What is family?

The following is a poem I composed for a Talent Challenge series on my extended family's WhatsApp group. Archana insisted I try something outside my comfort zone, hence here is my very first attempt at poetry. 

Video: YouTube

What is family, but good times and cheer,
What is family, but support far or near;

What is family, but memories set in song,
What is family, but friends that come along;

What is family, but a shoulder to cry on,
What is family, but getting your urulai fry-on;

What is family, but comfort always on call,
What is family, but Deepavali presents for all;

What is family, but trips to near and abroad,
What is family, but amazing performers to applaud;

What is family, but summers playing cricket,
What is family, but begging for the last Rajini ticket;

What is family, but shared joys and heartbreaks,
What is family, but celebrations with candy & cakes;

What is family, but a fresh filter coffee brew,
What is family, but Bala the next challenge is for you!

On Knowledge and Change

I recently finished reading Amitav Ghosh's genre-bending novel, The Calcutta Chromosome. Is it science-fiction? Is it a historical novel? Is it a mystical thriller? Why not all three? The book held me in spellbound attention and left me with the aftertaste of philosophy. An epistemological insight that is oft-repeated in the novel is the inherent nature of Knowledge to cause Change.

"Knowing something, changes it."

"One can only know history because the act of knowing something, changes it so that what one just learnt is already obsolete."

If knowing something changes it, can one make something change in "a certain way" by making it be known "in a particular way"?  That is a guiding premise in the book.

Isn't it a wonderfully fascinating idea? It gives me goosebumps to even imagine it.

When I first encountered this premise in the book, a few disconnected ideas flashed in my mind like shooting stars. I remembered an echo of a long-forgotten lesson in quantum mechanics of how the act of measurement or observation ("knowing") alters the object under observation into just one (a rather mundane unary) manifestation of its otherwise plural possibilities.

Almost immediately, my mind train chugged along to other stations of knowledge induced change. Why, I was reminded of the childish game of Chinese Whispers. Convey a secret message to the first person in a long human chain and have them convey it to their neighbor. By the end of a long train, the secret is often altered into an unrecognizable mess, albeit a bit funnier.

Is it a fundamental nature of the human mind to change what it knows? Is it impossible to make something be known and yet make it fool-proof to change? I was instantly reminded of something I read in Frits Staal's book, Discovering the Vedas. This primary challenge of passing knowledge without change transfixed the Vedas's earliest composers. As eternal truths, it was paramount that they not be allowed to change from mouth to ear to mouth. And hence, they codified error-detecting and error-correcting codes within the texts themselves and the teaching methods of the text. As any Veda-paatshala student can attest, the emphasis in Veda learning is initially of rote-memorization; of not just the words, but primarily the tone, inflection, and spirit. The text themselves are composed to certain mathematical meters and any destructive change that affects the meter can be instantly recognized and fixed. Perhaps here at last is a rare success story of knowledge not leading to irretrievable change.

But is such knowledge-driven change necessarily a bad thing? If preventing change needs a lack of action, then why know anything at all? Is the world to be a museum of wonders held behind bullet-proof, sky-high glass walls? Sights to be admired from a distance, but never to be touched, rolled on the floor, handled among friends, stained with the accidental spill of coffee or wine, or changed and altered in even a microscopic way? Are we to be relegated to the roles of bit-parts in this vast world and never aspire to create wonders of our own to be left for the progeny to admire? Isn't newness, by definition, a change from the usual? If change through knowledge is a terrible idea, how can any newness come into the world?

If you are of the analytical bent of mind, imagine the following flow-chart. There exists a "Thing" in a circle. An arrow of "knowledge" emerges from the circle and leads to a second circle, "Action". An arrow of "change" emerges from the "Action" bubble and hurtles towards the first bubble "Thing". What happens to "Thing" now? Why, of course, it becomes a "New Thing". And the cycle continues, ad infinitum.

