When telling becomes bliss

The sixties and its glorious lights are almost forgotten. Where everything seems perfect through the panoramic images, there was immense credit to one man and his pen. The wisdom left is playing everywhere in the city; seeking notice, but not many have the time to listen. A tired fisherman whistles a song while on a stroll in the tepid sands of the beach. Motivation comes through the yesteryear hero who becomes the preacher. All knowing per se, he attains high spirits. He even pictures the beautiful woman dancing, hence relieving his aching mind. The writer is forgotten. Many have put in diverse ideas on paper. Stepping into another’s shoes, living the life out of an ordeal and to being a witness to changing history. One of these men have penned the fisherman’s song.

Kannadasan wanted to live forever. His songs do. The verses are constantly hummed and recognized. But the man and his ideas are largely forgotten. Cinema portrays a cult which vaguely resembles the maestro. Stories craft themselves into articulate theories just by word of mouth. And with a bout of inspiration, I adapt mine. Numerous tales have passed on through ears. My recollection is through the sources. Free flowing thoughts so beautifully crafted, etched and ready to go in minutes. People could mistake his results as clockwork. His ideas are so simple, so elegant and ever so mortal. The man was deemed by his desires to drink, and so the verses began with a touch of vigour. Strange that an alcoholic can mend perspective to the world. Patronage was very easy during his time. The viewers were lucky to be served class entwined with ethnic values encompassing high strides of patriotism, all at a personal level. All around, there seemed no shortage of quality. Choice was compromised in a very good way.

Kannadasan’s verses are known for the clarity. Simplicity takes shape with a charming tale of alliteration. Flouting norms with lovers conversing with their eyes, taking intricate details and shaping it with gestures. He pretended to know it all.

Perspectives matter. A man of immense pride is forgotten. Pricks each time his verses play out. The beauty is not appreciated as much as it should have. Traditions should be hoisted and carried forward. 
His singular verse stirs a lot of personal memories. Imagine a continuum through a novella.

Logic is so important. The effervescence of a language can be so fluently understood. There is considerable motivation with a broad sense of care for the society. He sounded quite content with his phrases. He could have never been a recluse, with his words outliving the creator, reaching far slowly into an abyss.

The fisherman strides along the path walked by Kannadasan, unmindful of what he has heard. Forever it will remain an open secret.