மஹ்திதாசன்

பாத்திமியா மஜிலிஸ் வரலாற்றின் சிகப்புக் கைத்தடம்  மதீனாவிலிருந்து நெளிந்து கர்பலா மண்ணில் குருதியாய்த் தோய இன்றுவரை இரும்பு வாடை சகிக்காமல் ஊளையிடுகிறது எண்ணெய் கிணறு. ஃபதக்கின் பெருந்தொகையோ கூடி சிலந்தி வலைப்போல் பாயும் மேகமூட்டமாய் பிளாஸ்டிக் மிதக்கும் உலகின் எல்லை வரை. இதிலும் ஈச்சமரத்து இன்பச்சோலையில் மெட்ஜூல் பழத்துக்கு எண்ணினோமே! பிணங்களை மட்டுமே காயாகச் சுமக்கிறது தரைவரைக்கும் சஜ்தாவாக மடியும் மட்டை. அன்று நீ வயிறைச் சுமந்துகொண்டு மறைந்த தந்தையின் பள்ளிவாசல் வரை தத்தளித்ததில் கலைந்து ஒழுகியக் கருவையும் உன் காலடிச்சுவடியையும் மணலில் இழுத்தபடி அழித்துச்சென்ற காலப் பர்தா ஜன்னதுல் பகியைக் கூட பாக்கி வைக்கவில்லை. பச்சைப் போர்வையும் ரோசாப்பூ மாலையும் செழித்த கப்ரு ஒன்று  கனவெனும் ஜியாரத்தில் மட்டுமே தெளிய, ஏதோ சுயநலத்தினால் ஒப்பனையாக இமையோடு ஒளித்து வைத்தேன். நினைவையும் சேர்த்து சாம்பலாக்கிவிட்டு தவ்ஹீதின்மேல் பழிசுமத்தியது சுண்டிய பெட்றோலும் கருந்தலை வத்திக்குச்சியும். Fatimiya Majilis The red handprint of fate that wriggled out of Medina, dredged the soil of Karbala, Iraq i...

Sufi poets and thinkers have long described the relationship between the lover and Beloved as analogous to fish and its dependency on water—as Maulana Rumi states, “Everyone except the fish becomes sated with water,” (“Har ki juz māhī zi ābash sēr shud…”) in the same way a lover can never tire of the Beloved—nor even exist at all apart from Her.  There is an anecdote on this very subject associated with Tamil poet-saint Peer Mohammad Appa; once, he was invited by the “ruler of Kochi” to participate in a debate between various religious leaders, scholars, and mystics. The king asked: “Fish cannot exist without water. But is water dependent upon fish?”  What the hell kind of question…? Of course, the near-unanimous answer was, “No way! Water can surely exist without fish.” But Peerappa was strangely adamant. “No, no. In every body of water is a fish.”  The room erupted into laughter, and the king was equal parts befuddled and amused. “What do you mean?” he asked Peerappa. “...

Many, many years ago (I mean back when I was maybe seven years old) there was a bit of a local buzz about a Triplicane Muslim who became initiated under the Thenkalai tradition. Knowing Triplicane's blend of Vaishnavite and Muslim culture, this is not extremely surprising. But looking back, the idea was weirdly exciting to so many people only because the bearded Muslim presence in the temple, wearing namam and all, was considered "strange" enough to be fetishized; it was seen almost as a mishmash of "opposites," rather than as a proper conversion where the subject was offered any sort of seamless integration (at least not immediately). This is complicated upon first look, because where did Sri Vaishnavite treatment of Muslims as the "other" (and, of course, vice versa) really begin? Despite Islam's presence in South India during the very heyday of many organized Sri Vaishnavite theologians (meaning Ramanuja and onwards), there is not a lot of docum...

          “Back when I was a young girl, our family would wait avidly for the Therukoothu troupe to put on a show,” my grandmother said. “The Mahabharatam reenactments would go on for days, if not weeks. But my most favorite play was that of the Narasimha legend.”             “Once, we were all watching Hiranya smash the pillar open and Narasimha burst forth from it. The audience leaned closer in suspense. But that was when the unexpected happened—the actor playing Narasimha began to shriek and stamp his feet and gnash his teeth. It wasn’t acting anymore. He had become Narasimha himself, consumed by ‘ugraham’—so much that he didn’t realize he was mauling not Hiranyakashipu, but the poor Prahlada actor, who in terror had to scramble off the stage!”             I was always aware that Narasimha was a complex character; his angry grimace and ugraham (Divine Wrath) contrasts sharply...

Saw this thread (linked here ) about Bipin Chandra Pal yesterday on Twitter. To summarize it shortly: young Bipin used to drink lemonade from a Muslim vendor, which angered his Pundit father until Bipin was ill and lemonade was the only cure, thus forcing the Pundit to go buy some from Muslim sellers. Somehow, this here is construed as an inspiring tale of communal harmony. But we do not truly know if that yielding to Muslim-made lemonade ever became something more than a one-off act of desperation, whether or not it cured Bipin's father of UC Hindu supremacist notions—and we certainly know that it did absolutely nothing to veer Indian Hindu society away from its course of virulent Islamophobia today.  There is a similar story I heard recently attributed to Peer Muhammad Appa R.A., the Tamil Muslim mystic of Thuckalay. As a child, Peerappa used to play with his friend, the son of a Brahmin priest. One day, he and his friend happened to go for a swim in the same sacred pond the town...

This section about Nathar Vali R.A. and the serpent (who is very directly a reference to the Sesha-Ananda mount of Trichy's Ranganatha) from "Saints, Goddesses, and Kings" by Susan Bayly always had me wondering if any Sufi pīrs have interacted with Vishnu's moving mount, Garuda...until I remembered this devotional painting of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar R.A. riding Garuda.  It's interesting to note that the piece not only syncretizes Sufi imagery with Vaishnavite iconography but also lifts from a painting of Jesus for the saint's pose. When a pīr attracts devotion from all corners of society, his cult also absorbs their emblems and further roots itself into local traditions.  Tangentially, this makes me think about the hundreds upon hundreds of snake-stones in Kanchipuram—they originate as emblems of local Naga-centered animism, but depending on the section of the town, they are modified with lingams and dancing Krishnas to either appear explicitly Shaivite or Vaishn...

  Note: I do not consider this any sort of “formal” research but rather my reflections upon a legend I grew up with and have learned to re-contextualize through my participation and journey through two very different communities. A lot of this is from the oral stories I encountered and was raised with. Nonetheless, I have still listed a number of sources at the end of the post.  THE BLUE-SKINNED GOD AND HIS IN-LAWS In the Bay Area, it was Ramanuja’s 1000th birth year—for about the second or third time, because no one seemed to be in agreement about when exactly he was born.  The theater hall was damp and packed with tilakam-wearing mamis as well as thiruman-wearing mamas who adjusted their poonuls under their office shirts. There were youngsters too, some of course bored out of their minds, while others were wide-eyed and transfixed on the play before them: Onstage was a proud Muslim princess, her twin braids dancing and her sequined, “turkish-inspired” outfit glimmering ...