To, The Oldest Dravidian Language.

Things find their way to me at the most beautiful instances.

As though the universe waited, patiently, for all of its little secret amigos to fix each bit and piece into a beautiful moment, just be to be observed, to be smiled at, to be lost in and to be. 

What has been finding its way to me off late?

It is the most stunning, most soulful, most irreplaceable, the ever so old Dravidian Language. 

In verses, in poems, in music hidden beneath the whisper of the violin, over the notes of the guitar and within the air of the flute. Like the merging and re-emerging of colors in a color pallet. 

In all intensity.

Just the way I prefer.

Not the, oh so beautiful intensity.

The, this-isn't-real intensity.

The, looping intensity.

The, environment fading intensity.

The, heart smiling intensity.

The, smile stirring intensity.

What is ringing in the background as I write? 

Nila kaigiradhu

Nerum theigiradhu

Yaarum raasikavillayae?

Indha kangal mattum unaai kaanum 

Thendral pogindrathu 

Solai sirikindrathu

Yaarum suggikavillayae?

Indha kaigal mattum unaai theendum

Which vaguely means, 

The moon shimmers.

The time progresses.

Oh, there is no one to relish?

But these eyes however grasp you.

The breeze glides.

The garden twinkles.

Oh, there is no one to savour?

But these hands however abut you,

I'm done. 

Head over heels done.

How brilliant is this language, that it has absolutely no substitute whatsoever for the simplest of its words? How do these metaphors find their way to the writers? How do they sound so beautiful, so much so that, even pain seems to be stunningly captivating? How do the violin bow, guitar strings and flute slit feel to be associated with those overwhelmingly stupendous words? 

I am jealous.

Immensely jealous.

Of those who can read and write the most beautiful Dravidian Language.

Of those musical notes that live amidst the alluring words.

Of those who splash life into it through their voice.

Of those subtle beats that beautify the already beautiful.

Amidst the various beautiful compositions that found its way to me, this is special.

This made me drop everything and remain lost in its beauty.

This made me write about it with the words ringing time and again. 

Good job, beauty.

You got me. 

© Deekshita Srinivas

16th May 2016  

Visual Verse #5

Windows.
A crimson red.
A faded indigo blue.
A blooming yellow.
A stern orange.
Find their way to me this day, a Ninth of May.
A story beholds.
Behind each of the colored passage.
A wind, a song, a muse.
Like the stars against the blanket of black
These squared stars.
Hosting million probable mutes.
To tick the moments of life.
Day in and day out.
Person after person.
Season after season.
Year after year.
Why did you find your way to me today?
Even though I have sat here on many tranquil nights.
Why do you crave me to write against my ever so lovely portrait of the stars?
What is it about today, the color, the lights, the darkness?
Is it how routine can be overwhelmingly unique in ways?
Yes, the routine.
It is the routine.
Routine and its prism of being not-so-routine.

© Deekshita Srinivas
9th May 2016