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Refusing a Life of Smallness: Walking Through Mahakavi Bharati’s “Naan Veezhven Ena Ninaithayo”

Picture of Mahakavi Bharathiyaar alongwith the title of the blogpost that reads: Refusing a Life of Smallness: Walking Through Bharathi’s “Naan Veezhven Ena Ninaithayo”

With utmost reverence, I write this. Even being able to read Mahakavi Subramania Bharathiyar’s poetry feels like a privilege, one that must be held with care, almost like cupping water in your palms and hoping not a drop escapes. For someone like me, who has spent years in awe of every word he gifted my dictionary, every firework-thought he slipped into my bloodstream, this isn’t a poetry appreciation. Who am i to speak about Bharathiyar? I’m barely even qualified to whisper his name.

So let me start with a disclaimer: this is just a simple attempt by a girl who grew up in awe of his words. Someone trying to walk — limping, stumbling, learning — through the depths he saw in life and the truth he embodied. That truth is something I want to explore, slowly and tenderly.

I should probably tell you that this series is going to be absolutely random. If you’ve followed my work for a while, you already know my writing is more intuitive than planned. So this too will unfold the same way: I want to sit with the words, sit inside his world, and just listen to what it speaks to me. No rush. No force. Just presence.

Also, there is not going to be any order to the poems I choose. I want them to arrive on their own terms. I want to give them that space. And today, on the auspicious day of Subramania Bharathiyar’s birthday, the poem that rose up, and the one you’ll often found quoted is:

Naan veezhven ena ninaithayo…

Here’s the poem, followed by my attempt at the translation:

தேடிச் சோறுநிதந் தின்று - பல
சின்னஞ் சிறுகதைகள் பேசி - மனம்
வாடித் துன்பமிக உழன்று - பிறர்
வாடப் பலசெயல்கள் செய்து - நரை
கூடிக் கிழப்பருவ மெய்தி - கொடுங்
கூற்றுக் கிரையெனப்பின் மாயும் - பல
வேடிக்கை மனிதரைப் போலே - நான்
வீழ்வே னென்றுநினைத் தாயோ?

நின்னைச் சிலவரங்கள் கேட்பேன் அவை
நேரே இன்றெனக்குத் தருவாய் - என்றன்
முன்னைத் தீயவினைப் பயன்கள் - இன்னும்
மூளா தழிந்திடுதல் வேண்டும்-இனி
என்னைப் புதிய வுயிராக்கி-எனக்
கேதுங் கவலையறச் செய்து - மதி
தன்னை மிகத்தெளிவு செய்து - என்றும்
சந்தோஷங் கொண்டிருக்கச் செய்வாய்...

Translation

Scavenging for food every day,
Chattering over trivial tales,
Letting the heart wilt in sorrow,
Hurting others through my actions,
Growing old as grey hair gathers,
And dying helpless in fate’s cruel grip —
Did you think I, too, would fall
Like those pitiful fools I disdain?

I ask you now for a few boons:
Grant them to me here and now.
Let the shadows of my former sins
Dissolve without trace or torment.
Renew me with a fresh, vital life,
Free from every burden.
Clear my mind completely,
And let me live in lasting joy.

Why did I pick this?

Because this piece has stayed with me forever. Especially on days heavy with loneliness — personally or professionally — on the days when you hit ground zero and everything in you screams, “I have to start all over again.” On days when the tunnel has no end, on nights when even the idea of dawn feels tired… these words hold a tiny lamp and whisper, “Keep going.”

Whenever life feels hurried and hollow, this poem forces me to pause. To ask myself if what I’m chasing is even worth the breath I lose. Do I have the courage to take the road less taken? To stand alone? To be different from the crowd… to walk into life on my own two trembling feet?

Every time I read this poem, it pours something warm and electric into my veins — a quiet vigour, a revived energy, a sharp clarity in a world that constantly tries to blur and drag us into chaos.

What makes this poem timeless is how well he understood humankind: always drifting, always chasing illusions, always exhausted by things that don’t matter. And yet, while he longs to rise above that crowd, he doesn’t pretend he’s flawless. He acknowledges his own past, his own shadows and that self-awareness makes him luminous.

