Life in a wheelchair

Life in a wheelchair.

When you sit in a wheel chair how do you feel?
have you ever did that? I have never thought of it. But I fear it. I fear that someday I my sit on it and watch the mumbai rains over my window. What a gloomy thought.I get this thought when I see a limping dog near my house. We are actually born with luxuries. Should we thank for it.
I remember one tamil poem.
'I see a limp man
I feel lucky...
How Cruel?'
(Thats a very bad translation)
But life is cruel . It gives you something and not your friend. vice versa. Some lose more some less.
Say it luck or probability. It is how the design is.
But some dont think it as a loss. or atleast dont want to. or pretend to. I envy them at times. They try to flex the system for them.
I read about a cancer patient who is going to die in 6 months probably. He is a tamil assistant director (Working with K.S.Ravikumar). He is now in plans of directing his first film .
He has said to his friend that 'yes, after six months, You wont get a ringtone or my voice in my mobile. But a lady will answer you saying 'the subscriber is not reachable'; I will be the meaning for those words"
He says this, but he is rushing to complete the meaning he has given for his life. A Movie of his own. It is so stupid in one way. But so meaningful in another way.

Infact the whole concept of human life is so meaningful in one way and so stupid the other way.

-- You hope and you live. But you hope and still you die. I am not trying to be cynical here. But I find, with hope or without, the end is same. Still a travel is not always done for a destiny. Intuitively I can feel, the end is not the point. Nor the start. Not even the travel. It is being a part of it, that matters.

I strongly feel this at times. But still the questions are there and will always be. I dont want to reach anywhere. I strongly believe no one can. I simply wish myself to be a part of something that makes me feel that I am a Meaning. That I feel I am not in a wheelchair.

Is it workable for me?????????

----------------I am myself; Am I?--------------------

Scent of a Dry Lotus

Arundathi roy’s ‘God of small things’

There are great books which you do not like. There are ones which you like and love and show you your world, and still need not be great. When you flip through the pages you start living somewhere else. Where you are not supposed to live. You start knowing the worst secrets of others which you ought not to know. Like dripping water out of a leaky pipe some one’s tears trickle into your eyes. Someone’s kiss may wet your lips. Somewhere between the pages you see yourself sitting there and smiling back at you. When you finish reading the book’s last page, the book actually begins. Somewhere when you are buying a railway ticket or when you are drinking water after walking in hot sun, or when you are not sure how to react to the sudden death of your old school friend or your daughter’s love, the book unfolds.

‘God of small things’ unfolded when I saw penguin shaped dust bins in my school (They always eat garbage with their big rusty beaks). Ammu died with the moth inside her when I was sitting along with my loneliness between the faded yellow walls of the Rasipuram lodge. The oil soaked paper smell of paradise pickle labels is still there in our kitchen’s Ruchi lime pickle’s red label. The novel dissected my life into slices of time and embedded its eyes everywhere in it. A good book like a cockroach hides somewhere in the dark holes but comes out and crawl around everywhere in the dark when you switch of your lights for your dreams. God of Small things did that to me and hence it’s a good book.

The novel’s pattern is like that of a fly in a sweet shop, not sitting quietly anywhere but moving greedily and restlessly between various moments. At the end the circle closes with a love that happens as it has to happen and yes, the ripples the love creates, slowly travels in the river (with its dry lotuses and dead fishes) like a leaf witnessing the changes-huge changes (and not so huge changes) and small changes (and not so small changes).

The novel surely is not a great novel. It cheats us carefully. But I liked the way it cheated me. It cheated me with words. I love to get cheated like that. It never wanted me to look into serious things seriously and easier things easily. I loved it.

In one kamalahassan movie (pesum padam), the hero (or protagonist or call him whatever) beautifully packs with gift wrapper a guy’s shit and disposes it. When I first read God of Small things I felt it said beautifully that life smells shit.


You Said it...
. But Ms. Roy's shape-shifting narrative is also tremendously nourishing, crammed not only with remonstrances but also with inside jokes, metaphors, rogue capital letters, nonsense rhymes and unexpected elaborations. http://www.nytimes.com/books/97/05/25/reviews/970525.25truaxt.html

the bottom line is that one is left largely unmoved by the tragedy that unfolds. But perhaps that doesn't matter and the style's the thing. http://www.indiastar.com/roy.htm

The story circles around its core like a ball in a rigged roulette wheel. Hypnotic, repetitive. Finding its centre only at the end, completing a pattern that never had anything to do with chance. Originally published in Aaj Magazine , January/February, 1998.Reviewed by Michael Brockingtonhttp://www.sfu.ca/~brocking/writing/smallgod2.html

Still, a unique voice and a twisty language is not enough on its own to make me enjoy a book - they have to be have a worthwhile story to hang on, a structure to decorate and make beautiful. When it’s the other way around, when the language seems to be primary and the plot secondary,http://fyreflybooks.wordpress.com/2008/03/02/arundhati-roy-the-god-of-small-things/

one more example of William Faulkner's powerful influence upon Third World writers, his method of torturing a story, mangling it, coming at it roundabout after pretentious detours and delays.
(The New Yorker 159)http://www.humanitiesretooled.org/index.php?sm=hrt_articles.php&modCMS_cidd=72

Who am I?

Simple question.. I am answering what I know (and dont ask more .. I am afraid to )

Rajarathnam.S - My name.
Mumbai - Living here now.
Tolstoi - Still remains to be my fav author
Puliyotharai - Give me Chicken and Puliyotharai and I Prefer the latter.
Andrei - the rolling black horse in Andrei Rublev.. Who can forget that after seeing it..
Table Tennis - Gopikrishnan's best erotic literature (and that says my interest in sports too )
Amma Appa Anna - My family the ones with whom i am always I am.
To forgive and forget -- My friends have to do the first and me the next :(
Sowmya,Zeba,Kiruthika - somehow they tolerate me
Raju,Ravi,Gmk,Savin,Roche,Rathna,Nadeem,Ranji,Ram,ji,Nilesh,Rafi,Vengal - No I am not dedicating any song here... :)


And finally Sisyphus :
A greek king punished by Gods to to roll a huge rock up a steep hill, but before he could reach the top of the hill, the rock would always roll back down again, forcing him to begin again.