></span>Rule number two is that he only targets the homes of Brahmin families. A Srirangamborn Iyengar, ‘Silver’ told a judicial magistrate that he was ashamed of himself after he was first convicted in 1966. Once he was out of Tiruchi Central Prison, he headed to a nearby mutt and confessed to the crime. He told them he wanted to ‘go straight’ and sought a job in the mutt. ‘Silver’ says he was thrown out of the mutt — and thus decided to make Brahmin families pay. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Rule number three is he never contests charges. Every time he is arrested, ‘Silver’ waits a couple of months and then pleads guilty and gets a minor sentence. After a few months behind bars, he gets out and heads back to plan his next heist.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Dressed in a white veshti and speaking with a Brahminical accent, ‘Silver’ looks more like a well-dressed cook than a habitual offender. He usually targets women, pretending to be a distant relative or a friend. He then makes off with the booty before they realise they are being duped, says an advocate who has known ‘Silver’ for many years.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Very little is known about ‘Silver’s family. Prison sources say he has two daughters. The elder one holds an MBA and is employed, while the younger is said to be pursuing her MBA.<br /><br />His conduct in jail? “Perfect,” says a jail official. In fact, most officials prefer to have him as an orderly as he assists them with their work promptly. Special public prosecutor for the human rights court V Kannadasan said ‘Silver’ had promised to turn over a new leaf after his release in March. “He is not to be seen now. Maybe he is lodged in some other prison,” he says.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">credits: subramani, times of india.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span class="a"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"> www.epaper.</span><b style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">timesofindia</b><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">.com</span> </span></span> </p>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-74617133342862141262008-05-23T14:03:00.002+05:302008-05-23T14:09:07.667+05:30<h2 style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">it's useless getting nowhere on time</span> <o:p></o:p></span></h2> <h2 style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-weight: normal;">mukul sharma <o:p></o:p></span></h2> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">HERE’S a good pop-psychology sort of New Age advice: “<i style=""><u>Take a walk — but don’t go anywhere</u></i>. If you walk just to get somewhere, you sacrifice the walking.” The homily basically exhorts us to try and get out of the rut of a programmed existence where we always need to reach a given destination. As it’s quite clear, they’re not talking about physical activity of moving from A to B but even things like a treadmill. Because on those machines too we usually pace ourselves to get to a point — perhaps a higher calorie shedding count, faster stride rate or an ultimately elevated heart beat. In the process the “walk - ing”, the actual the thing that happens in the spaces between events, people and places is lost. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p></o:p>Which is a shame because it reduces us to a connect-the-dots kind of lifestyle that overlooks the importance of the lines separating the dots or bringing them together. One can’t exist without the other. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Here’s another cool sounding bit of guidance of the same variety: “<i style=""><u>Give yourself permission to be late sometimes. Life is for living, not scheduling</u></i>.” True, and pithily put. Again, it’s not really about appointments, interviews or trysts, where other people are involved who could be cheesed off by your unpunctuality, thus resulting — more often than not — in you emerging the greater loser in the bargain for being perceived as undependable, apathetic or insensitive. But, like, what is it with people who make a fetish of being on time for responding, questioning, understanding or sometimes even “being there” for someone? Because, that just means we’re being driven by outside controls, not necessarily listening to an inner voice or desire. <br /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">However, it’s interesting to note that a better proposition can be arrived at by combining the two counsels. For instance, a Zen way of looking at the same thing would be to say: “Take a walk — but don’t go anywhere. And while you’re at it, give yourself permission to be late sometimes.” After all who could possibly want to get nowhere in a hurry? In other words, going with the flow may be a great way to go on the river of life but it still reaches you to the delta punctually, and always on that river’s own preordained schedule. Meanwhile what happens to you besides being all at sea after that? But if one doesn’t let it all go at once and holds back from time to time, one could even reach places where others have never gone before.<o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">credit: cosmic uplink, economic times</span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p></o:p></span>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-41812910040277941342008-05-22T19:03:00.001+05:302008-05-22T19:06:20.898+05:30<h2 style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">walk in the rain</span> <o:p></o:p></span></span></h2> <h3 style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-weight: normal;">As we embrace the gentle rain and the small sprinklings of life, we prepare ourselves by learning the lessons the heavens give us at the perfect time, and place, says Marlene Buffa <o:p></o:p></span></span></h3> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The rain in our life brings opportunities for growth. Be still sad heart and cease repining; Behind the clouds the sun is shining, Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life a little rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. — Longfellow<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style=""></span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Whenever it rains, i am reminded of what my father always said. “You won’t get wet. Just run in between the raindrops, and you will be just fine.” I also think of that saying when life rains down hard on me and i wonder how to dodge the drops, then, too. Daddy’s gentle and humorous confidence that life always worked out for the best instilled in me the same optimism and joyful outlook on life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">When we realise that the inevitable rain showers come and go in our lives no matter how much we try to avoid the dampness of the moment, we find comfort and a sense of content understanding when we look behind the clouds of circumstance and know the sunshine of possibility never left our world. <br /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Life lessons, like the rain in our lives, offer us both pleasant and unpleasant experiences. We recognise that life’s challenges, much like precipitation, bring opportunities for growth, but only when the soil of our consciousness absorbs the lesson. <br /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">If we put up umbrellas of protection from the majesty of life falling down on us, we negate the possibility of receiving new information and therefore, deny progression towards our greater good. Yet, if we look up to the sky and willingly allow the inevitable rain to reach us, we may indeed get wet in the torrent of blessings disguised as a dark cloud teaching us valuable lessons. <br /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Only when we walk in the rain, with its glorious thunder and lighting and life-sustaining water, do we embrace the possibility of moving through it and accepting the blessings it brings. When it rains, it pours. I live in the desert southwest of the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>. When i first arrived, over 13 years ago, and the