One can trivially imagine examples of highly destructive cycles of change. Man learnt about the usefulness of river sand to create mortar and concrete. The knowledge resulted in action that created incredibly useful newness in the world  – schools, bridges, temples, office complexes – but also immeasurably destroyed rivers and riverine ecosystems through the plunder for river sand.

Perhaps a happy compromise is that knowledge-driven change is A-okay as long as it is channeled towards something moral and honorable. In the river sand example, the change towards bridges and schools is great, but the change towards dry rivers and sunken river-beds is to be avoided. If the analytical mind begs for another flow-chart, imagine the previous one and make two minor alterations. The arrow of "knowledge" is now replaced with the arrow of "knowledge guided by moral worldview". The circle with "New Thing" is now termed "Better Thing". And thereby, we have a virtuous cycle of change.

And hence, perhaps the only thing worth preserving against wanton change or mischief is this sense of morality or a moral worldview that can guide the application of knowledge towards actions that can result in constructive change. Perhaps the only things worth preserving are rules or edicts that can timelessly apply to every scenario and guide the knower into selecting better actions and avoiding destructive ones. The only things worth guarding against the winds of change are the moral principles that can midwife better change in everything else. Perhaps, now I better understand why the Vedas are so zealously preserved against change.

Lessons from a father

Note: The following is an article written by my mother after the demise of her father in March, 2020. I edited the article and felt its content will be useful to everybody. I have retained my mother's usage of the first-person. 

The year 2020 has been a mixed bag of emotions for my family. The year dawned with great promise and joy thanks to the marriage celebrations of my sister's son, and then my own son in quick succession. Attended by a host of relations from near and afar, both ceremonies were presided over by my stately father, aged 94 and still going strong.  

My father at my son's wedding in January 2020

Shortly after, on the 6th of February, I was met with the shocking news that my father had fallen in his home, where he preferred to live alone after my mother’s demise a decade ago, and had fractured his thigh bone. That fateful accident triggered a steady decline in his health until he passed away on the 25th of April. I write this post on the 7th of May, shortly after the conclusion of his Subham, the ceremonial thirteenth day funeral rites. Thanks to the raging pandemic sweeping across the globe, the funeral rites were sparsely attended with just the closest family - my siblings, and their significant others. 

A large colored photograph of my father in gilded framing was placed on a table for the rituals. As I stared at the slender, dark-skinned man in the photograph, with his prominent forehead, sharp nose and astute eyes, I was reminded in colored flashes of my childhood, the small and big sacrifices made by my parents to raise their five children into respectable stations in life. I was struck by his ironclad will and peculiar zeal towards his family and was reminded of the incredible life he had lived. 

My father, Sri T. R. Srinivasan was born on the 17th of January, 1926 near Kumbakonam. Hailing from a small village called Tiruvalliyangudi renowned for Kolavilli Ramar temple, a prominent Vaishavite shrine, my father was schooled at Little Flowers Convent in Kumbakonam. Growing up in extreme poverty amongst seven siblings, he was the first person in his family to clear the SSC examination (standard XI by today's metrics). Through a stroke of good fortune, at the age of 18 he entered Central Government service as a Lower Division Clerk in the Office of the Protector of Emigrants and posted to Mandapam camp, a refugee center near the coastal town of Rameswaram. At Mandapam, he quickly learned typewriting and shorthand to become the personal assistant to the Camp superior who was an Indian Civil Services cadre bureaucrat. Through his boss, my father acquired a taste for the exalted administrative services and vowed to raise a bureaucrat in his future family! 

The caption is in my father's hand

On the 15th August 1947, as India celebrated her newfound freedom with crackers and festivities, my father got engaged to my mother Smt. Saroja and acquired in her a most worthy life-partner. Their partnership lasted till 2010 when she pre-deceased him and their long union gave their children a chance to celebrate their 60th, 80th, and golden wedding celebrations. 