The directness with which he speaks to the Almighty… the audacity, the honesty, the boldness to ask for boons not of gold or glory but of clarity — clarity that becomes joy — that is what makes him stand out for me. Only someone fearless, someone inwardly clean, can ask like this.

This poem reminds me time and again of what the true calling should be. It gives me conviction to choose the honest path, the quieter path, the path less travelled. To be okay with being different. To chase the eternal. To seek truth that brings joy, not the noise of material pursuit.

And maybe, on days when I feel stuck, I’ll return here again… and remind myself: நான் வீழ்வேனென்று நினைத்தாயோ?

P.S.: Translating this piece felt like my own tiny rebellion, a reminder that “refusing a life of smallness” isn’t just Bharathiyar’s cry but a choice we get to make every day. And honestly, what a fiery place to begin my translation journey.

Let me know in the comments which Bharathiyar poem is your favourite, or which one should I dive into next?

Suggested Read:

Transcendental poems celebrating love: 3 must-read Indian poems
English, Poems

Two Waterfalls: A Poem about Love, Ego, and the Distance Between Togetherness

This poem draws its inspiration from an African proverb that says, “Two waterfalls never hear each other.”

I was struck by the depth hidden in this simple image—two magnificent forces of nature, once part of the same river, now separated by their own fall, unable to hear one another’s song. In that silence, I saw a reflection of human relationships; how love begins in oneness, flows with shared rhythm, but sometimes diverges under the weight of ego and pride.

Through this poem, I’ve interpreted the proverb in my own way exploring the journey from unity to separation, from murmurs to silence, and the quiet hope of returning to oneness once again.

Two Waterfalls

Far away, where we began together,
in love—a single source of oneness—
we flowed through the ebbs and surges,
with tender fervor,
listening to each other’s murmurs,
singing the symphony
of our sacred love,
a gushing river as one.

Until—
a boulder of burdened egos
split our course,
and we fell apart,
twin waterfalls
unable to hear each other.

From afar, onlookers romanticize
our separate cascades,
never knowing
the lost murmurs,
the silenced whispers we once shared.

Yet—
as time bends
and wisdom softens stone,
perhaps the river will return us,
closer,
where ego’s rocks are shattered
and silence sings again—
a single symphony,
a gushing river,
flowing as one.

This post is part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon.

English, Poems

Teach Me Now: A poem on seeking stillness in a restless world

This poem was born out of one of those restless moments when my mind wouldn’t stop ticking through endless lists—things to do, goals to meet, lessons to learn.

I remember pausing midway through a busy day and wondering: When does the soul really rest in peace? Is peace something we wait for at the end of life, or something we can find in the middle of chaos, while we’re still breathing and learning to be?

Here’s my poetic take on the idea. Let me know your thoughts in the comments section. 

Teach me today.
In the now.
While I'm still alive.
While breath binds with my busy-ness—
racing and pacing behind
the checklists and wishlists.

Teach me now,
in this moment.
Tell me—
how does a soul rest in peace?
Is it when all the boxes on all the lists
are ticked before the ticking heart stops?
Or is it when one stops
to listen to the heart,
with no regard for the ticks—
checked or unchecked?
Or is it in that moment of epiphany—
when both the ticking heart
and the tailing lists
are illusions not worth brooding over?

Is life just a play of pretend?
If yes, how do I play it well—
in pretending to know
or knowing not to pretend
but simply play along?

Tell me now, teach me now—
in this very moment,
this very breath—
while there's still a thread of sanity.
When does a soul rest in peace?
Is it only after death,
or when there's nothing left to tick,
no fear of leaving behind,
no fear of being left behind?

Why don’t people say to the living,
“May your soul rest in peace”?
Does peace mean silence? End?
A full stop?
Nothingness?
Is the soul only identified at death?
Don’t we all long for peace?
If yes, does that mean we long for
aimless nothingness—
a kind of death no one speaks of after experiencing,
and no one experiences while still speaking?