sunshine welcomed me over 300 days each year, i felt cheated if overcast skies darkened my mood. It took a while, but now i welcome the cloud cover, with anticipation that it may provide life-giving rain to our arid landscape. Many times, the high clouds, filled with water, unleash their cache of moisture into the atmosphere, and we still don’t get rainfall. <br /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">At times in our lives, we experience drought or downpour. We complacently go from day to day, enjoying our bliss. All the while, somewhere, the rain builds, but it avoids hitting us directly. We see the accumulation of problems and feel the residual effects of the gathering storm, but we don’t experience the outburst directly. And then, when the skies open up and problems pour down on us, we use different methods, like prayer or coping mechanisms, to assist us in redirecting the conflict away from us, for a better use. Like weather, does God give us an all or nothing presentation of life's challenges? Sometimes, it seems that way. <br /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Unlike a waterfall, rain falls to earth in droplets. One little lesson at a time, we feel soaked in life’s education, yet we must remember what’s in between the drops themselves. My father’s gentle advice to run in between the drops meant that while we experience the downpour of life, the way to cross the street to a sunny side of positive outcome, is to take advantage of those brief moments and spaces in time — between the drops — and take a breath of air to assess what’s happening, then move on to the next challenge. He never claimed it wouldn’t rain, he just pointed out to mitigate the effects of the harshness of life, move deliberately and quickly from one challenge to the next. The power lies between the drops. Eventually, the rain stops, and the sun peeks out again from behind the clouds of ordeal. Put away your umbrella. Whenever i tell my woes to my friend Ann, she gently reminds me that the situation i’m describing exists to teach me a lesson. <br /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">I can’t learn the lesson if i avoid it, i must walk through it. If we repeatedly put up umbrellas to block the lessons from touching our lives, we never experience the purpose of the education and we must suffer repeated exposure to the challenge. <br /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Like the weather, we control very little of what rains down on us. When we divert or ignore the problems in our lives, they return with fervor, like the microburst, and flood our consciousness with such powerful lessons, we can’t turn deny the issues swirling at our feet, threatening our demise. <br /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">As we embrace the gentle rain and the small sprinklings of life happening from time to time, we prepare ourselves by learning slowly and completely the lessons the heavens give us at the perfect time and place, and in the perfect order. Rain, like life's ordeals, gives us nourishment, and is necessary for growth. Without the existence of the dark clouds and humidity, the sunshine in our lives may be taken for granted. <br /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Celebrate your life between the dark clouds and wet air, and know if you move with speed and deliberation and learn from the storms in your life, the clouds eventually move on. Everything in life is temporary. Difficulties really do evaporate with time. Your true power is found between the trickles of misfortune, in the awareness of your ability to move from one challenge to the next.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">credit: times of india</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-36486362577624991172008-03-31T12:24:00.002+05:302008-03-31T12:35:11.483+05:30<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">Being in Twenties Something …</span> </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It is when you stop going along with the crowd and start realizing that there are many things about yourself that you didn't know and may not like. You start feeling insecure and wonder where you will be in a year or two, but then get scared because you barely know where you are now. </span></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">You start realizing that people are selfish and that, maybe, those friends that you thought you were so close to aren't exactly the greatest people you have ever met, and the people you have lost touch with are some of the most important ones. What you don't recognize is that they are realizing that too, and aren't really cold, catty, mean or insincere, but that they are as confused as you. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">You look at your job... and it is not even close to what you thought you would be doing, or maybe you are looking for a job and realizing that you are going to have to start at the bottom and that scares you. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Your opinions have gotten stronger. You see what others are doing and find yourself judging more than usual because suddenly you realize that you have certain boundaries in your life and are constantly adding things to your list of what is acceptable and what isn't. One minute, you are insecure and then the next, secure. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">You laugh and cry with the greatest force of your life. You feel alone and scared and confused. Suddenly, change is the enemy and you try and cling on to the past with dear life, but soon realize that the past is drifting further and further away, and there is nothing to do but stay where you are or move forward. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">You get your heart broken and wonder how someone you loved could do such damage to you. Or you lie in bed and wonder why you can't meet anyone decent enough that you want to get to know better. Or maybe you love someone but love someone else too and cannot figure out why you're doing this because you know that you aren't a bad person. You want to settle down for good because now all of a sudden that becomes top priority. Getting wasted and acting like an idiot starts to look pathetic.You begin to think a companion for life is better than a hundred in the shack and for once you would not mind standing tall for that special someone which otherwise you had never thought of until now.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">You go through the same emotions and questions over and over, and talk with your friends about the same topics because you cannot seem to make a decision. You worry about loans, money, the future and making a life for yourself... and <span style="color:#cc0000;">while winning the race would be great, right now you'd just like to be a contender!</span></span><span style="color:#cc0000;"> </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#cc0000;">credit: internet</span></div>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-67875424142944426542008-03-12T15:41:00.004+05:302008-03-12T15:54:27.743+05:30<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">Keeping pace with turtles!</span> </span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">We drove down a narrow, dusty path that leads to the Panaiyur beach. Once we alighted from the car, darkness enveloped us and I wasn’t too sure if I really wanted to do this. There was an uneasy calm and the only sound was the lashing of waves against the shore. Being a sucker for horror movies, I half expected to see a lady in white strolling around. </span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Earlier, it had taken an hour’s drive to reach Dr. Supraja Dharini’s house. She is the founder and Chairperson of the Tree Foundation, an NGO which works in collaboration with the Tamil Nadu Wildlife Department for the protection of sea turtles and their hatchlings. Supraja is my guide for the evening and we were joined by a few volunteers from the Tree Foundation and a couple of other turtle enthusiasts. Soon we set out on our turtle walk adventure.