My antharvaahini inner flow

This short poetry appeared in my mind during my recent train journey , while reading a post on Arjuna’s chariot catching fire soon after Lord Krishna got down from it, at the end of the Kurukshetra war.
English meaning added in the end.
എന്റെ തേര് തീപ്പിടിക്കാതെ, മണ്ണിൽത്തആഴാതെ കാക്കുവോൻ
എന്റെ മർമം നോക്കിവരും അസ്ത്രങ്ങൾ ഏറ്റുവാങ്ങുവോൻ
എവിടേക്കു തിരിഞ്ഞാലും അവിടെ ഉണ്ട് കേശവൻ
മഴകാറിന് നിറം, മഞ്ഞപ്പട്ടുടുത്തുള്ള മാധവൻ.
മയിൽ‌പ്പീലി ഇളംകാറ്റിൽ ഇളകുന്നുണ്ട് സർവദാ
മണിയോടക്കുഴൽ പാട്ടുമൊഴുകുന്നുണ്ടു കൂടവേ

അവനെൻ അന്തരാത്മാവിൽ
ഒഴുകും ചോലയല്ലയോ?
അവനെന്റെ അടിത്തട്ടിന്

ഒന്നിനും ആശയില്ലെന്റെ പൊന്നെ
പൊൻമേനി കണ്ടു ജ്ഞാൻ
ഒഴുകി ചേരണം നിന്റെ
അമൃതാനന്ദ ഗംഗയിൽ

Entae ther thee pidikkathae,
mannil thaazhathae kaakuvon
EntE marmam nooki varum
Asthrangal eattu vaanguvon
Evidaekku thirinjaalum
Avidai undu Kesavan
Mazhakkarin niram, manja-
pattuduthulla MAdhavan

Mayilpeeli ilam kaattil
Ilankunnudu sarvadaa
Maniyodakuzhal paatum-
mozhukunnundu koodavae.

Avanen antharaatmaavi-
lozhukum cholayallao?
Avanentae adithatti
nnasthivaaravu mallayo?

Onninnum Asayill ente ponnae
Nin poomeni kandujAn
Ozhuki cheranam nintae
Amrithaananda Gangayil
No  poetry is transferable into another language without losing its essence, charm. I’m therefore, giving a gist of what I wrote for the information of my friends unfamiliar with Malayalam.:
“He guards my chariot ensuring that it doesn’t catch fire or sinks into the ground.
He faces the arrows aimed at my vital parts;

Wherever my eyes turn to, Kesavan is there,
Madhavan, in the colour of clouds, wearing the yellow silk clothes, is there.

The peacock feather (on his head) is always moving in breeze.
The sweet melody from his flute accompanies it.

Isn’t He the streamlet flowing in my ‘Antharaathma!’
Isn’t He my very foundation?

I have no desire for anything else, my dear,
other than amalgamating with the your flow of the Ganges of Eternal bliss, watching your charm.

That is how He wants us to be

‘You touch, hug, kiss and rush back
Can’t you be with me for ever?’,
Complained the shore to the ocean,
‘Can’t you be with me, my lover?’

‘How?’, asked the sea, ‘is there a sea with no shore
And a shore with no sea?
Won’t your serene smile cease for ever?
Won’t your sand stop flying in air?
Where will the conch shells glitter?
Where will the baby frogs and turtles
Learn letters?

And for me, it is a fun to touch you and run
And watch your exasperation
And then your exhilaration !
You be always a shore and me a sea;
That is how He wants us to be.

‘E’ for eating



Ammalu, when I turn back, fail to understand how me, a man of intelligence, wisdom, money and influence did agree to marry you, an Appiyer school third class- fail, ordinary, village girl?’

‘I don’t know all those. I remember your mother handing you over to me and telling me, ‘Konthai, child! Make him a man. Start from alphabets. He knows only ‘E’ for eating’


Research, really?



‘Ammalu, wonder where you would have been now, had you inherited my mother’s charm and my father’s intelligence’

‘I would have been your sister and not wife. Do you need the help of  Einstein or Edison to guide you in your research project to discover this obvious, simple answer?’

Tips. Ammalu working in the kitchen, he behind . In his imagination his father before his bookshelf and mother watching him or doing any work



Money is not my problem; women are


I should never be so blunt in my talk, I realized. Late realization, though.
I was meeting her after four years. She was standing on the road side waiting for me when I was returning from the Friday vegetable market, holding bags in both hands.

‘Hi, ChintAmani, why do you look so sad?’, I enquired.

‘My mAmanAr passed away. And my name is not ChintAmani, mAma!’

‘I’m sorry that I didn’t remember your name. But not sorry for your father in law’s death. He was after all, eighty plus’

‘How could you talk so heartless? He was your friend. He was a nice man, very kind’

‘MAsilAmani, good or bad, friend or foe, one has to die. What is there to still worry over the death of an eighty plus man? Discard that dull look from your face and smile,’ I encouraged her.

‘MAma, my name is not MAsilAmani. My name is not Mani at all.
You are seeing only money everywhere not manushan- man. Your long stay in USA has made you money-minded’

Che, unnecessarily, I earned her wrath. I should talk nicely now on, I decided.

The next lady I met was, Marakathavalłi (and I’m sure about the correctness of her name) . I knew that she lost her mother in law three years before. The moment I saw her, keeping the bags on the ground, I hugged her and wiped off my eyes.

‘MAma, what happened? Why are you weeping?’, she enquired.

‘I’m weeping for your mother in law’

‘MAma, she passed away three years ago and in fact , it was good for her and also for us that she died without much suffering. She was eighty plus and how long you expect people to live? Every one has to go one day or other. You should have known this simple truth!’

I turned back to change my facial expression, when the lady whom I met before, was standing behind me smiling.

‘MAma, are you OK?’ She enquired.

‘Radhamani. I want to go back to USA. There, I don’t have to worry whether to laugh or smile if an old mother -in -law or father- in-law passes away’

‘MAma, my name is not Radhamani?’ She was quick to point out.

Who bothers what ‘mani’ you are? Money is not my problem; women are.