था वो दौर

 कभी दिल पर न किसी फ़िक्र का कोई मौसम-ए-शोर ,

हमारी राहों में बस सादगी का उजला-उजला नूर – था वो दौर ||

वो सुबहें जब धूप भी कच्चे जज़्बों की तरह काँपती थी,

मिट्टी की महक में सपनों का अपना ही मधुर ग़ुरूर – था वो दौर ||

टूटे पंखों से भी हम आसमानों की ओर बढ़ जाते थे,

हर टहनी में लगता था कोई देवता बैठा हुज़ूर – था वो दौर ||

पुराने बस्तों में काग़ज़ का संसार था, पर कितना जीवंत,

हर पन्ने पर बचपन की धड़कनों का बीता हुआ सफ़र – था वो दौर ||

साइकिल की साँसों पर दोस्त हँसी के झोंके रख देते थे,

हर मोड़ पे लगता था दुनिया में बस मोहब्बत हज़ार-नूर – था वो दौर ||

डाँट भी थी तो जैसे किसी दुआ का धीमा-धीमा स्पर्श,

किसी ताने में भी मीठा-सा माँ का कोई दस्तूर – था वो दौर ||

नंगे पैरों की गली-क्रीड़ा में समा जाती थी कायनात,

लकड़ी की बल्ला-गेंद से भी खुल जाता था हर सुरूर – था वो दौर ||

जेब-ख़र्च माँगने की चाह भी दिल में जन्म न ले पाती थी,

एक टॉफी से ही मन हो जाता था रूहानी ज़र्रानूर – था वो दौर ||

दीवाली में पटाखों की लड़ तोड़–तोड़ कर जलाते थे,

चिंगारियों में अपना ही चेहरा दिखता था भरपूर – था वो दौर ||

“मैं तुमसे मोहब्बत करता हूँ” कहना हमको आता ही कहाँ,

मगर हर धड़कन में माता-पिता का चुपचाप दस्तूर – था वो दौर ||

दुनिया ने हिला डाला, सच की बरसाती ठंडक ने छू लिया,

पर दिल का बच्चा अब भी पीछे मुड़कर लेता है दूर-दूर – था वो दौर ||

मनन कहता है—यादों की चौखट पर आज भी धुआँ-सा उठता हूँ,

कोई रात अचानक बचपन की रौशनी ले आए हुज़ूर – था वो दौर ||

The Paradox of Admiration: My Complicated Relationship with TM Krishna’s Music

There is an old joke about the Hindi-film villain Ajit who commands, “Robert, throw this fellow into a tank of liquid oxygen. The liquid won’t let him live, and the oxygen won’t let him die.”

Some days, I feel like that unfortunate fellow—caught between two irreconcilable truths.

As a rasika, I find myself unable to live without TM Krishna’s music. As an observer of his public persona, I find it hard to reconcile his political rhetoric and perpetual provocations with the transcendence he achieves on stage. I swing between awe and irritation, admiration and exasperation—year after year.

I have tried, more than once, to boycott his music. It never lasts. Inevitably, I run into mediocrity—popular kritis rendered without depth, without imagination. And in those moments, I miss the unmistakable TMK touch. I find myself returning to his music for solace, only to be unsettled again by his next ideological outburst. The cycle repeats.

Take, for instance, this rendition of a Muthuswami Dikshitar classic in Kamboji (link below)—a ragam TMK has long excelled in. His approach to this composition demonstrates the full expanse of his musicianship: his mastery, his imagination, and his total immersion in the art.

He begins with a viruttam, building the atmosphere brick by brick. He travels deep into the labyrinth of Kamboji before gently easing into the pallavi. Like a painter laying strokes of colour, he explores combinations of swaras, shades of emotion, and lyrical interpretation. Even at a measured tempo, the music stirs something primal. His enjoyment of the sahitya and his own swara pathways is unmistakable—and contagious.

The neraval in the anupallavi’s opening line showcases his precision and his intimate relationship with the ragam’s grammar. He then accelerates through the remainder of the phrase and dives into the charanam—a vast ocean of musical possibility. His use of the madhyama sthayi sparkles, and the second neraval is handled with both restraint and flourish.