</span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><u><span style="color:#cc0000;">Place of action</span></u> </span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">On reaching the beach, we first headed to the hatchery where turtle eggs are kept in incubation in a protected environment. A grid is made with ropes and the squares with numbers contain the turtle eggs. “The incubation period is usually 48 to 55 days. The emerging temperature for the male hatchling is 25 to 30 degrees while for the female it is 31 to 36 degrees,” explained Supraja. A few hatchlings had emerged that morning and a few more were expected to hatch that night. We waited for a while for the hatchlings to arrive but, in vain. We then started walking along the shore on our quest to see turtles laying eggs. On second thoughts the place wasn’t as spooky as it had seemed earlier, it was actually quite romantic. The ink blue sea with sporadic flashes of light from ships looked magnificent. The wind blew by whispering its little secrets into my ears. </span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">At first, all we could see were crabs scuttling about. Impatient, I aimlessly drew figures on the sand. Every time I drew a line something blue would glow in the sand. “Those are bio-luminescent organisms,” said Arivazhagan, one of the volunteers. “Some living organisms release light as a result of chemical reaction during which the chemical light is converted to light energy,” he explained seeing the blank look on our faces. All of us then enthusiastically started drawing on the wet sand, highly amused by the blue radium-like luminescence. Supraja put one of them on my hand and it glowed like a Swarovski tattoo. What joy! </span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Meanwhile, a thorny spine ball washed ashore caught our attention. I was about to touch it when a volunteer interrupted, “Don’t, it is a dead porcupine puffer fish and its spines are poisonous.” We then stumbled upon two dead eels but no turtles. I began to give up hope and pestered the others to walk back but they seemed interested to walk further. I had no other option but to tag along. On interacting a little more with Supraja I learnt that Olive Ridley turtles always go back and lay eggs on the coast where they were born. “It is almost like a girl or woman going back to her maternal village for a safe child birth. This is known as Natal nesting,” she informed.</span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><u><span style="color:#cc0000;">Worth the walk</span></u> </span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Another fifteen minutes of walking and then we saw it. There it was throwing out sand with its flippers, putting in as much strength as possible. It was an Olive Ridley making its nest to lay eggs. Soon after the nest was made, the laying process started. One after the other she laid sparkling white eggs into her pot shaped nest. We were asked to stay still and remain silent. While she elegantly sat there like a prima donna, we huddled around, letting our eyes do all the talking as we excitedly looked at each other. Soon it was time to leave, we waved good bye to the turtle, which gave us a lazy look, as we walked in front of her, and continued doing what she was doing with great panache. </span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I got into the car, tired and sleepy but only too happy to have witnessed something which I would otherwise have seen only on Discovery channel.</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">credits:</span> The Hindu Metro Plus. </span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><a href="http://www.hindu.com/mp/2008/03/12/stories/2008031250130100.htm">http://www.hindu.com/mp/2008/03/12/stories/2008031250130100.htm</a></span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">Author:</span> </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Priyadarshini Paitandy, The Hindu </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong>To join the walk contact Tree foundation </strong></span><a href="http://www.treefoundationindia.org/"><span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong>http://www.treefoundationindia.org/</strong></span></a> </span></p>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-40056713287826965042008-03-12T14:51:00.003+05:302008-03-12T15:56:36.975+05:30<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><a href="http://gayatri8782.blogspot.com/2007/08/blog-post.html"><span style="color:#cc0000;">மழை சாட்சியாய்.....</span></a> </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">நேற்று மாலை பேருந்தின் ஜன்னலோரப் பயணத்தின்போது வழக்கம் போல உன் நினைவு வந்தது. தொலைதூரப் பயணங்கள் எப்போதுமே சுகமானவைதான் இல்லையா? அவசர அவசியங்கள், செய்துமுடிக்க வேண்டிய பொறுப்புகள் ஏதுமின்றி சாலையோர மரங்களையும் கடந்துபோகும் மனிதர்களையும் வெறுமனே வேடிக்கை பார்த்தபடியிருக்கலாம். சேருமிடம் வரும் வரையில் நாம் செய்யக்கூடியதென எதுவும் இருக்காது, விரும்பியதை சிந்தித்திருத்தலைத் தவிர. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">அதிலும் பக்கத்து இருக்கைப் பெண்களின் முழங்கை உரசல்கள், அநாவசிய விசாரிப்புகள், எரிச்சலூட்டும் நெருக்கங்கள் ஏதுமின்றி தன்னந்தனியே ஒற்றை இருக்கையில் சாய்ந்து கொண்டு, கம்பீரமாய் நகர்வலம் போவதாய் கற்பித்துக் கொள்வதும், கூடுதலாய் உன் நினைவுகளைத் துணைக்கழைத்துக் கொள்வதும் வெகு செளகரியமானதும் கூட. நேற்றைய மாலைப்பொழுது இதுவரை சந்தித்திருந்த சாயந்திர வேளைகளை விடவும் மிக அழகாயிருந்தது. ஒவ்வொரு மாலையும் ஏற்படுத்தும் அதே பிரமிப்பு.. அதே கிளர்ச்சி.. அதே ஆனந்தம். ஆனால் ஒவ்வொரு நாளும் தனித்துவமாய்...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">மேகங்கள் வெகு சோகமாய் ஒன்றுகூடி கருமையாய் திரண்டிருந்தன, அழப்போவதன் அறிகுறியாய் உதடு பிதுக்கும் குழந்தை போல. உப்பிய மேகங்களின் உள்ளே தளும்பிக் கொண்டிருந்தது வானத்தின் கண்ணீர்! லேசாய் புன்னகைத்துக் கொண்டேன். நானும் கூட இப்படித்தான்.. உன்னுடன் ஊடல் கொண்டாடும் பொழுதுகளில், சண்டைகள் தீர்ந்து சமாதானம் பேச விழைகையில், சிறிய பிரிவுகளுக்குப் பின்னான விரும்பத்தக்க சந்திப்புகளில் இதோ.. இந்த மேகங்களைப் போலத்தான்... உணர்வுகள் பொங்க... கண்கள் ததும்ப.. மெளனமாய் உதடுகடித்தபடி நின்றிருப்பேன்.... எந்த நேரமும் அனைத்தையும் கொட்டித் தீர்த்துவிடக் கூடிய அபாயங்களோடு! உன்னைச் சந்தித்த பின்னாய்... எத்தனை கணங்கள் அந்த தவிப்பை என்னால் காத்துநிற்க முடிந்ததென்பதை ஒருமுறை கூட அனுமானிக்க முடிந்ததில்லை.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">சிறிது நேரத்தில் என்னைப் போலவே கட்டவிழ்ந்து கொட்டத் தொடங்கிவிட்டன மேகங்களும். மண்ணைத் தொட்டுத் தழுவும் வேட்கையோடு, இரண்டறக் கலந்துவிடும் ஆவேசத்தோடு, தீராக் காதலோடு, எதையோ முடிவிற்குக் கொண்டுவரும் தீர்மானத்தோடு சீராய்ப் பெய்து கொண்டிருந்தது மழை. மண்வாசனையும் மழைஸ்பரிசமும் உண்டாக்கிய கிளர்வில் அவசரமாய் கவிதையொன்று எழுதுவதற்கான பரபரப்பு எழுந்தது என்னுள். ஆனால்..மடை திறந்த வெள்ளத்தில் அலைபாயும் மீன்களென பிடிகொடுக்காமல் நழுவியபடியிருந்தன சொற்கள். மேகமாய் மிதக்கும் மனது, சாலையில் தேங்கிய மழைநீரில் சிந்தி வண்ணங்களாய்க் குழம்பும் எண்ணெய் போல, கலைவதும் சேர்வதுமாய் கண்களில் மின்னி மறையும் உன் பிம்பம்.. காற்றைக் கிழித்தபடி பேரிரைச்சலாய் விரையும் பேருந்து... இந்த நிமிடங்களே எப்போதும் சாஸ்வதமாயிருந்தால் எத்தனை சுகமாயிருக்கும் என்று அபத்தமாய் ஒருமுறை நினைத்துக் கொண்டேன்.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">திடுமென, எப்போதும் என்னைப் பற்றித் தொடர்ந்தபடியும் என்னை நிரப்பியபடியும் இருக்கும் உன் சொற்கள் பற்றிய நினைவெழுந்தது.<br />உண்மை தான்.. எப்போதும் என்னைச் சுற்றி திரும்பிய பக்கமெல்லாம் உன் சொற்களே சூழ்ந்திருக்கின்றன. சொற்கள்.. ஏராள அர்த்தங்களை, துல்லியமான உணர்வுகளை, சில அதிர்ச்சிகளைச் சுமந்தபடி அலையும், சிந்திக்கும் போதெல்லாம் என்னை இல்லாமலாக்கும், அபாயமும் ஆதிக்கமும் மிகுந்த உன் சொற்கள்! சில நேரங்களில் எனக்கென்றே கூரிய வார்த்தைகளைப் பிரயோகிப்பாய் நீ. பழம் நறுக்குகையில் கை தவறுவது போல சரேலென மனதைக் கீறிப் போகும் வார்த்தைகள். என்றபோதும் அதையும் நான் விரும்புவதாகவே உணர்கிறேன். உன் பிம்பமே சொற்களால் ஆனது தானோ என உறக்கம் தொலைந்த பின்னிரவுகளில் நான் பலமுறை எண்ணிக் கொள்வதுண்டு. எப்படி இப்ப்ப்படி பேசுகிறாய் நீ? எவ்வளவு பேசுகிறாய்.. சந்தித்த நாள் முதலாய் என்னவெல்லாம் பேசியிருப்பாய் என்னிடம்? அல்லது எதைத்தான் பேசிக் கொள்ளவில்லை நாம்? நீ பேசிப் போனவற்றை மீண்டும் எடுத்துப் பார்க்கும்போதெல்லாம் பிரியத்தால் மனம் கசிய பிரமிப்பும் கர்வமுமே எஞ்சுகிறது என்னுள். </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">மழை வேகமெடுத்தது. ஜன்னல் வழியாய் சாரல் வடிவில் நுழைந்து வேகமாய் நனைத்தது என்னை. யோசித்துத் தடுக்க முனைவதற்குள் முழுவதுமாய் நனைந்திருந்தேன். கோபம் வந்தது.. "அறிவுகெட்ட மழையே.. நான் என்னென்ன காரியங்கள் செய்ய வேண்டியிருக்கிறது, எங்கெல்லாம் போக வேண்டியிருக்கிறது.. எதுவும் தெரிந்து கொள்ளாமல், இப்படித்தான் காலநேரமின்றி நனைத்துத் தொலைப்பாயா முட்டாளே?" திட்டலாம் தான்! கடிந்துகொண்டால் மழை என்ன கண்டுகொள்ளவா போகிறது?