You wish only for the dead
that their soul rest in peace.
But isn’t that what we all want?
Or does our fallacy lie
in reserving peace
only for the time of death?

Tell me now,
while I am still breathing—
would you wish my soul to rest in peace...
or not?

This post is part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon.

English, Poems

Take Thirty six: A Poem on the Art of Being ‘Natural’ Online

I wrote this poem after coming across one of Blogchatter’s earlier prompts about capturing awkwardness while facing a camera to make reels. Especially that strange, self-conscious feeling when the camera starts rolling. It instantly reminded me of my own attempts at making videos.

You know, that moment when you hit “record” and suddenly forget how to smile, speak, or even exist naturally. What was supposed to be a few seconds of effortless charm often turns into thirty takes of flailing hands, glitching smiles, and existential stares into the ring light. This poem is my playful take on that chaos, the art of being “natural” online.

I click "record" and forget my face—
is this my left or is it better left unseen?
My smile glitches like bad Wi-Fi,
hands flailing like I’m summoning ghosts.
I lip-sync with the enthusiasm of stale toast,
while my eyebrow auditions for a solo career.
The ring light glares like a disappointed parent.
My dog walks in, judges me, exits stage left.
Thirty six takes later, I post—
captioned: "Just being natural"

This post is part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon.

Essays/Articles, Miscellaneous

The Comeback Art: Returning to What You Love

One of my favourite pages from my junk journal <3

When I was a child, I loved doodling, playing with colours, and crafting without worrying about how it would turn out or how Instagrammable it would look. I didn’t think about whether it could earn me a penny, become a business, or fit into any philosophy of what “art” should be. I never asked if my work was sustainable or eco-friendly.

The only thing that mattered then was the joy of creating. The only interruption? My Amma yelling a bit about the mess I made around the house but that too was part of the game. And it was aaaaaaaaaaaallllllllll worth it when I got to see my finished work: good, bad, or gloriously ugly.

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” – Pablo Picasso

Back then, I felt joy—pure, unfiltered joy—just being immersed in creating something, whether it turned out the way I imagined or not. I felt proud whenever I had something I’d made from scratch. I simply tried, without seeking validation, likes, or hearts.

But somewhere along the way, growing up changed that. Hobbies became content. Creativity turned into a checklist: Is it aesthetic? Insta-worthy? Can it earn something? And slowly, the joy faded under the weight of those expectations. My interest in creating began to slip away not because I didn’t love it anymore, but because I was subconsciously trying to give it “value” that others could see.

But the thing is, the moment you start judging your art, you stop making it for yourself.

It took me years to realize that the real value of art lies not in its product but in its process—in the effort, in the flow, in the quiet joy of losing yourself to something you love. It’s about becoming one with what you create, about that mindful stillness that only comes when your hands are busy and your heart is light.

And once that truth hit me, there was no stopping. I went back to scraps and bits, to junk journaling, to binding papers into journals, to making poetry zines, to splashing colours just for the fun of it. Art came back, not as a hustle, but as healing.

“Art is not a thing; it is a way.” – Elbert Hubbard

The comeback art is here to stay, and this time, it’s not here to impress but to express. To play, to breathe, to simply be.

A random page from my art journal

This post is part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon.

Suggested Read:

Visual Poetry: A Simple Introduction
Essays/Articles, Miscellaneous

A Goodbye Letter to Writer’s Block

Dear Writer’s Block,

Let’s not pretend we don’t know each other. You’ve been that uninvited guest who shows up without notice, overstays your welcome, and leaves a mess behind. For the longest time, I let you sit around, take up space, and even believed your lies that I couldn’t write.

According to Oxford Languages, you’re “the condition of being unable to think of what to write or how to proceed with writing.” Sounds polished, almost respectable. But honestly? I’ve come to believe you’re either a scam or proof that someone hasn’t yet found their rhythm as a writer.

And before you take offence, let me confess—I’ve been your loyal subscriber. I’ve blamed you for my half-written drafts, delayed posts, and that long list of “to-publish” pieces quietly sitting in my drive. You made it easy for me to say, “Oh, I have writer’s block,” instead of admitting I was afraid, uncertain, or simply distracted.