And then comes the finale: the pallavi summarised in three speeds, beginning with the fastest and tapering into the slowest. It is sheer brilliance—technical, aesthetic, emotional.

And yet, as the final notes fade, I am left with a disquieting duality. I see in him shades of Ravana—Aalavandhaan’s haunting depiction of “Kadavul paadhi, mirugam paadhi.” Ravana, after all, was a genius: a veena virtuoso, a Vedic scholar, a devout Shiva bhakta—and still capable of profound darkness. History has chosen to remember primarily his flaws, not his brilliance.

Will TM Krishna become the Ravana of the modern musical kingdom—unquestionably gifted, yet remembered as much for his controversies as for his genius?

Only time will tell.

For now, I continue to live in this paradox: unable to relinquish the music, and unable to ignore the man.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EkEiI9oqS-4

PS: The only other rendition of this song, that matches this level of Brilliance is that of Madurai Mani Iyer. I have tries at least 50 other musicians’ rendition of this song.

Of Course, Let’s Run a Marathon—With Chains on Our Feet

 Mr. Narayana Murthy has once again graced the nation with his sermon on the sacred 9-6-6 grind—nine hours, six days a week, for six decades, perhaps—because apparently greatness is just one long shift away. And as always, an establishment hungry for moral high ground nods in synchronized approval, as though the only thing standing between India and superpowerdom is "the laziness of its citizens".

To be fair to NM, the nation has been largely rendered "lazy" by liberal doses of freebies, cutting across states and political parties. And that calls for a whole new discussion, and I will get to that separately.

But, let’s be very clear: hard work is not the villain here. Hard work built Japan’s resilience, Korea’s competence, China’s manufacturing muscle, Taiwan’s precision, Singapore’s discipline, and Vietnam’s momentum. These nations did not simply ask their people to work hard—they created conditions where hard work meant something. They built world-class infrastructure before lecturing about world-class productivity. They ensured that a citizen breaking his back for the nation did not also break his spirit trying to access clean water, safe streets, decent hospitals, functioning sewage systems, or even uninterrupted electricity.

Their social contract was simple:

“You give us your best years of effort, and we’ll give you the basic foundations that make those years worthwhile - for you and by deduction, for the nation.”

Contrast that with the Indian version, which often sounds like a cruel parody. Here, we tell people to run a prosperity marathon, then quietly tie their legs with bureaucracy, corruption, crumbling infrastructure, broken public systems, and a thousand indignities that take more energy than their actual jobs. We ask them to work harder, faster, longer—while they spend hours navigating potholes, pollution, power cuts, paperwork, collapsing public services, and an education system that is an obstacle course rather than a springboard.

It is one thing to inspire people to push harder. It is another—and ridiculous —to force citizens to fight for the most basic elements of a civilized life and still demand peak performance. That is not national progress; that is gaslighting on a national scale.

This calls bring in front, the scenes in MGR's "Aayiraththil Oruvan" where the slaves get flogged, egging them on produce harder, under sub-human conditions!!

" அடிமை நாய்களே!"

Telling Indians to work harder without fixing these fundamentals is like asking a man to climb Everest while handing him a broken oxygen cylinder and telling him to “think positive.” It is the moral grandstanding of an elite that loves the optics of toughness but refuses the responsibility of fairness. It is a system that has perfected the art of blaming citizens for problems created by decades of policy apathy, infrastructural neglect, and administrative decay.

If the establishment truly wants to emulate Singapore or Japan, then let it first provide Japanese roads, Korean public systems, Taiwanese educational standards, Chinese infrastructure speed, Singapore’s civic discipline, and Vietnam’s administrative clarity. Only then will the call for harder work sound like a national mission—and not a tone-deaf lecture from those who never wait in government hospital queues, who don’t worry about water contamination, and who glide above the very chaos that suffocates the average worker every single day.

Until that day arrives, the sermon on “work harder” remains a mocking echo—because you cannot demand world-class output from citizens forced to endure sub-standard basics. You cannot build a great nation by exhausting its people before empowering them. You cannot unlock productivity by multiplying suffering.