My father shares his birth date with Tamil Nadu's former Chief Minister and film superstar Sri. M. G. R. In his own way, my father was the superstar of the lives of his children! Since he was denied a chance at higher education, he was determined to ensure all his children were graduates or higher. He pushed us to strive a little further at every stage of our lives. After college, he encouraged all his daughters to work which led to all of us joining the Banking sector. His son joined the Indian Administrative Services, fulfilling one of my father's oldest dreams. All his children have had long and successful careers, enriching marriages, and today his grand- and great-grandchildren are spread all over the globe. 

In 2018, I retired as a Deputy General Manager at SBI after thirty-eight years of service. Over these years I have been known as an extremely hard-worker, a skilled Banker and a qualified financial adviser. However, most of the golden truths of professional and personal life were instilled in me by my father much before I joined SBI. I share a few of these life-lessons that he passed down to his children through his words and lifestyle. 

• Spend within your means.

Every month my mother and father would sit together and jot down the mandatory expenses for the month. Instead of splurging on notebooks, my mother would carefully tear old calendar sheets into quadrants and use their backsides for accounts keeping. Once expenses had been listed, they would ensure some amount is always reserved for future savings. Whatever is left after that is the only discretionary spending for the whole family. Decades later, despite reaching a much better place financially, I am still driven by this model of money-management: identify expenses, reserve savings, spend whatever is left if needed.

• Increase your income. 

A large family necessitated my parents to find new ways to augment their income. A small portion of our home was rented out to a succession of tenants for several years. Being a shrewd orator and effective writer, my father would write short stories, articles, and poems in local newspapers and magazines for small remunerations. My mother provided tailoring services to neighbors, sold postage stamps, and even reared two cows to sell milk! In such varied and versatile ways, my parents increased the family income and made it possible in later life to send their children to college, marry them well, build a home, etc. 

• Savings vs Liability.

At the young age of thirty, my father had the brilliant forethought and daring to purchase a large plot of land in a swampy neighborhood called West Mambalam in Chennai. With a meager salary and four children already, it was a big risk, albeit a calculated one. He procured a loan from the local bank to buy the land and construct a house. For many years after, paying back the loan EMI was the foremost expense in our home. I still remember accompanying my father every month to pay the monthly EMI. Those trips to a bank at an early age inspired me to become a Banker in later life. This experience taught me that savings alone are not enough. It is also important to cleverly use liabilities in pursuit of grander objectives. Today the plot of land he purchased for Rs. 500 is worth several crores and has provided homes for several generations of his progeny. 

• Live with contentment.

My father was always simple in his lifestyle. In his early years, poverty made any kind of luxury unimaginable and yet, even in his later years when he was financially much better off, he never sought nor cared for luxury. Perhaps the only extravagance I remember of him was applying for a Bajaj scooter and waiting patiently for six years for its allotment. He used it sparingly, mostly preferring his cycle to commute to work. My father cared for the few things he owned and didn't care much for any other material possessions. Over the last decade of his life his austere living became even more minimal as he disposed most of his possessions. His most prized possessions were liberally handed over to his children and grandchildren and he retained only the barest essentials for himself. Despite living in a mostly empty house for the last ten years of his life, I cannot remember him being more content. Truly, contentment is a state of the mind.

• Do your duty.

Despite being from an orthodox Iyengar family, my father was never overtly religious. He rarely discussed religion or faith with others and was wary of such topics. Likewise, he was never inclined towards charity. He was living proof of the idiom 'Work is Worship' and all his children imbibed this ferocious devotion to one's work. Despite beginning at the lowest rung of the ladder, his career took him all over the country (Ahmedabad, Lucknow, Bombay, Madras) and he eventually retired as the Public Relations Officer, a gazetted position, of the Regional Passport Office at Bombay. 

During my own retirement ceremony in 2018, with my father in attendance in the first row, I was honored when my CGM commented on my Herculean work ethic even a few days before my retirement. I remember with great fondness my father's interactions with the CGM after the retirement function where he beamed with pride at his daughter's successful career. Doing one's duty with rigor was considered the foremost dharma in our household and I have strived to uphold that throughout my  career. 