But things began to shift when I noticed something. Even on days I told myself I wasn’t writing, I was still writing. Maybe not on paper, but definitely in my head. I was collecting ideas, processing emotions, scribbling lines on my phone, and underlining words in books that stirred something in me. I was living as a writer, just without pressing publish.

That’s when I realised that you’re a scam. Not even a myth, just a well-marketed excuse. Writers talk about you, glorify you, and secretly hide behind you when fear takes over. I know because I did exactly that. You gave me comfort when I didn’t want to face my own resistance.

And if by any chance you’re not a scam, then maybe I’ve simply outgrown you. Because a real writer, I’ve learned, doesn’t wait for perfect words. We write when the sentences stumble, when the metaphors don’t click, when the page looks unimpressed. We read, rewrite, pause, and return. We collect pieces of the world quietly until one day, everything starts flowing again.

So, dear Writer’s Block, this is my official goodbye. Thank you for showing up when I needed someone to blame. But I don’t need you anymore. This time, words have returned with conviction, with clarity, and with the calm of someone who knows she was never really blocked… just becoming.

With affection (and a hint of relief),
A Writer Who Finally Stopped Waiting for You

Suggested Read:

This Time Words Returned With Conviction

This post is part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon.

Essays/Articles, Miscellaneous

This Time Words Returned With Conviction

It felt like I was married to one and having an affair with another, and it was hard to accept the truth or let go of either. Before you jump to conclusions, I’m talking about my marriage with Math and my love affair with writing.

Having graduated with a master’s degree in Math, I had dreams of becoming a mathematics professor. I even worked as a Math SME and tutor for college students for a few years. So, when life took a turn and I became a blogger and poetry customizer, it felt… weird (for lack of a better word).

My autoimmune condition demanded that I slow down, and the brain fog that came with it made teaching harder than before. Writing, on the other hand, became my refuge—my way of processing and expressing. Even when it wasn’t public, it lent a quiet shoulder to lean on. Little did I know, I had been in love with writing all along.

My amma often recalls how, even at the age of five, I would scribble and sign my name across pages of notebooks or any random scrap of paper I could find. She used to joke that I’d make a good stenographer someday. None of us knew I’d end up becoming a writer, least of all me. But now, looking back at all my childhood essays, the journals I still hold dear, and even the random bus tickets and tissue papers I scribbled on and secretly saved, I realise I was born in love with words: their sound, their shape, the meanings they hold, the silences they evoke, and the music they create. I just hadn’t taken them seriously… until now.

So, after years of being married to Math, officially committing to writing came with its share of guilt trips and self-doubt. Even until a few months ago, whenever someone asked about my profession, my answer kept changing—“freelancer,” “I write customised poetry for gifts,” “I translate research papers”—but never simply, writer.

The reason? I didn’t have a structured education or certification in writing. The irony? Everyone else already saw me as one. My clients were returning clients. My friends and family referred others to me for writing assignments.

It was only recently after reading a testimonial from a client who’s trusted me with poetry gift orders for over ten years, that I realised something important: I’ve sustained and grown in this field for a decade, without any advertising. That’s a success I hadn’t seen for myself, but others had seen all along.

That testimonial, with its mention of ten years, was my aha moment —an epiphany soon followed by enrolling in Bound’s publishing course, which finally helped me move toward an official marriage with writing.

Now, if you’re wondering whether that means I’ve broken up with Math, no, not at all. We’ve reconciled. In fact, through my writing, I plan to explore Math too. It’s no longer a case of a secret affair—it’s more like a beautifully balanced equation where both sides finally make sense.

And this time, words returned with conviction, not as a passing muse, but as a lifelong partner I’m finally ready to acknowledge.

Testimonials

This post is part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon.

Essays/Articles, Poems

கலையும் கலைஞரும் – அத்தியாயம் 1 – திருமதி. லக்ஷ்மி ஸ்ரீனிவாசன்

என் உலகின் முதல் கலைஞர்

© http://www.promisingpoetry.org

கலை என்றால் என்ன?