As our own,  now-ostracised, poet Subramania Bharathi says, 

“துன்பம் நம்மிலே தோன்றிட, உலகம் துன்பம் தந்ததோ?

தீமை நம்மிலே பெருகிட, பிறர் தீமை செய்ததோ?”

கண்ணா, நீ வருவாயா?

 நினைத்தேன்…

இரவு முழுக்க மழை பெய்தது என்று.

ஜன்னல் திறந்த போது தான் புரிந்தது –

வெளியில் இல்லை,

என் உள்ளேதான் பொழிந்திருக்கிறது -

உன் நினைவு.

எத்தனை நாள் ஆயிற்று,

உன் பெயரை வாயால் சொல்லி ?

ஆனால் 

மூச்சு வரும் ஒவ்வொரு தடவையும்

சத்தமில்லாமல் 

உன் பெயரையே

உச்சரிக்கிறது.

காலைக்  காற்று வந்து

கூந்தலில் விளையாடும் போது,

திடீரென்று

உன் விரல்கள் நினைவு வருகிறது…

ஒரு நொடி கூட

அதை அனுபவிக்க, மகிழ முடியவில்லை;

அடுத்த நொடியே

அது காயமாகி விடுகிறது.

என் இளமையே,

இன்னும் உன்னை

அவன் வருவான்னு 

ஏமாற்றிக் கொண்டே 

இருக்கிறாயே –

என்ன ஒரு பொறுமை,

என்ன ஒரு பாவம்.

வசந்தம் வந்தாலும்

வண்ண மலர்கள் பூத்தாலும்

என் இரத்தத்துக்குள்ளே

இனி வருங்காலம் எல்லாம் 

காதல்நெருப்பு தான்.

அது எரியும் சத்தம் கூட கேட்கிறது

“அவன் வருவான்…” என்று 

ஒரு குயில் கூட கூவுகிறது - பின் 

இதயம் ஏமாந்து விடுகிறது.

வாசலில் காலடி சத்தம் கேட்டால்,

அவன் என்ற நம்பிக்கையில் 

இதயம் ஓடி சென்று

வாசலுக்கு அடிபட்டு

திரும்பி வந்து அழுகிறது.

இன்று நான்

யாரிடமாவது சிரித்தால்,

அந்த சிரிப்புக்குக் கீழே

நான் மட்டும் கேட்கும் குரலில்

நீங்காத ஒரு ஓலம் –

“உன்னைத் தவிர

வேறொருவரால்

இந்த உயிரைத் தழுவ முடியுமா?”

உன்னைக் இழந்த அந்த நொடியில்

காதல் மட்டும் போகவில்லை;

அதோடு சேர்ந்து

என் எதிர்காலமும்,

என் அமைதியும்,

என் ஆழ்ந்த உறக்கமும்

ஒன்றாகச் சென்று விட்டது.

ஒவ்வொரு இரவும்

ஒரே ஒரு வரியே மனதுக்குள்:

“உன் நினைவு இல்லாத

ஒரு மூச்சும்

எனக்கில்லை…”

இப்போதெல்லாம் 

இது தான் 

என் ஜபம்,

என் தண்டனை,

என் காதல்.

Periyava

 Even after decades, this memory does not fade. It still returns with the same intensity — not as a story, but as a reminder of a presence that continues to define my life. Many of you have heard this before, yet I feel drawn to write it again — because some experiences are not meant to be contained or forgotten. My apologies, if this sounds repetitive. I simply can’t have enough of this!

During my days at Guindy Engineering College, each month had one purpose that mattered above everything else: travelling to Kanchipuram just to see Maha Periyava. Nothing elaborate; no conversations; no petitions. I would simply stand before him… wait for that one look… that subtle lift of his right hand. That brief moment was enough to carry me through another month of life. I never felt the need to introduce myself or seek favours for myself — no prayers for marks, careers, comforts. I never wanted to reduce him into someone responsible for delivering my worldly checklist. His very presence was my reassurance.

