Tuesday, 6 December 2011

Please Turn Over

Something I found in a notebook, that I had written, and that I could relate to now:

You perceive walls around you,
As though drowning in an ocean.
Everything is surreal-
The conversations you have,
the books you read,
the people you meet,
the exams, the memorising...

Except for what is outside that window.
Branches weave out,
And inter-tangle into other branches
Of trees far away,
And the incessant rain
Reminds you-
You are here,
You are now.
Don't forget that- ever.

Balmy emptiness of the mind.
Please Turn Over.

I also, now, miss my room back in campus, where I would look out of the window when I was low.

Wednesday, 2 November 2011

The Motorcycle Diaries continued!

I had started out on The Motorcycle Diaries about a month ago, and had promised myself that I would write about the rest of the book later... and I didn't. So here is me getting down to it- eventually. Well, as I had mentioned in my previous post, I was really taken by the Che that I had met in the book. So this post is mainly a few more quotes from the book:
1. "Standing over the small frames of the Indians gathered to see the procession pass, the bland head of a North American can occasionally be glimpsed, who, with his camera and sports shirt, seems to be (and, in fact, actually is) a correspondent from another world lost amid the isolation of the Inca Empire."
Well, I have always been taken by the mysteriousness of the Incan way of life. But also, this comment on the tourist always plots him/her as the outsider. How much ever one tries to merge, one cannot. And while this is probably an obvious statement, I liked the comparison of the tourist to a "correspondent from another world". I believe that touring brings about so much more colour and vibrancy to life, and we get to know these various worlds. And as Che puts it, within one place itself, there are so many different, opposing, worlds.

2. "Gold doesn't have the gentle dignity of silver which becomes more charming as it ages, and so the cathedral seems to be decorated like an old woman with too much makeup."
The first reason this caught me was because of the open indictment of gold. Not too fond of the metal, the softer colours of silver appeal to my senses, and this line tugged at that image. But secondly, this line speaks of an 'old woman with too much makeup'. I suppose that the picture could be a very flashy one. However, somehow, one of those NatGeo-types pictures, where a woman all dressed up sits  at the door to her house with a wide grin on her face flashed across that inward eye! If seen in that way, the cathedral that Che talks about might be gaudy, but simultaneously pretty. I don't know if that's possible!

3. "Our pace was incredibly athletic while within sight of the town's inhabitants, but later the vast solitude of the bare Andes, the sun that fell harshly across our necks and the barely distributed weight of our backpacks brought us back to reality. Until what point our actions were 'heroic,'... we're not sure, but we began to suspect, I think with good reason, that the definitive adjective was approximating something more like 'stupid'."
Firstly, the fact that (be it heroic or stupid) somebody decided to take the hard way out, rather than to find easier, simpler, maybe more costly means is a laudable act. I would never dare to strain my body to the utmost realms of its capabilities, even if I have always desired to attempt it. Secondly, the distinction between heroism and stupidity- what is said about an act and the act itself are two totally different things. And so, what happens is never what it is narrated to be. The last line brings out this distinction with a set of easy words.

4. I loved the last chapter that leaves us with thoughts of the future, of passion and of Che himself. While the whole chapter was a lovely read, there are a few lines that were captivating. I'm going to quote them without explaining or penning my responses to these words, since they deserve to be consumed without modification or moderation-
"I knew that when the great guiding spirit cleaves humanity into two antagonistic halves, I would be with the people. I know this, I see it printed in the night sky that I, eclectic dissembler of doctrine and psychoanalyst of dogma, howling like one possessed, will assault the barricades or the trenches, will take my bloodstained weapon and, consumed with fury, slaughter any enemy who falls into my hands."

"I feel my nostrils dilate, savoring the acrid smell of gunpowder and blood, of the enemy's death; I steel my body, ready to do battle, and preparing myself to be a sacred space within which the bestial howl of the triumphant proletariat can resound with new energy and new hope."

