Kaviyarasu Kumarakurukkal

The maid in our house has this round little kid called Kumaran, who is studying in the seventh grade. Yesterday, this kid had sat itself down and written this poem, in a fit of devotional passion. Frankly, I thought that this poem was quite cool, coming from a kid in the seventh grade. I thought that, by blogging it, I could let the planets in the system be aware of this kid's talent. This kid had been appointed as the chief priest of the school temple and takes this job pretty seriously. When I finished reading the poem I drew this kid up and asked him in a menacing tone of voice, whether he had copied it from somewhere. My knowledge of tamil literature is extremely limited (like my knowledge of almost everything else in the world), but I know for a fact that there are dozens of polyestered blokes out there going by the names of Vali, Tumbler, Dabara and so on, churning out awesome stuff. So, I thought this kid would have copied (I would do it without batting an eyelid to get famous at a tender age). The kid appeared shocked.

I then proceeded to tell him that it was not a bad thing to get ecstatic, as long as it was excess static (in the brain) and not the drug. I then realized that I would have to explain the entire holy concept of sex, drugs and rock n roll, in order for the aforementioned quote to make sense. So I let that be. I told him to write a lot, and preserve everything with the date. I asked him to write about everything and not just about God, for I was sure that He would be pretty fed up by now with all this devotional hullabaloo. I mean, God's lying around on His favorite serpent, talking nothings with His wife, while playing around with His four arms, when His cousin comes around and says that he is bored stiff, three times more than average, as he has three heads and asks God for ideas. They all then get together and create an earth, and fill it with blokes. These guys start building temples like crazy, and start thanking God like He's done them a huge favor by creating them. After a point, I am sure that He is going to get fed up with this incessant singing His praises, and is going to fry their asses with a bolt of lightning and is going to ask them to go, work, and be productive.

Anyway, the kid was too raw for this. So, I ended up telling him, "Balae, Athibalae".