இது பல நேரங்களில் ஒரு படைப்பாளியின் உள்ளே எழும் கேள்வி.
கலை என்றால் என்ன? படைப்பு எதற்காக? அதன் பயன் என்ன?

என்ன படைத்தாலும் — “இதனால் என்ன பயன்?” என்று தன்னைத் தானே அடிக்கடி கேட்கும் தன்மை ஒரு படைப்பாளிக்கே உரியது. எனக்கும் இப்படிப்பட்ட சந்தேகங்கள் பல முறை தோன்றும். ஆனால் சில சமயம் அமைதியாக உட்கார்ந்து சிந்திக்கும் போது பதில் கிடைக்கும்; சில வேளைகளில் பிறருடன் உரையாடும் போதும் வெளிப்படும்.

அப்படி எனக்குத் தோன்றிய பதில் இதுதான்:

கலை என்பது மனிதரின் உள்ளுணர்வையும், உணர்ச்சிகளையும், சிந்தனைகளையும் வெளிப்படுத்தும் ஒரு வழி.
அது ஓவியம், இசை, நடனம், எழுத்து, சமையல், தோட்டம்—எதுவாகவும் இருக்கலாம்.
வெளியுலகத்துடன் பேசாமலேயே “நான் யார், நான் எப்படி உணர்கிறேன்” என்பதைக் காட்டிக் கொடுக்கும் பாசாங்கற்ற மொழி தான் கலை.

சிலருக்கு கலை ஒரு ஆசை; சிலருக்கு அது ஆதாரம்; சிலருக்கு அடையாளம்.
ஆனால் யாருக்குமே அது “உள்ளிருந்து வெளியில் பாயும் உயிரின் ஓசை” போலவே இருக்கும்.

இது என்னுடைய அபிப்பிராயம். ஆனால் மனதில் எப்பொழுதும் மற்றவர்களின் பார்வையில் கலை என்னவாக இருக்கும், ஒரு கலைஞரின் சிந்தனை, படைப்பு, செயல்முறை எப்படிப்பட்டது, எல்லா கலைஞர்களும் புரிந்துகொள்ளப்படுகிறார்களா, அங்கீகரிக்கப்படுகிறார்களா என்ற கேள்விகள் எழுந்துகொண்டே இருக்கும்.

அப்படிப் பட்ட ஆர்வத்தில்தான் இந்த “கலையும் கலைஞரும்” என்ற தொடரின் யோசனை உருவானது.
இது தமிழ் மற்றும் ஆங்கிலத்தில் வெளியாகும் மாதாந்திரத் தொடர்.
இதன் மூலம் கலை, கலைஞர்கள், அவர்களின் சிந்தனைகள், செயல்முறைகள் மற்றும் தத்துவார்த்தங்களை அறியும் ஒரு பயணம் அமையும்.

அந்தப் பயணத்தின் முதல் அத்தியாயமாக—
எனக்கு முதல் கலையாகவும் முதல் கலைஞராகவும் தோன்றிய, இன்னமும் தினமும் என் வாழ்வில் தோன்றிக்கொண்டிருக்கும் என் அம்மா, திருமதி லக்ஷ்மி ஸ்ரீனிவாசன் அவர்களுடனான உரையாடல் இதோ உங்கள் முன்னே.

அம்மா, உங்கள் அபிப்ராயத்தில் கலை என்றால் என்ன?

அம்மா:
“அரிது அரிது, மானிடராய் பிறத்தல் அரிது” என்று அவ்வையார் சொன்னார். கடவுள் கொடுத்த இந்த மனிதப் பிறவி தான் மிகப் பெரிய கலை. நல்ல தேகத்தைக் கொடுத்து பிறக்க வைத்ததே வாழ்வின் முதல் கலை.