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">நீயும் இப்படியே தான்! என் லட்சியங்கள், தீர்மானங்கள், விருப்பங்கள், முடிவுகள்... எதுவும் என்றுமே உனக்கு ஒரு பொருட்டாய் இருந்ததில்லை. மழைதான் நீயும்! எதிர்கொண்டணைப்பதில், எதிர்பாராமல் நனைப்பதில், எதிர்பார்க்கும் போது ஏமாற்றம் தருவதில் மழையே தான் நீ! நிறைய்ய சந்தோஷங்களையும் அநேக தொல்லைகளையும் ஒரே நேரத்தில் ஒன்றாய்த் தர உங்களிருவரால் மட்டும்தான் முடிகிறது!!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">நம் முதல் சந்திப்பு நினைவிருக்கிறதா உனக்கு? எப்படி மறந்துவிட முடியும்? அன்றைய தினமே.. அது மறந்துவிட முடியாத, மறந்துவிடக் கூடாத தினமென்று உறுதிப்படுத்திக் கொண்டோம் இல்லையா? முதன் முதலாய் உனக்கென்று கவிதை எழுதி உன்னிடம் காண்பித்த போது.. சொல்லும் முன்பாகவே அதிலிருந்த உன் அடையாளங்களைக் கண்டு கொண்டாய்! "கவிதையின் பின்புலம் யார்? நானா?" என்றபடி நெகிழ்ச்சியாய் என் விரல்களைப் பற்றிக் கொண்டாய். அந்த தொடுதல் அதிகாலை நேரப் பூக்களைப் போல மென்மையாய் தண்ணென்றிருந்ததாய் நினைவு எனக்கு.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">உனக்கும் எனக்குமிடையே நிகழ்ந்து கொண்டிருப்பது என்னவென்பதை ஆராய்வதிலோ தெளிவுபடுத்திக் கொள்வதிலோ பெரிதாய் ஆர்வமில்லை என்னிடம். என்ன இப்போது? உலகின் கேள்விகளுக்கு பதிலிறுத்தல் அத்தனை அவசியமான ஒன்றா? அவரவர் பார்வை மற்றும் கற்று வைத்திருக்கும் ஒழுக்க விதிகளுக்கேற்ப பரிசுத்தமான அன்பு, தெய்வீகக் காதல், அப்பட்டமான காமம், கண்ணியமான நட்பு, சகோதர பாசம், வெற்று இனக்கவர்ச்சி.. இன்னும் என்னென்ன கர்மங்களாகவோ வார்த்தைகளால் நம்மை வகைப்படுத்திக் கொள்ளட்டும். நமக்கென்ன நஷ்டமாகிவிடப் போகிறது? இவற்றிற்கெல்லாம் அப்பாற்பட்டு நமக்கென்று புதிதாய் ஒரு வார்த்தை கண்டுபிடிக்கப்படும்போது அதில் நம்மை வகைப்படுத்திக் கொள்ளலாம். அதுவரையில் இவர்கள் இப்படியே கத்திக் கொண்டிருக்கட்டும் விடு.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">இப்போதெல்லாம் உன் மீதான பிரியங்கள் வளர்ந்து கொண்டேயிருக்கின்றன. அன்பினை சுமக்கவியலாமல் தள்ளாடுகையில் 'பிரிந்து விடலாமா' என்று கூட யோசிக்கத் தோன்றுகிறது. அளவிற்கு மிஞ்சினால் அன்பும் கூட நஞ்சுதானோ? என்ன? புன்னகைக்கிறாயா? தெரியும் எனக்கு. பிரிவென்றாலும் கூட உன்னால் புன்னகைக்க முடியும் என்று. தெரியுமா? இந்த சில நாட்களாய் உன்னிடம் பேசப்பிடிப்பதில்லை எனக்கு. உனக்கென்ன.. பேசி விட்டு போய்விடுகிறாய். நீ பேசிப்போன பின்பாய் நீ விட்டுச் சென்ற வார்த்தைகள் என் மிச்சங்களைக் கூட விட்டு வைப்பதில்லை. கூடு கலைந்த கோபத்தில் படையெடுத்துவரும் தேனீக்களைப் போல அவை என்னை துரத்தியபடியே இருக்கின்றன.. காதுகளில் ஓயாத ரீங்காரம். தாங்க முடியவில்லை என்னால். </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">மயக்கத்திலாழ்த்துவதும் உலுக்கியெழுப்புவதுமாய் இருவேறு நிலைகளில் செயல்பட்டபடி உன் வார்த்தைகள் என்னைக் கலைத்துப் போடுகின்றன தினமும். போதுமெனப் படுகிறது. உலகம் முழுவதையும் நேசிப்பதற்கான மாபெரும் அன்பு சுமந்து வீடு துறந்த சித்தார்த்தனைப் போன்றே மனம் கொள்ளாப் பிரியங்களுடன் இப்போதே உன்னை பிரிந்துவிடத் தோன்றுகிறது. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">என்னிடம் மிகைப்படுத்தல்கள் அதிகமென எப்போதும் குற்றம் சாட்டுவாய் என்னை. உண்மைதான். சில பூக்கள் மென்மையான தென்றலில் கூட உதிர்ந்து விடுவதுண்டு. இந்த கணம் உன்னைப் பிரிவதற்கென்று என்னிடம் காரணங்கள் ஏதுமில்லை.. பிரிந்து விடலாம் என்ற எண்ணம் தவிர. நீயும் இதைத் தான் சொல்வாயென நினைக்கிறேன். 'அய்யோ, பிரிவதா உன்னையா?' என்பது போன்ற ஆபாசக் கூச்சல்களோ, 'நீயில்லன்னா செத்துருவேன்' என்பதான அபத்தமான வசனங்களோ நம்மிடம் இல்லாதிருப்பதே பெரிய ஆறுதல்தான் இல்லையா? நிரூபித்தல்களுக்கான அவசியங்களின்றி மனதின் எல்லா ஊற்றுக்கண்களிலும் சுரந்தபடியிருக்கின்றன உன் மீதான பிரியங்கள்!! வா அருகே.. கன்னங்களில் முத்தமிட்டு, மென்மையாய் கைகுலுக்கி, புன்னகையோடு பிரிந்து போவோம். முடிந்தால் சந்திப்போம்..... எங்காவது, எப்போதாவது இந்த மழையைச் சந்திப்பது போலவே!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">credits: </span><a href="http://gayatri8782.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">http://gayatri8782.blogspot.com/</span></a>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-54482637421320635202007-11-23T17:23:00.000+05:302007-11-23T17:31:14.896+05:30<a href="http://gayatri8782.blogspot.com/2007/11/blog-post_14.html"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">தப்பித்தலின் சாத்தியங்கள்...</span></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">நான் விதைக்கப்பட்டிருக்கும்<br />சின்னஞ்சிறு பரப்பினை<br />வன்மமாய்<br />நினைவூட்டுகின்றன<br />இந்த தொட்டிச்செடிகள்..</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />விடுபடலோ<br />விட்டு விடுதலையாதலோ<br />சாத்தியமாவதில்லை<br />எப்போதும்...<br /><br />வேர்களால் உள்வாங்கி<br />பூக்களாய் எதிரொளித்து<br />தளிர்நுனிகள் அனைத்திலும்<br />உயிர்சொட்டும் விருட்சங்கள்<br />காழ்ப்புணர்ச்சியோடு<br />கசப்புத் தருகின்றன...<br /><br />தப்பித்தல்களுக்கான<br />இடம் தேடிக்களைத்து<br />எங்கேனும் எதிலேனும்<br />ஒளிந்துகொள்ள முயன்று<br />முடிவாய் மறைந்து போகிறேன்<br />கவிதைகளின் பின்னால்.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;">credits</span><br />gayathri<br /><a href="http://gayatri8782.blogspot.com/">http://gayatri8782.blogspot.com</a></span><br /></span>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-85459915496740078142007-11-23T17:13:00.000+05:302007-11-23T17:22:32.188+05:30<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">உதிர்தலும் துளிர்த்தலும்...</span> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">வாரத்தின் ஏழு நாட்களும்</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">ஒன்றேபோலிருக்கின்றன...<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">நிறத்தில்..</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">வடிவில்..</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">அளவில்..</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">எதிலும் மாற்றமில்லை.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">பகலில் தொடங்கி இரவில் முடியும் </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">இந்த நாட்களில்</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">எங்கு தொடங்கி எங்கு முடிகிறது</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">உன் நினைவென்பதை</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">அனுமானிக்க முடிவதில்லை..</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">தினமும் காகிதங்களின் வடிவில் </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">உதிர்ந்தபடியே இருக்கின்றன</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">நாட்களும் சில நம்பிக்கைகளும்..<br />என்றாலும்..</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">யாரேனும் எழுதிய கடிதமோ</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">கைவிட்டுப் போன உறவோ</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">தொலைந்து போன பொருளோ</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">நிச்சயம் கிடைக்கலாம்</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">இன்றைக்காவது...</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">credits:</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">gayathri. </span><a href="http://gayatri8782.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">http://gayatri8782.blogspot.com/</span></a>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-45704844852769281862007-11-21T16:45:00.000+05:302007-11-23T17:23:39.725+05:30<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">தனிமை, வெறுமை<br />வெற்றிடம், மெளனமென<br />நாள்பட்ட சொற்களின் துணையோடு<br />எத்தனை கவிதைகள் எழுதியபோதும்<br />எந்தக் கவிதையும் நிரப்பிவிடவில்லை<br />எப்போதுமிருக்கும் தனிமையை...</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">credits:</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Gayathri - palai thinnai</span><br /><a href="http://gayatri8782.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">http://gayatri8782.blogspot.com/</span></a>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-62406443889511415892007-10-27T15:21:00.000+05:302007-10-27T15:44:18.294+05:30<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2y5g3ok5MLV-BL45keI2-m2OgC68_H5bFkB3EhagpCiYlQwUg05kiD89ratNuMzaUuIFtfz4Z7F8kTKg4i93SZj8U-NvU74ni1jcROKQPKQd4UgkxiVUZpVOs0RKe-UAmbPDbMg/s1600-h/1.jpg"></a><div><span style="font-size:0;"></span></div><div>இருள்கவியும் </div><br /><div>பொழுதொன்றின்</div><br /><div>எதிர்பாரா சந்திப்பில் </div><br /><div>திகைக்கின்றன</div><br /><div>நம் கண்கள்...