My father at my retirement ceremony in 2018

To summarize, it is known that the Bhagavad Gita extols three ways to transcend our human condition: Karma Yoga (the path of duty), Jnana Yoga (the path of knowledge), and Bhakti Yoga (the path of faith). My father exemplified the life of a Karma Yogi. Through honor, discipline, grit, and visionary thinking he uplifted an entire family into a higher sphere financially, culturally, and socially. While his time on earth has come to an end, his words, memories, and influences will guide his children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren for decades to come. 

- Smt. Kousalya Venkataraman

Short Story: Kazhugappan

“Paati, tell me a story, please!”, Vaidy beseeched his grandmother as she joined him in the pyol facing the street after partaking their midday meal. His grandmother sighed from fatigure, she had been up since 5 in the morning but Vaidy knew no patience, “Please! You said you will tell me a scary story!” 

Vaidyanathan (a) Vaidy Gurumurthy was visiting his grandmother in the village for his summer holidays. His grandmother was a formidable lady. Perennially donned in crisp madisar saris she held court in her vast ancestral house in the middle of Big Street. The street, its adjoining Little Street, and a few smaller pathways and bylanes contained the two hundred-odd howels that made up the bulk of the village. Beyond these streets lay a few isolated tenements, the government primary school, the weaving workshop, and the Perumal Temple. Verdant fields stretched in every direction around the village until one encountered the muddy Kapti river lazily meandering around the village in a wide arc. A short distance beyond the river was the small cluster of huts of the others. Vaidy’s grandmother forbade him from visiting their homes or playing with their children. 

Despite being a city-bred boy, Vaidy loved the village. To him, its sights, sounds, and smells teemed with mysterious possibilities. Unlike his parents who seemed perenially occupied with work or chores, the villagers were more relaxed and mostly had time for a precocious nine-year old’s questions and antics. Over a few summers Vaidy had even managed to make a merry group of friends who, despite initial apprehensions about a city boy, had wholeheartedly accepted Vaidy into their games and mischief. Since his grandmother wouldn’t allow him to leave the house until the sun was past its peak the lazy afternoons were always spent at home in their cement pyol facing the street. Its red-oxide coating kept the pyol cool and pleasant no matter the sun’s fury. And on this cool, cement oasis, his grandmother would entertain Vaidy with her stories. 

“Shall I tell you the story of the man who brought a Kaleidascope to the village when I was little?”, his grandmother asked him, pulling Vaidy into her lap. Her madisar sari created a comfortable hammock for him in between her legs. “Hair”, he commanded, at which his grandmother began gently caressing his hair. “Tomorrow I will wash your hair kanna. Do you spend all your time rolling in mud?”

“No paati. You have already told me the Kaleidascope story… you said you will tell me a scary story today.” 

“Won’t you get scared by it? Already you are afraid to pee alone at night…”, his grandmother chided him. 

“That’s because your bathroom is at the far end of the backyard!”, Vaidy countered. 

“Seri, seri. I will tell you a real story today, something that happened in this village when my mother was your age.” 

“Yay.”

“When my mother was your age, a new teacher was deployed at the local government school. He was not a man from these parts; he hardly spoke the language, dressed in ill-fitting, heavy tunics, and was an oddity wherever he went. He stood over six feet tall but was shrunken and emaciated and despite not being beyond thirty, was almost completely bald, which made his head dazzle under the midday Sun. He also appeared to be unmarried despite his advanged age. But the most defining feature of the man was his nose. Oh, what a nose it was! Long like a cobra, it curved like a cutlass to its pin-like tip and then retreated like a wave towards the upper lip. People joked that the nose traveled one day before the rest of him!“

“Like Garuda!”, Vaidy interjected. The eagle-god was the vahana of Ranganatha, their family deity and was one of Vaidy’s favorite gods. 