அதற்குப் பிறகு, நம்மைச் சுற்றியுள்ள ஒவ்வொரு விஷயமும் கலைதான். காலை எழுந்து சுவாசிப்பது, ஒரு நிம்மதி அடைவது, வாசலில் கோலம் போடுவது, சமையல் செய்வது — இவை அனைத்துமே கலை. அன்போடும் ஆனந்தத்தோடும் பார்த்தால், வாழ்க்கையே மிகச்சிறந்த கலை.

இயற்கையில் உங்களுக்கு எப்படி கலை தெரிகிறது?

அம்மா:
கடவுள் படைத்த உலகமே கலை. ஒரு புல், ஒரு பூச்சி, எறும்பு — எதைப் பார்த்தாலும் அதில் அற்புதம் இருக்கிறது. ஒரு வெள்ளரி பிஞ்சு தான் முதிரும் சமயம் அறிந்து கொடியிலிருந்து விடுபட்டு கொள்வதும்எறும்பு மழை வரப்போகிறதென்று உணர்ந்து தன் உணவைச் சேமிப்பது கூட கலை தான்.

ஒரு தாயின் கருவறையில் பத்து மாதம் குழந்தை வளர்வது எவ்வளவு அழகான கலை! பிறப்பு, மரணம் — எப்போது, எப்படித் திடீரென்று நடக்கிறது என்பதை யாராலும் சொல்ல முடியாது. அந்த அதிசய சக்தியே கடவுள், அதுவே கலை.

உங்கள் வாழ்க்கையில் கலை என நீங்கள் மதிப்பது என்ன?

அம்மா:
வாழ்க்கை வாழ்வதற்கே. அதை அழகாக அனுபவித்து, தானும் மகிழ்ந்து, மற்றவர்களுக்கும் மகிழ்ச்சி கொடுக்க வேண்டும். எந்த எதிர்பார்ப்பும் இல்லாமல், “சர்வம் கிருஷ்ணார்ப்பணம்” என்ற மனநிலை வந்தால், அதுவே வாழ்வின் அழகான கலை.

பிரபலமானவர்கள் தான்  கலைஞர்கள் என்று பலர் நினைக்கிறார்கள். அவர்களுக்கு நீங்கள் என்ன சொல்லுவீர்கள்.

அம்மா:
என்னை பொறுத்தவரை கடவுளால் படைக்கப்பட்ட ஒவ்வொருவரும் கலைஞரே. எந்த எதிர்பார்ப்புமின்றி, அன்போடு செய்யும் செயல் அனைத்துமே கலை தான்.

நீங்கள் செய்யும் ஒவ்வொரு வேளையிலும் நேர்த்தியும் அழகும் வழிந்தோடுகிறது. தொட்டதெல்லாம் கலையாக மாறுகிறது. எழுத்து, சமையல், தோட்டக்கலை, கோலமிடுவது , எல்லாமே…ஆனால் இன்றைய காலத்தை போல் எதையும் உடனுக்குடன் வெளியுலகிற்கு புகைப்படம் எடுத்து காட்டியதே இல்லை …மேலும் எதில்  இருந்தும் பொருள் ஈட்ட முயன்றதில்லை …எப்படி எந்த ஒரு வருமானமோ எதிர்பார்ப்போ இல்லாமால் அனைத்திலும் ஈடுபாடுடன் செய்ய முடிகிறது ?

அம்மா:
அதற்க்கு காரணம் பொறுமை. அதற்க்கும் மேலாக கலையை கலைக்காகவே பார்ப்பது. அப்படி எந்த வித எதிர்ப்பார்ப்பும் இல்லாமல், முழு மனதுடன் எந்த ஒரு வேலையை நேர்த்தியாக செய்யும் போதும் , அது செய்து  முடிக்கும்போது கிடைக்கும் திருப்தியே சன்மானமாகவும் சந்தோஷமாகவும் மாறுகிறது. வேறு என்ன வேணும்  சொல்லுங்கள்?

புதியதாக தொங்கும் கலைஞர்களுக்கு நீங்கள் தர விரும்பும் அறிவுரை என்ன ?

அம்மா:
எல்லா விஷயத்தையும் ஆசையுடன் அனுபவித்து செய்யுங்கள்.