</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>தனித்திருந்து</div><br /><div>நிறமிழந்துவிட்ட இரவொன்றை </div><br /><div>உள்ளுக்குள் சுமந்தபடி</div><br /><div>எதிரெதிர் திசைகளில்</div><br /><div>நடக்கத்துவங்குகிறோம்</div><br /><div>நாம்...</div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">credits </span></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">verses:</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff0000;"> <span style="color:#cc0000;">nilaraseegan </span></span><br /><a href="http://nilaraseegan.blogspot.com/2007/10/blog-post_12.html"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">http://nilaraseegan.blogspot.com/2007/10/blog-post_12.html</span></a><br /><div>image: <span style="color:#cc0000;">allposters.com</span></div>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-63467969473157145082007-09-11T23:17:00.000+05:302007-09-11T23:30:23.947+05:30<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">every day is a hell of remembrance<br />every day is a hell of remembrance<br /><br />i forget everything<br />and dreams wake me up<br />in a no man’s land<br />where you stare at me silently<br /><br />i have only my dreams<br />racked by present uncertainties<br />i wonder what i have lost<br />by loving you dearly<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;">credits:</span> <span style="color:#cc0000;">p.s. joseph</span>, the broken whispers</span>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-86021167507194948482007-08-27T13:26:00.000+05:302007-08-27T13:29:39.357+05:30<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">I used to believe ...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I wanted to shout</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I wanted to cry</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">But I buried my sorrows</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">In the depths of my soul</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Couldn’t stop - a tear or two</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Didn’t let - the sighs to flow</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I bear the pains - in my heart</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Hiding the wound - that still bled</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">No one to heal - no one to care</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Wanted to talk</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">But no one was to listen</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Loneliness did griped - my mind</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Confusion was – hard to define</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I still do - remember that time</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I used to believe – in life . . .</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Credits: 4minutesperday.com </span>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-61118280657761789952007-08-23T13:32:00.000+05:302007-08-23T15:02:52.665+05:30<span style="color:#cc0000;">உன்னை நிறைத்த அறை</span><br /><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101826058014729970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7pSCl-yKt5Qr3h1lE7WKMZUjKKugNwp6YouEE6WyRuc2RmstmT4zLPdHs1Jwn8KHW5nBnyCpsWlc7wz2ZIq_GUpNT7ViSUwJfYFGpUGS9_qmcUaMoFRkU6qrDSVhkj7gZp9eow/s400/untitled+11.bmp" border="0" /><br />உன்னை நிறைத்த உனதறையில்<br />நீயில்லாதபோது நுழைந்தேன்<br /><br />உறங்க நீ பட்ட பிரயத்தனங்கள்<br />படுக்கையில் கசங்கிக் கிடந்தன<br />சுவர் மூலையில்<br />உறுப்பின் அசௌரியங்கள்<br />சுருண்ட<br />உன் உள்ளாடைகள் கிடந்தன<br /><br />அலம்பாத தேநீர் குப்பியில் ஒட்டியிருந்தது<br />உன் எச்சிலின் இனிப்பு<br />விரித்துக் கிடத்திய புத்தகத்திலிருந்து<br />கவிதையின் நெகிழ்ச்சி<br />அறையெங்கும் சுழன்றது<br /><br />உன்னோடு வாய்க்காத பொழுதை<br />உன் வாழ்முறை இறைந்த அறையில்<br />உன் ஒழுங்கீனங்களோடு கழித்தேன்.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">Credits :</span> மா.சு. சரவணன்</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">Thanks:</span> <span style="color:#cc0000;">text :</span> Kalachuvadu </span><a href="http://www.kalachuvadu.com/"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">http://www.kalachuvadu.com</span></a> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Photos :</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">allposters.com</span> </p>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-11987166965869094592007-08-23T12:51:00.000+05:302007-08-23T12:54:04.358+05:30<span style="color:#cc0000;">நீ என்றான பிறகு</span><br /><br />காரணங்களிலிருந்து விலகியே நிற்கிறாய்<br />அற்ப வாதங்களின் அருகில்<br />செல்ல நேர்கையில் திசைகள் பிரிகின்றன.<br /><br />நெருக்கமான கணங்களில்<br />திணறுகிறது<br />நீ அழுத்தும் அன்பு.<br /><br />பிரிவது இன்னும் தடித்த தூரத்தில்<br />என்பதற்காகவாவது நாம்<br />பிரிய முயற்சிக்கலாம்.<br /><br />ஆனபின்னும்<br />மீதூர்ந்த காற்றின் சுவை தேடி<br />மருகுகிறது தேகம்<br /><br />கம்பக்கட்டு வானத்தில்தெறித்துப் போவது<br />நீ சுழற்றிய நான்<br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">Credits:</span> அய்யப்பன்</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">Thanks:</span> Kalachuvadu. </span><a href="http://www.kalachuvadu.com/"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">http://www.kalachuvadu.com</span></a>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-87412933001595058112007-08-23T12:31:00.000+05:302007-08-23T12:39:22.830+05:30<span style="color:#cc0000;">மரம் மீண்டும் உதிர்க்கிறது மற்றுமோர் இலையை...</span><br /><br />இந்த முறை . . .<br />ஆற்றில் விழுந்த இலை<br />மரத்தை விட்டு<br />வெகுதூரம் வந்தாயிற்று.<br /><br />அடுத்து அருவி என்பது<br />இலைக்குத் தெரியாது.<br />அது இலை என்பது<br />ஆற்றுக்கும் தெரியாது.<br />இலைமீது தும்பியொன்று<br />பயணிக்கிறது.<br /><br />அது பயணமன்று.<br />எங்கிருந்தும் யாரும் எங்கேயும்<br />போய்விட முடியாது என்பதாய்<br />ஓர் அமர்வு . . . வெறுமனே.<br /><br />ஆறு தும்பி அருவி இலை<br />யாருக்கும் தெரியாது யார்<br />யாரென்பது.<br /><br />அண்டத்தின் தீராத பேரிருட்டில்<br />ஓய்ந்து மிதக்கிறது இலை.<br />விருட்டெனப் பறக்கிறது தும்பி.<br /><br />மரம் மீண்டும் உதிர்க்கிறது<br />மற்றுமோர் இலையை. அது<br />இந்த முறை காற்றில் அலைகிறது.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Credits: அழகுநிலா</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">Kalachuvadu.com</span> <a href="http://www.kalachuvadu.com/">http://www.kalachuvadu.com</a> </span>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-72233809284743991612007-08-22T12:26:00.000+05:302007-08-23T12:59:26.762+05:30<span style="color:#cc0000;">எனது நிழல்களுக்கு நீ அஞ்சவேண்டியதுமில்லை</span><br /><br /><br />என்னை நீ<br />புரிந்துகொள்வதில்<br />புதிர்களோ<br />குழப்பங்களோ<br />இல்லை<br /><br />எனது நிழல்களுக்கு<br />நீ அஞ்சவேண்டியதுமில்லை<br /><br />நீ திறக்க முடியாத<br />எனது பெட்டிகளில் சாவித் துவாரங்களில்<br />துருப்பிடித்த ஆணிகளைச் சொருகத் தேவையே இல்லை<br /><br />நான் கைமறதியாய் விட்டுச் செல்லும் தடயங்களில்<br />என்னைபற்றி உனக்கு எதுவுமே கிடைக்கப் போவதில்லை<br /><br />சும்மா<br />ஒரு சுவாரசியத்திற்காக<br />கண்ணாடியில் என் பிம்பங்களை<br />கொஞ்சம் சிக்கலாக்கிக் கொண்டிருக்கிறேன்<br />அவ்வளவே<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;">Credits : மனுஷ்ய புத்திரன்</span><br /><a href="mailto:uyirmmai@gmail.com">uyirmmai@gmail.com</a><br /><a href="http://uyirmmai.blogspot.com/2006/03/blog-post.html">http://uyirmmai.blogspot.com/2006/03/blog-post.html</a><br /><br /><a href="mailto:uyirmmai@gmail.com"></a>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-77461328677592424452007-06-23T10:06:00.000+05:302007-06-23T10:25:31.049+05:30<div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">known city, unknown places</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Sniff and tell : </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Over 20 tonnes of seafood are handled by over 3,000 people at this market every day. Asha S. Menon fishes around for details of the trade. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /> </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5079116545480721746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj8gOwUwaYbdKx_6JDnlGcbuPbfODbV1bdO-vJhj0nCxtue8GvfZpOaOWI4hxpynhX2AvZphi7ESQ3ocaBzj2GWsWyyVcDaluoUoYIxiMrI3uGw5wbB7YPCXCed3EVx87TSGY5pg/s400/2007053050050102.jpg" border="0" /><br />I am in the way. Of thermocol boxes or men dragging boxes of fish, of cups of tea or women with cane baskets… I have no fish to sell or buy, but am at Chintadripet Fish Market during one its busiest hours (5 a.m.). I hang around, hoping to unde rstand its working between shouts and being pushed about. </span><br /><br /><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My first stop is a man who has balanced his plastic, deep tray of fish on many boxes. After a few full-throated cries, the man disgorges himself near his makeshift stall and into the muddy water pools on its floor, and in a few minutes somebody upsets his tray. After a few shouts, the prawns that were spilt in the muddy water on the floor are restored to the tray — back in business.<br /></div></span><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Hygiene is the first victim in cramped spaces, and therefore KMS Dharmalingam, head of the fish vendors’ association that has rented out this space, has requested the government to give them more space — a centrally located two-acre plot instead of the four and the half grounds they currently occupy. “Three to four thousand people do business here on weekdays, and five to six thousand on weekends,” he claims. A figure that is not too hard to believe when you have experienced the crowd. Around 20 to 25 tonnes of sea food, one-fourth of the city’s consumption, is bought and sold here, says Dharmalingam.<br /></div></span><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">A hundred varieties </span><br /></div></span><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The day at the 200-year-old (if you believe Dharmalingam) market starts with the arrival of thermocol boxes that carry a hundred varieties of fish including pomfret, shark, koduva, sankara, vanjaram and kezhanga. They are brought, by rail and road, from different parts of the country — Andhra Pradesh, Orissa, Karnataka, Goa, Mumbai, Gujarat and Kolkata (and the rest of Tamil Nadu, when the 45-day ban is not on). Some boxes are packed and boarded on the train, while some are brought by people like Saradha.<br /></div></span><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Forty-year-old Saradha lives on the rails. She takes a late night train from Andhra Pradesh and lands in Chennai in the early morn. After her day’s business, she takes a noon train back to Andhra Pradesh, and returns by the late train. She gets paid a part of what she sells.<br /></div></span><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The market starts filling in at around 6 a.m., and retailers, mostly women, push their way through the crowd. While the wholesalers (who do business from 4 a.m. to 9.30 a.m.) stay perched on raised platforms keeping accounts, their assistants trade. Everyone is exchanging notes on the rates at which the fish is being sold, and everyone is in a hurry to get the best price. I am carried by the crowd to stalls where people are arguing over prices. They shout and sometimes abuse one another over prices, but together crack into laughter at a joke. Fish that are presumably dead, jump back into life and out of the baskets in pathetic attempts to escape. One tries to wriggle away, through the muddy waters on the floor, but its escape is aborted by a fish vendor who drops it back into a plastic sack.<br /></div></span><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">During the busy trading, I spot tea cups that magically appear in hands. I look around to find the source, and spot Kannan with a thermos flask. While he supplies within the market, Ajees does outside. Once the buy is made, the vendors step out into the road and have a cup at Ajees’ bicycle teashop before dispersing to different corners of the city.<br /></div></span><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5079116399451833666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvdERYpy16q7kNBwa3QK-Ichtsexh6iIohNALSj96ynhwKlFdp3IxlG-ZH6jO88We4x_t7gVI9YAFwuYsiP7iW-5J8IlXBIHEIyqDp9B7YuqF3Iw_F_Jyhxx3Ahl1q7E1mCD4fw/s400/2007053050050101.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Some fish vendors like the elderly Nessapattu stay back and wait outside the shed. A few retailers and members of the association, including her, are allowed to trade in the shed after the wholesale trading. I ask her what the association does for her, and she replies, “Provide fish and space, and little else.”<br /></div></span><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">During her wait, Nesapattu tries vending her shrimp placed on a thermocol sheet. She sprinkles water on them every now and then, to ward away the flies that gather. This corner she shares with four others is crowded with boxes, decaying jute sacks and plastic pots that hold water. Selvam too waits his turn at the corner. He is selling vavval fish to women who will then sell it to export companies. He says he was selling the fish for Rs. 50, when the previous day it was priced at Rs . 150.<br /></div></span><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">After a cup at Ajees’, I step to the left of the market, where ancillary businesses like cutting and cleaning take place. Kumaran has been doing the job for 10 years now and get paid Rs. 5 per kg by hotels and Rs. 10 per kg by homemakers. He hopes to retail in fish someday, and would like his school-going children to work elsewhere. Around 30 people work in this part of the market; like the retailers, each of them has to pay a rent to the association. To rent space, you need to be a member of the association, and “to be a member, five to six generations of your family should be in this line of business,” says Laxmi, another fish cutter.<br /></div></span><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I return to the main shed at 10.30 a.m. to see the market winding up. Boxes and sacks are making their way out, and retail traders sweep and swab the shed clean. They set up shop on the platforms and customers start trickling in. The retail trading shuts shop at 2 p.m. and reopens at 6 p.m. for an hour.<br /></div></span><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">After its throbbing morning hours, the market’s afternoons and evenings seem like a stretch and a yawn before it’s time for bed.<br /></span></div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">credits:</span> thanks to Metro Plus, The Hindu</span><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Story: <span style="color:#cc0000;">Asha Menon</span></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Photos: <span style="color:#cc0000;">K. V. Srinivasan</span> </span></div></div>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-13705815238655832182007-06-20T15:45:00.000+05:302007-06-20T16:07:44.339+05:30<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Known City, Unknown Places</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">planning to have this as a series. let c how this goes. lets start with Maskan Chavady</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">One day in the life of ... Maskan Chavady:</span> Pet destination. Every Sunday, Maskan Chavady turns into a bazaar for birds and animals. PRINCE FREDERICK hangs around </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5078090610937693458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Aj5-NQDljjaeewjRfkooaoVDpUkRP_t7nb0yka3Kh6gHjd956ONyD8S9ZdB612I40fNtSMuI15IjBUMUIiJKVbS68lqqBVfW5uXg5h3DrI5H6nQmkanIOA7tCMnPk7_2aWzDuQ/s400/2007062050040101.jpg" border="0" /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Traders at Maskan Chavady are wary of reporters. Three years ago, rooster-sellers went into silence at the sight of my scribble-pad. So this time around, I leave pen and paper behind but dress up for this special assignment. After my alarm clock duti fully wakes me at five in the morning, I get into a canary green polo-neck T-shirt with a block-printed image of a pigeon and catch what is probably the first morning bus in my neck of the woods. From Parry’s Corner, I hire an auto for a Sunday morning date with birds and beasts. Nobody gives me a second look, thanks to my canary green T-shirt. Good for me, the milling crowd thinks I am one of their own.