“Yes, it was sharp like Garuda, but where Garuda’s nose signifies auspiciousness and strength, the school teacher’s nose suggested wickedness and malice. The kids quickly started calling him “Kazhugu” behind his back”. 

“What is Kazhugu?”

“Vulture. The bird eats dead bodies and is unholy.”

“But isn’t Jatayu also a vulture? Didn’t he help Rama?”

“Yes, but Jatayu and his brother were exceptions. Now stop interrupting me or I will lose the flow of the story!”

His grandmother continued, “Despite the nose’s sinister appearance, the school master turned out to be an utter lightweight. He was easily startled and had a fragile constitution that was prone to shivering when agitated. The kids were quick to take advantage of him. Pandemonium would ensue in every class as kids would jump from bench to bench throwing paper balls at one another, while the hapless teacher tried to quell the class, until his shivering would make him collapse in a sweat.”

“I feel bad for him. Why were the kids so mean?”

“Kids can be the cruelest sometimes kanna”

“I am not cruel. When Lata caught a caterpillar during P.T. period and Senthil suggested we dismember it part by part, I fought with them to have it released”, Vaidy demurred. 

“Chamathu. You are my golden boy”, his grandmother rubbed his face with her palms and cracked her knuckles, the magical charm for warding off evil eyes. Whenever her knuckles cracked noisily, Vaidy beamed a little with pride; everyone knew that the louder the crack the more the attention one had begotten. 

“Continue story please!”, he exclaimed. 

“The helpless school teacher tried appealing to the villagers to rein in their wards but the villagers also couldn’t respect a man who couldn’t even control a few small boys. He even wrote to his superiors in the city begging for a transfer, but his letters got sucked into a bureaucratic maze.“

“Exhausted of all other options, one day he broke down to a postman who could understand his language a little and suggested he consult a Tantric sage who had recently taken up residence in the forest beyond the colony of the others. It is known that Tantric sages can only be seen at midnight, so on the midnight of a moonless night, the teacher went to meet the sage, carrying along a live chicken for propitiation. “

“Paati, what is Tantric?”

“It means the sage practised in the dark arts and could communicate with spirits and ghosts.” 

At that time a dog yelped sharply nearby making Vaidy cling to his grandmother’s leg in terror. 

His grandmother chuckled, “Shall I stop?”

“No, no. Continue. I am not scared.”, Vaidy replied, trying to salvage some pride. 

“The teacher poured his heart’s miseries to the sage but unbeknownst to him his sadness had calcified into pure hatred towards the children. Falling to the sage’s feet, he demanded the power to avenge his ill treatment. The sage, pleased with the offering of the chicken, boomed, “Thathasthu. So be it.” Immediately the teacher was transformed into a terrifying bird with a human face, the teacher’s own face. Finally the maleficent nose had a body to match. The teacher had been transformed into a demon! The demon shrieked in pain and took flight into the night sky!”

“Did someone kill the demon?” 

“Wait, you are getting ahead of the story! After that night, truant children in the village started disappearing mysteriously. Boys seen playing in the street corner at one moment were gone the next. A boy fast asleep on a mat next to his mother was gone when she woke up in the morning. A boy drawing water from a well was gone even before the pail hit the water. The only trace left behind were a few dark feathers. Through the postman, the villagers surmised that the teacher had come back to haunt the village and began to call him Kazhugappan. They didn’t allow their children out of sight and permitted no mischiefs. Children continued to be taken but at a slower clip until it eventually stopped.” 

“Was Kazhugappan killed?”

“No one knew what happened to him. But to this day, children that refuse to eat their meals or sleep on time are warned to not incur his wrath. He is always looking for naughty children, including city boys!”, his grandmother concluded in a gravely tone.  