And that hasn’t changed even today. I don’t recite shlokas to him. I don’t perform Anusha pooja. I don’t consciously “pray”. Yet, deep inside, there has always been a quiet certainty — that I walk through life under his gaze. Whether I remember him or get lost in my mundane routines, I know he is around. He doesn’t need my rituals. I don’t need reminders. The connection just is.

Years passed… life happened… and the time came when I lay in a chemotherapy ward — fragile in body, but trying hard to keep my spirit unshaken. That day, an overwhelming wave of longing rose from deep within… a longing not for a cure, not for a promise… but only for a pinch of Kunkuma prasadam from Periyava’s Adhishthanam. The yearning flooded my chest and choked my breath. Perhaps it was the silence of many years of missing him. Still, I held myself back — for even then, I did not want to ask. I didn’t want to turn him into a wish-fulfiller now, after all these years.

Three days later, Srini — a friend from Singapore, a Madhwa, someone with whom I had never discussed Periyava — walked into the hospital, shaken to see me in that state. He placed a rolled sheet in my hands. I removed the band. It was Periyava’s photograph.

And then — without a word of explanation — he handed me a packet of Kunkumam. From the Adhishthanam. Not just “temple prasadam”. Not some general offering from Kanchipuram.

The exact thing I had hesitated to even consciously desire.

No orchestrated prayer. No outward devotion. No communication. Yet Grace arrived — quietly, directly, unmistakably.

What do we call this? Coincidence? Probability? Luck?

I don’t feel the need to label it anymore.

It transpires that Srini was in Bangalore, when he hard about me. Apparently he was shocked, and was disturbed. That his when his friend was leaving on pilgrimage – to Kanchi, of all places. He had told them about me, and asked to bring back “temple prasadam”. Never mentioned anything about Periyava. Nor did Srini ever guess that I had immense attraction towards Periyava. Now, this friend of his goes all over in Kanchi, and brings back the photo of Periyava and Kunkumam prasadam – right from the Adhirshtaanam, nowhere else!! It took less than 72 hours for that odd wish of mine to turn into reality!

Some relationships with the divine do not fit the vocabulary of religion… they simply endure. They operate beneath thought, beyond words, untouched by whether we pray or not.

I may not constantly think of Him.

But He has never once stopped thinking of me.

“என்னை நினைந்தருளும் இறைவா

நானெப்போது நினைப்பேன்?”

— Thiruvasagam

“O Lord, You think of me always —

when have I ever truly thought of You?”

—   Dilip

We all stand naked

Somewhere between the invention of the wheel and the invention of TikTok dance challenges, humanity took a sharp wrong turn. Today, we live in a world where the internet knows more about you than your family, friends, astrologer, auditor, maid, or even that nosy uncle who interrogates you at weddings. In 2025, you don’t actually use the internet — the internet very proudly uses you. It peels you, seasons you, and serves you naked to advertisers, data brokers, and scammers with an enthusiasm that would shame a pushy insurance agent.

Take birthdays, for instance. Your own family may forget your big day. Your best friend may wish you two days late with a confused “Dude, I thought today was 15th…” even when the calendar screams it is the 17th. But the internet? The internet never forgets. Every shady portal where you once signed in during a moment of weakness — that half-dead e-commerce site where you bought a ₹199 bedsheet, the astrology page you visited during a breakup, the app you deleted because it kept overcharging delivery — all of them magically resurrect on your birthday. At 12:01 AM, your inbox bursts with “Happy Birthday, Dilip! Enjoy 8% off on colon cleanse powder,” or “Celebrate your special day with one free eyebrow threading,” or heartfelt blessings from Venkateshwara Cement Tiles Pvt Ltd. And just when you enter the temple for a late evening darshan, your phone pops an ad : “ Celebrate your Birthday, stay liberated - Durex!” Right in the middle of the Aarthi. 

And just when you’re done being loved to death by corporate affection, in swoops the legendary category of unsolicited porn invitations. You open a news article — just a news article — and immediately three pop-ups start screaming like hyperactive parrots: “Hot singles near you!”, “Aunties want friendship!”, “Click here for companionship ;)”. And the best part? You never asked for companionship. You don’t even know if you want companionship. But the internet, like an overconfident matchmaker, has decided that you are lonely and must be rescued immediately — by likely malware.