<br /></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">There are no shops here, but it is still a busy market. The commerce takes place on either side of a road that leads to what is called the Kozhi Market (a wholesale chicken market in Broadway). The area is known as Maskan Chavady. Standing and squatting, men and a sprinkling of women line the road selling ducks, pigeons, budgies, cockatiels, African love birds, roosters, puppies, kittens, white mice and rabbits. These are some of the more common creatures at Maskan Chavady, but pretty much any animal can be brought and sold at this Sunday market (from 6 a.m. to 11 a.m.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Attempt at history </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I show an interest in homing pigeons, offered by Ravi at Rs. 200 a pair. When I try to beat down the price, he says his price is fair. Apparently, he keeps pigeons as a hobby, selling some to maintain the rest. When he reduces the price to Rs. 100 a pair, I tell him I am not interested. That I am a journalist looking for a story. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /></div><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5078091332492199202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBGU8EE4EeOgM5LQ08NcARHKaN0lg7EPM2DJR4ioVJg4XGH8EIOGtfouzmFtFKeCef0xHmIadHrjz4cmvTT4uaQaLfKEzV2WgBitQEkG-HD-HOIXM5e64KUEy6T8m4wRiO01k2xQ/s400/2007062050040102.jpg" border="0" /> </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Ravi introduces me to 71-year-old Mohan, touted as the best bet to throw light on the market’s origins. But Maskan Chavady existed even before Mohan began to sell pigeons as a 10-year-old. As it turns out, he is not very informed about the market’s history. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The bazaar is sustained by the passion of pet lovers. Many travel long distances to be here. The traders take a lot of trouble too. Duck-seller Kumar pedals from Vadakkarai (beyond Red Hills) after ingeniously piling cages high on his cycle carrier. However, Nakeeran tops the list for enthusiasm. He can’t use his legs and with a cycle made for the handicapped, he travels slowly from Old Washermanpet to sell rabbits. And there is always someone new entering the fold. Rajkumar is just knee high to a grasshopper. But this boy has come (escorted by 17-year-old Elvis, his neighbour and ‘anna’) to trade in white mice today (at Rs. 30 a pair). </span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5078091852183242034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia34uXlZx0TD16UgE9H64IDm0q9OmuG2y6I1wCW7Rvmq3RZkgLVYN2bZunIxKePMsD_DV2sd_2riiljMh58JLbYk744kQVAnjZwIAaa-bSTxgnhTERFJxJ0M7yAc8aE4e_acfq2w/s400/2007062050040103.jpg" border="0" />It is 8.30 a.m. and two hours of chatting and walking around is beginning to tell on me. I am badly in need of my morning coffee and something to chew on. For small change, Nagoor offers me a cup from the steel can he carries around on a cycle. And I depend on Samikanu from Korukupet for breakfast – gruel made from ragi. As pet lovers and traders leave home early, these mobile eateries do brisk business till the last man leaves. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I decide to buy myself a memento from Maskan Chavady. There are bird cages, which I will require shortly for a mini-aviary I have been planning for my little son. The one I take a fancy for costs Rs. 900, more than what I carry with me to the market. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I sit on my haunches and inspect a pile of catapults spread out on a cardboard. I end up buying one for Rs. 15 from Kumar, a gypsy who makes them using rubber meant for surgical appliances. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As I leave the market with this keepsake tucked in my pocket, I can’t help thinking, “This is interesting! Nobody knows when it started. Nobody can lay claim to any space. It is not controlled by rules, yet there is order.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">Credits:</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Thanks to : Metro Plus, The Hindu</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Photos & Story: Prince Frederick, The Hindu </span></p>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-76605758125244870952007-06-13T15:13:00.000+05:302007-06-13T15:42:03.450+05:30<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">the druids of a lost tribe : The Georges, Sittlingi </span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc0000;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">i was there. to sittlingi, to visit regi and lalitha george. to witness a true story of inspiration, the passion with which they area serving to tribals. my words will fail if i try to explain the experience. experience with nature and innocence. i have copied story abt them featured in outlook and hindu.</span> </span></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cc0000;"></span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075488217238603010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59B3tLorfixvvLm017vhSpi8GCshRxRBUYtI0QsGcsM4aCiNlECXXsbCJME29me87rGNew8r7vjvWC8o60rOwuJH82s3z1JToM22BJK5pis7kiWiFniYc_cECIAtA4b_5-Ku2Jw/s400/regi_m_george_20061225.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="justify"></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Are you missionaries or Naxalites?" Dr Regi M. George was asked, when he approached the Scheduled Tribes Commission in Tamil Nadu for statistics on adivasis. George and his wife, Lalitha Regi, were neither. They were doctors from Kerala, a decade into their careers, looking for a place forsaken by the healthcare system. A 70-km bone-rattling drive into Tamil Nadu's Dharmapuri district brings you to what they found: Sittlingi. In this impoverished cluster of 21 adivasi villages, with a population of 10,000, they set up home and hospital 13 years ago, with little money and much family opposition.</span></p><br /><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>"We don't let rigour or quality of work suffer just because we work in villages," says Dr George.</strong> </span></p><br /><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Why Sittlingi? The infant mortality rate (IMR) was 154 per 1,000 (15 in 100 children died before turning one), 75 per cent of newborns recorded low birth weight (LBW), diarrhoea was common. Dubious 'motorcycle doctors' peddled injections and medicines for hefty profits. "The nearest hospital was in Harur, 45 km away."<br /><br />And the place was beautiful. Getting land was a struggle—bribe-seeking local authorities insisted non-tribals couldn't buy any. "So we just encroached and occupied an acre of tribal land that an adivasi was willing to sell, against the rules," says George coolly. ActionAid pitched in with Rs 10,000. Thus was an outpatient department born, in a mud-thatched hut. A full-fledged hospital with inpatient facility was constructed in 1997. </span></p><br /><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Initially, says Lalitha, adivasis stayed away, sceptical of doctors who were erecting masonry and digging wells. The breakthrough came after she rode a cycle to a remote hamlet and saved the life of a diarrhoea patient. Today, not just adivasis, but non-tribals too flock to their Tribal Health Initiative, drawn by low costs and ethical practices. OPD registration costs tribals Rs 15, non-tribals Rs 25. Repeat visits are free. Patient records are computerised. Says George: "We don't compromise on rigour and quality of care just because we work in a remote area." </span></p><br /><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">At first, adivasi elders resented their girls being trained as health workers, but in 2004, there were 200 applications for six vacancies. The IMR has more than halved, to 68. No mother has died during childbirth in Sittlingi in the last three years. </span></p><br /><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Life is full, for George, 47, and Lalitha, 46, with work, and two children, but there are things they miss, and it's not just the Kottayam fish curry. Says George, "We work with the adivasis, but we don't share a common language of literature or music." What