Vaidy stared blankly at the street. He was taking in the sights, but his mind was elsewhere. The village had turned out to be more fantastical than he had ever imagined! Kazhugappan! What an adversary for Vaidy, who always fancied himself to be the hero of every story. At the stroke of three, his grandmother let Vaidy go out to play with his friends to whom he related the Kazhugappan story in complete detail. The group solemnly agreed to actively search for unseemly feathers and other such signs of the demon. But apart from copious quantities of cow and goat dung in various levels of decomposition, their investigations didn’t reveal much else. The story and their mission was forgotten after a few days. 

“Maami, how can you expect me to make a living if I sell you the entire bunch for three annas?”, the vegetable lady wailed. Every morning she would bring a basket of fresh vegetables from which Vaidy’s grandmother would select the freshest wares for the day’s cooking. Busy with his coloring book, Vaidy paid little notice to the negotiation. 

“Maami, did you hear about the new supervisor at the weaving workshop? He has moved into the room behind the workshop. I hear he has come from Karur, but no family nothing. Pah, you should see his nose! It’s so sharp, you can till a field with it.”

Vaidy froze. A sharp nose, a lone man. It can only mean one thing — Kazhugappan had returned!

As soon as the vigilante was allowed to leave home at 3 pm, Vaidy ran to collect his group of friends. The weaving workshop was at the edge of the village and had a one-room outhouse behind it. Such an isolated enclosure seemed like the perfect haunt of a demon. Convinced that no demon can emerge in the bright day and armed with packets of vibuthi which is universally known to ward off any unearthly foe, the group slowly crept up to room through the fields behind it. The room had a single window through which they peeked in. It was empty, the occupant probably still at the workshop. Sparsely furnished, they could only see a few utensils and a chulha in one corner and a rolled up mattress in the other. A shut suitcase lay below the window, Vaidy wonder whether it will have any clues about its owner. Valli, Vaidy’s closest friend, pointed out the lack of any framed photographs of Gods or Goddesses in the room. Vaidy nodded grimly. Just as they were wrapping up their reconnaissance, what was it that Vaidy noticed by the locked door? 

“Look! A black feather by the door!” 

The kids backed away slowly from the window. They had all the proof they needed, a demon walked in their midst. 

It was only when the group were plotting their next course of action that they realized the futility of all the mythological tales they knew. Each one of them knew at least a dozen demons from mythology in every grosteque shape and form, and yet none of the tales prescribed a foolproof way of taking down a demon. The kids neither had Rama’s bow to shoot down Tataka or Krisha’s strength to wrip apart Bakasura. The kids debated at length the pros and cons of various attack strategies; Valli suggested flinging dung balls at the demon, Murthy was all for digging up a trench and trapping him in it, Venkat argued for the slingshot which seemed like their closest alternative to Rama’s divine bow, while Vaidy felt it best to jump on top of the man to crush him while preventing him from taking flight. In a truly democratic fashion, they group argued and debated, breaking for tea and snacks frequently. Eventually a glorious plan was conceived. 

The man had been seen going for a walk around the village every evening after work. When he walks by the large banyan tree, Vaidy will jump on top of him stunning the demon to the ground. Instantly Valli and Venkat will emerge from the other side and fling stones and mudballs at the fallen demon, taking care as Vaidy repeatedly pointed out to not hit him. In case the demon was not subdued by this vicious assault and tries to run away, Venkat would have dug a trench a few yards ahead along the path and covered it with fallen branches, twigs, and leaves. The demon will fall into the trench and the kids will seal him shut! Vaidy beamed with pride. 

The next evening, the kids took up positions. Murthy had dug up the trench and was now tasked with lookout. Vaidy clung to the lowest branch of the banyan tree, directly above the path. The branch was more slippery than he expected. Tensions were high. Venkat had almost given up in fear and had to be slapped into sense by Vaidy. Like a general corraling his troops before an epic battle, Vaidy had spoken eloquently about this fight between good and evil. Mutiny had been abated, but skittishness remained. 

Murthy whistled twice. The demon was arriving. 