Then come the lottery scams. For someone who has never won even a decent bumper lucky draw at a school function, the internet believes you have won at least three international lotteries, two iPhones, and one Mediterranean cruise every single week. All the benevolence the universe denied you, Nigerian princes offer to you with open arms. All they want is your bank account, passport, the OTP you swore you’d never share, and maybe a kidney if you’re feeling generous. The internet is like Santa Claus — if Santa were a criminal mastermind.

But nothing matches the omniscient terror of targeted ads. Search “how to remove a stain from sofa” once, just once, and suddenly the online world thinks your entire personality revolves around sofas. Your feeds explode with sofa cleaners, sofa washers, sofa repairers, sofa astrologers, sofa yoga, maybe even sofas that want companionship. Your gadgets — phone, laptop, TV, maybe even the washing machine — seem to share a secret WhatsApp group called “Dilip Surveillance Squad.” You begin wondering if your devices are listening. Yes. Watching? Probably. Judging? Definitely.

And then comes the peak absurdity: you search for a kalyana mandapam and suddenly the internet starts sending you ads for nursery school admissions. Apparently, if you’re looking for a wedding hall, this means you will soon have a child who must immediately be enrolled in an IB curriculum school costing the GDP of a small nation. You haven’t even booked the hall. You’re not sure the bride or groom is ready. But your imaginary baby must apparently begin Cambridge Early Years now. This is digital astrology — predicting your entire life based on one Google search.

Everywhere you turn, the internet gleefully reminds you that privacy is an ancient myth. Talk about knee pain near your phone and Ayurvedic treatment ads attack. Think about dieting and cake ads chase you down every alley. Check out one mobile phone and the algorithm stalks you for two years as if you committed a crime. Whisper “loan,” and instantly your phone lights up with messages from banks, NBFCs, illegal moneylenders, and one random guy named Ramesh who somehow already knows your CIBIL score.

We feel naked online because — let’s accept it — we are. Every click, every scroll, every pause, every accidental tap is recorded, dissected, and auctioned off to advertisers in countries you didn’t even know existed. Your identity is no longer personal; it’s a buffet platter — and you’re the main course. You can wear the most expensive clothes in the world, but online you are basically running around in broad daylight wearing nothing but a Wi-Fi signal and hope.

This is the digital world we’ve signed up for — a creepy, hilarious, overenthusiastic neighbour who barges into your room, rearranges your closets, asks about your salary, and then says, “Don’t worry, I’m only helping.” We wanted convenience and got chaos. We wanted information and got interrogation. We wanted connection and got surveillance.

“In the digital world, you’re not a user — you’re the product that keeps accidentally clicking ‘Accept All.’”

முப்பாரின் முத்தானே! முகில்வர்ணனே!

 என்னோடு நிற்கெனும் நேசம் உனக்கே…

என்னாலொன்றுநான் செய்வதென்னே?

என்செய்யும் ஓரினும் நின் செல்வமே அல்லால்

இவ்வுலகில் எனக்கெது சாத்தியமே?

முப்பாரின் முத்தானே! முகில்வர்ணனே!

உன் திருப்பாதத் தாழ்வணை தொழுகின்றேன்…

உடலாயினும் உந்தனதே… உயிராயினும் உன்னததே…

உளமாழ்த்தும் ஓர் அழுகையிலும்

உன்னாலேதான் உருகுகின்றேன்…

தண்டிக்கவும் தாங்கிடவும்

தாயாய்நின்றாய் என் கண்ணனே…

சித்திரம் பல சித்திரம் உன் லீலைகள் கண்ணா…

எத்தனை யுகம் போனாலும் தீராத அதிசயம்…

முப்பாரின் முத்தானே! முகில்வர்ணனே!

உன் திருப்பாதத் தாழ்வணை தொழுகின்றேன்…

நரனாகிய நான் நீயே… நாராயணனும் நீயே…

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