they miss most, however, is peer support. Engineer S. Ravichander, who shares their passions, administers the hospital. An architect couple educates adivasi children. Young doctors come and go, but none have opted to join them in 13 years. </span></p><br /><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">Photo and Story Credits:</span> Outlook </span><a href="http://www.outlookindia.com/"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">www.outlookindia.com</span></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> . Story by<span style="color:#cc0000;"> S. Anand</span>, Outlook</span> </p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">For more:</span></p><p align="justify"><a href="http://www.tribalhealth.org/"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">http://www.tribalhealth.org/</span></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span></p><p align="justify"><a href="http://www.hindu.com/thehindu/mag/2003/08/10/stories/"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">http://www.hindu.com/thehindu/mag/2003/08/10/stories/</span></a></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">2003081000540400.htm</span> </p>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-21631712453043617632007-06-08T17:45:00.000+05:302007-06-08T18:04:03.152+05:30<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff0000;"><strong>nee</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">கண்களை இறுக மூடுகிறேன்</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">மெல்ல</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">இருள் படரத் தொடங்குகிறது!</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">ஒன்று இரண்டு</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">எனத் தொடங்கி</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">பின்</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">ஆயிரமாயிரம் பிரதிகளாய்</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">விழியெங்கும் விரவி</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">நிரைகிறாய்! </span><br /><p></p><p><a href="http://priyan4u.blogspot.com/2007/04/blog-post.html"><span style="color:#ff0000;">அருகில் நீயில்லா பொழுதுகள்!</span></a><br /></p><p>மின் தகனமேடை</p><p>சடலமாய் </p><p>சலனமற்று</p><p>எரிந்து</p><p>சாம்பலாகி</p><p>காற்றுடன் கலந்து கரைந்து</p><p>காணாமல் போகின்றன</p><p>அருகில் நீயில்லா பொழுதுகள்!</p><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#ff0000;">credits: priyan</span> </span><br /><a href="http://www.priyan4u.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">http://www.priyan4u.blogspot.com/</span></a>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-22984909304501793072007-03-12T19:47:00.000+05:302007-03-12T19:57:20.834+05:30<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">Rural Indian children's photo blog</span><br /><br /></span><div align="justify"></div><p align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5041043187252446578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMO5JiOPKIFpDOhlLZG981Ub5Jr-d1zvU0sGP0Edtck-YOeabc88gLtpFGZWqPH0P_d8XwMQZnrQM1wKJD_o67stA9JCmOZXNhA5RR3GfGZ1eZ2nADODj15Vf2oj1inNd0WesQYw/s400/_42536863_rani_203.jpg" border="0" /></span></p><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Children at a rural school in the southern Indian state of Andhra Pradesh are running a photoblog about daily life in their village, Kalleda. The school gives children from poor families a free education. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The photo project of the RDF (Rural Development Foundation) school has helped school children learn English, connect them with the world and provided the world with a window into rural India. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Read the stories of three of the young photo bloggers and click on the links to view their photos. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/6332511.stm"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/6332511.stm</span></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">photo & story credit:</span> BBC News </span></div><div align="justify"> <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">http://news.bbc.co.uk/</span></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span></div>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-81288058624582609332007-03-09T12:56:00.000+05:302007-03-12T20:42:33.914+05:30<div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">kanmani anbodu naan ezhithum kaditham</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">remember old times we used to sit and write letters ? try one today</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span> </div><div> </div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5041054598980552066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw8DIfUkj-gfQmzdI12FF4P50ftiA73B2H5dBDkKNHlTtxs7aeYjqw1Ptw4i2K4QIM9hfre1uq5E_2-IBzVtrlWI_tViC734N3wmkgkqsKj2tXBne6_v7BY_CKTSYPCm7T-dnD0A/s400/ATT00001.bmp" border="0" /><br /></span><div></div><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">credits : anonymous</span></span>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-54615185005537300182007-03-05T13:51:00.000+05:302007-03-06T12:04:33.322+05:30<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff0000;">idhayam yenbadhu sadhaidhaan yendraaL yerithaLal thindruvidum,<br />anbin karuvi idhayam yendraaL saavai vendruvidum</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">we all boil down to nothing. one thing that’s surely promising is death. felt lyrics from anbae sivam made sense.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">yaar yaar sivam? nee naan sivam</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">vaazhvae thavam anbae sivam<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">aaththigam paesum adiyaarkeLLaam sivamae anbaagum</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">aaththigam paesum naLLavarukkoe anbae sivamaagum</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">anbae sivam anbae sivam yendrum anbae sivam anbae sivam yengum</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">anbae sivam anbae sivam yendrum anbae sivam anbae sivam yengum</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">idhayam yenbadhu sadhaidhaan yendraaL yerithaLal thindruvidum</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">anbin karuvi idhayam yendraaL saavai vendruvidum</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">yaar yaar sivam? nee naan sivam </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">anbin paathai saerndhavanukku mudivae iLLaiyada</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">amanadhin neeLam yedhuvoe adhuvae vaazhvin neeLamada</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">[u can also listen to the beautiful song @ </span><a href="http://www.musicindiaonline.com/music/tamil/s/movie_name.4176/"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">http://www.musicindiaonline.com/music/tamil/s/movie_name.4176/</span></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">] </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#ff0000;">dedicated to : </span><span style="color:#3333ff;">MS </span></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#ff0000;">lyrics credits:</span> </span><a href="http://www.musicindiaonline.com"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">www.musicindiaonline.com</span></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-41928035221789472572007-02-22T12:09:00.000+05:302007-02-22T12:12:13.218+05:30<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc0000;">nila scribbles</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br />believe in living, else die</span><br />- <span style="color:#cc0000;">goutham jho</span>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20575460.post-80603902649097312852007-02-19T16:24:00.000+05:302007-02-19T16:26:45.783+05:30<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#ff0000;">nila scribbles</span><br /><br />don’t ask me questions, i don’t have answers.<br />how can i promise tomorrow, if i don’t have today?</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span>pirainilavhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14078710572923856760noreply@blogger.com0