சரி…ஒரே ஒரு கவிதை ப்ளீஸ்

அம்மா:
கடவுளின் படைத்தல் கலையை வியந்தேன்
என் அம்மாவின் பொறுமை எனும் கலையை கற்றேன்
அப்பாவின் செய்யும் செயலின் நேர்மையை அறிந்தேன்
ஆசானிடம் எல்லாவற்றிலும் ஆனந்தத்தை அடைவதை கற்றேன்
வாழ்க்கை வாழ்வதற்கே
வாழ்க்கை அழகான கலை
அதை அழகாக அனுபவித்து
அனைவருக்கும் இன்பத்தை அளிப்போம்


ஆயர் கலைகள் 63 ம்
நாம் வாழும் அழகான வாழ்வில்
அனைவரும் அடைய ஆண்டவனை பிரார்த்திக்கிறேன்

ஆஹா அருமை!!

இந்த உரையாடலால் நான் உணர்ந்தது —
கலை என்பது பிரபலமான பெயரில் மட்டுமல்ல; பெரிய மேடைகளில் மட்டுமல்ல.
அது நம் அன்றாட வாழ்க்கையிலேயே உள்ளது.

கலை வாழ்வில் இருக்கிறது; வாழ்வே கலை.

என் வாழ்க்கையில் நான் சந்தித்த முதல் கலைஞர் — என் அம்மா.
அவரின் பொறுமையும், அன்பும், எளிமையும் எனக்குக் கற்றுத்தந்த மிகப்பெரிய கலை.

இந்த தொடரும் அவரோடு துவங்குவது அதற்கேற்ற அர்த்தமுள்ளதாக எனக்குத் தோன்றுகிறது.

வரும் அத்தியாயங்களில் இன்னும் பல கலைஞர்களின் குரல்களை உங்களுடன் பகிர்ந்து கொள்ள ஆவலாக இருக்கிறேன்.

இந்த உரையாடலை நீங்கள் எப்படி உணர்கிறீர்கள்? உங்கள் எண்ணங்களை கீழே கருத்துக்களில் பகிர்ந்து கொள்ளுங்கள்.

Poems, கவிதை / Tamil Poems

நான் காதல் சொன்னபோது – ஓர் காதல் கவிதை

நான் காதல் சொன்னபோது

நீரிடம் காதல் சொன்னேன்
 முத்தமிட்டு சென்றது
 மழைச் சாரல்

ஆகாயத்திடம் காதல் சொன்னேன்
 வண்ணமாய் சிரித்தது
 வானவில்

காற்றிடம் காதல் சொன்னேன்
 காவியமாய் மலர்ந்தது
 காகிதப் பூக்கள்

நிலத்திடம் காதல் சொன்னேன்
 வழிவகுத்து நின்றது
 உன் வீட்டுச் சாலை

நெருப்பிடம் காதல் சொன்னேன்
 உயிர்ப்பாய் எழுந்தது
 வெட்கச் சுடர்

உன்னிடம் காதல் சொன்னேன்
 ஆறாம் பூதமாய் ஆக்கிரமித்தாய்
 பஞ்சபூதங்களின் எல்லையையும் கடந்துபோய்...

காத்திருப்பில் காதல் வளர்க்கின்றேன்- ஓர் காதல் கவிதை
English, Panch Rasa - Poetry on the Plate, Poems, Resources

Poetry on the Plate: Katu Rasa

Spice In The Sevai – Not all spice burns — some bloom between people.


Poetry on the Plate: Katu Rasa

What’s Simmering?

Katu rasa, the pungent taste, doesn’t arrive quietly. It’s a jolt — sometimes sharp, sometimes playful — but always enlivening. In poetry, pungency can be the heat of effort, the friction of surprise, or the spark of realization that something (or someone) has more power than we gave them credit for.

In this post, we explore how pungency finds its way into kitchens and verses — not just through chilli powder, but through unexpected tenderness, muscular effort, and unspoken mischief.

Featured Poem: Spice in the Sevai

Yesterday evening, Priyam came home,
hopping around, smelling the roses,
plucking the lone jasmine from the creeper,
her bangles tinkling louder than the wind.