Vaidy gripped to the branch tightly, he knew he only had one shot. From the corner of his eye he saw Venkat shivering in fear and mused, “Only some people are born warriors!” 

The demon was now in sight and was steadily walking towards the tree. Vaidy readied himself for the plunge… from the other side, he heard a whimper that turned into a muffled cry that was immediately followed by a full-throated shriek. Vaidy swung in fear towards the sound. A deathly Venkat had emerged from the other side, his eyes brimming with tears and panic. “Aaaaaaaargh”, he screamed at the walking figure and let loose a big stone from his slingshot!Venkat, normally a decent shot on a good day, had become completely disoriented in fear and had aimed the slingshot too high. The meaty pebble flew through the air and struck gold in Vaidy’s cowering rump. 

“Ammaaaaa!”, Vaidy screamed and fell from the tree, landing a few spots in front of the supervisor who jumped in surprise. Vaidy, hurt but not defeated, swiveled towards the demon and cried, “Kazhugappan!”. The war cry energized the startled army as Venkat, Valli, and Murthy descended on Vaidy and the supervisor throwing mud balls, stones, and branches from all directions. Their spotty aims meant Vaidy got hurt as much if not more than the supervisor. The man raised his arm to protect himself from the constant onslaught and approached Vaidy to help the kid up. Vaidy, terror-struck by the demon’s proximity scrambled to his feet and ran. He felt something soft grasping his ankle for a moment, and in the next he plunged into the deep trench dug by Venkat. Vaidy fell with a puff. The army deprived of their general lost all nerve for the fight and scattered helter-skelter into the fields. The supervisor, shaken but not hurt, approached the trench to rescue Vaidy. The boy was badly scratched and bleeding from his knees. Initially grateful to be out of the trench, when Vaidy saw the identity of his rescuer, he prompty fainted. 

“I don’t know what happened Paati-amma. I think someone was trying to attack me. Your grandson was very brave and tried to warn me”, the supervisor whispered. “As I was taking him to the medic’s house, he kept saying, “Kazhugappan” over and over. Do you know what that is?”

Vaidy’s grandmother adjusted the cool compress over his forehead and pulled up the blanket over his sleeping self. She turned towards the supervisor and shrugged, “Who knows what these kids talk about these days? They are always picking up bad influences.” 

Kalinga Narthanam

I am starting a new series in my blog to feature a selection of my recent artwork. The idea is to present the finished product along with some context through my thoughts, sources of inspiration, mistakes, etc. 

Kalinga Narthanam

Kalinga Narthanam is easily my favorite imagery from Hindu mythology. Just imagine a five-year old child dancing on the heads of a vast, demonic serpent on an overflowing Yamuna as dark rains lash all around. This scene strongly resonates with my very core. Perhaps as a result, I have tried to capture this image through my sketches on several occasions. Here is a hasty attempt from 2014 on a TODO list! 

Over the years I have discovered that drawing this scene helps me to get back into sketching after long layoffs. The powerful imagery moves me to grabbing my pencil. Below is my latest attempt at this scene. It was sketched on an iPad Pro with the Apple Pencil on the stock Notes app. 

Things I like about this image:

• The flowing motion of Krishna: I was trying to convey a sense of careless elegance by capturing a "mid-frame" moment. If I was a better artist I would have been able to make the image hazier without losing legibility. 
• The heads of the snake: I tried to give each head a distinct personality. The head being trampled by Krishna is the most arrogant one, a few nearby are staring menacingly at Krishna, undoubtedly the targets of his future steps; whereas there are some heads that seem reconciled with subordination -- one even appears pleased. 
• The flower ornaments: I think the flowers have a 3D effect going on which pleases me to no end. I can't quite remember how I managed this; subsequent efforts at duplication haven't been quite as successful. I think sketching over multiple times with pencils of different darkness settings is responsible. It gave me pause whether flower ornaments will appear so prominent in a torrential downpour, however the scene is brimming with theophany that I reasoned divine grace could explain the freshness of the flowers.