In her usual chirpy self, she asked
for the recipe of authentic sevai —
our traditional South Indian hand-pressed noodles.

I laughed.
“It’s not for the faint-hearted,” I said.
“Requires strength — arm work, heavy pressing.
Why not try something easier?”

Not losing a breath of enthusiasm, she replied,
“Adi loves it, and I want to make it for him.”

I looked at her — thin, frail wrists,
new to our ways of soaking and steaming.
I offered instead,
“Come next Sunday. I’ll make it for you.”

But she stood her ground,
with that childlike stubbornness
I never could say no to.

So I walked her through it,
step by step:
“Soak the rice for four hours,
grind it smooth, like wet cream.
Add salt, place a cloth in idli plates,
pour ladles of batter over it,
steam it gently.

Take it out when still warm, not hot —
and press it through the sevai nazhi
while it still breathes softness.”

She scribbled every word,
smiling as if it were a family heirloom.
I didn’t think she’d manage it.

But this morning, when I stepped out
to water my garden,
I found the two of them —

laughing over the mess
they had created in the kitchen.

She was trying to hand him warm idlis
as he quickly placed them in the sevai nazhi,
showing off his muscular arms
with a wink as he pressed it down.

She stood beside him,
picked a warm strand,
rolled it around her finger,
and slurped it up — teasing him.

And in that moment, I knew —
this otherwise bland, white sevai
had turned spicier
from their love.

I left the garden quietly.
The roses could wait.

What’s Sizzling Beneath the Surface?

Pungency of the Unexpected

The poem turns when the speaker’s assumption — that Priyam couldn’t manage the laborious process — is upended. Katu rasa often arrives through surprise and reversal.

The Heat of Togetherness

Domesticity becomes flirtation. The couple isn’t just cooking; they’re co-creating. The sevai becomes a symbol of partnership — effort folded into love.

The Speaker’s Quiet Exit

The speaker fades out — a subtle recognition that what’s blossoming isn’t hers to stir. A final line like “The roses could wait” leaves the rasa lingering.

Writing Prompt: The Spice I Didn’t Expect

Write a poem where someone (yourself or another) surprises you — not with perfection, but with effort, grit, or unexpected intimacy.

Prompt Starters:

  • “She wasn’t supposed to manage it…”
  • “The batter wasn’t perfect, but the moment…”
  • “He winked, and the steam rose…”
  • “I offered to do it — but she insisted…”
  • “The pressure in the kitchen had nothing to do with the stove.”

Tips for Writing Katu Poetry

Let the spark be small but transformative.
Katu poems don’t need conflict — just a shift in perception.

Use contrasting textures.
Soft idlis, hot steam, cold roses — let your imagery pop.

Let playfulness carry depth.
Mischief can hold meaning. Let the humour come with heat.

End with a pause, not applause.
A lingering moment — a sideways glance, a closing door — is enough.

Final Bite

Pungency isn’t always about spice levels — it’s about what stirs us into feeling more awake.
Sometimes, it’s a couple pressing sevai together.
Sometimes, it’s an old belief melting quietly.
And sometimes, it’s knowing when to step aside — because love, like mustard seeds in hot ghee, knows how to sizzle on its own.

Final Spoonful: Wrapping Up the Series

Over five posts, we’ve tasted the five rasas — madhura, amla, lavana, tikta, and katu — not just as flavours, but as emotions that bring poetry to life.

Through each post, I’ve offered:

  • One original poem
  • A deep-dive into how rasa works beneath the surface
  • Prompts and writing tips for you to cook up your own poems

Poetry, like food, works best when shared.

Try the prompt?

Write your own poem and share it in the comments or email it to me at promisingpoetry5@gmail.com
The best ones will be featured in the Collaborative Poetry section — where shared words find their flavour.

Want feedback on your poetry?
I’m happy to offer 1:1 feedback and poetry editing services.
Reach me at promisingpoetry5@gmail.com to get started.

CollaborativePoetry – Let’s Create Poetry Together
Written as part of the #BlogchatterFoodFest