                                                     *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Sunday, 9 October 2011


Dried up coffee cup
Sitting lazily by my side,
Mind filtered down
Like its dregs.
Glaring screen screams silence
In the dark abyss of serenity.
Ashes lie fluttering in soft fan-speed
As a single cigarette glows glumly
Almost burning out.
Glinting pupils endlessly eye
The blankness of white.
Do words have to form?
Can’t they wither out and curl into ashes?
Glimmering black ink,
Like the sharp edges of a diamond
Cut through the page
Dried up brain-bowl
Lost in tranquillity.

Thursday, 29 September 2011

End Point

Emotions splatter across glass
Like a stream of orange street-lights
Would break into shards
As their beams smash upon
Little crystal-drops of water
Which are swept aside by the windscreen-wiper.

The mind wafts in a state of bliss,
As it recalls a perfect sunset
That is the inspiration of all life-

The verdant hues of green,
The splash of orange
A luscious crimson
And a scintillating yellow;
The soft hum of evening bird-call;
And the perfect silence of companionship.

Images in the head, already, they have become
From moments and experiences.
But they print little footsteps
In the journal of life,
And leave me, as always,
Breathless with awe.

Note: This poem is about my trip to this amazing place called End Point, in Manipal along with my cousin and his friends. Like a lot of scenic places that we tend to overlook, it was a gorgeous sight, and an even more enthralling feel. Watching the river snake by, and the orb of golden light set upon the horizon, watching it turn from sharp shades of red and yellow to the mellower tunes of pink and purple, as the light ebbed away, leaving the moon to stud the sky... The clouds moved slowly by- there was a stream of clouds that formed a wave in the sky, softening the exuberance of the sky. It left us speechless.
I wrote this poem, however, while travelling by bus from Manipal to Bangalore.

Wednesday, 7 September 2011

The Motorcycle Diaries

I have just begun a very interesting journey, and I already feel like preserving the words of Che in a book of my own. I have 'borrowed' (read 'flicked') my cousin's book, and am giving it a read. I find it very amazing, for this has been something I have always wanted to do. Unfortunately, I do not have an old motorbike (nor the ability to ride it), and neither do I have the guts to take off with my friend across the country (tempting though it sounds to both of us). So here I am, desiring to put up a few quotations from the book The Motorcycle Diaries:

1. "This is not a story of incredible heroism, or merely the narrative of a cynic; at least I do not mean it to be. It is a glimpse of two lives that ran parallel for a time, with similar hopes and convergent dreams."

This is how the book opens. I feel it takes off on such an unconditional note. There is nothing that asks of the reader to stay true to a path, a goal or a vision. It, instead, talks of the freedom to diverge, to let go and fly.

2. "The full moon is silhouetted against the sea, smothering the waves with silver reflections. Sitting on a dune we watch the continuous ebb and flow, each with our distinct thoughts. For me. the sea has always been a confidant, a friend absorbing all it is told and never revealing those secrets; always giving the best advice- whose meaningful noises can be interpreted any way you choose."

This description of the sea is akin to my belief in the waters. Despite the people around, one finds a comfort and solace that the sea gives. Come to think of it, though I have never thought of myself as attached to the sea, I do keep going back just to listen to the wisdom in the waves. I also find poetry in these lines- "each with our distinct thoughts".

3. I here quote a poem that Che lifts from Miguel Otero Silva:
"I heard splashing on the boat
her bare feet
And sensed in our faces
the hungry dusk
My heart swaying between her
and the street, the road
I don't know where I found the strength
to free myself from her eyes
to slip from her arms
She stayed, crying through the rain and glass
clouded with grief and tears
She stayed, unable to cry
Wait! I will come
walking with you."

The emotion that lies in the indecisiveness between lady love and the road is so intense. It catches you, makes you pause, and wonder why you are not going on a wander-lust.

4. "I know now, by an almost fatalistic conformity with the facts, that my destiny is to travel..."

This line, I like just for its meaning and the way it has been phrased...

This is about all that I have read, and I do hope that if you haven't yet begun on this extra-ordinary journey, this little gist inspires you to begin...

Monday, 1 August 2011

The Immortals of Meluha- On the Making of a God

The Immortals of Meluha, which is about the making of a god, provides a strong questioning of what we have considered to be airtight, unquestionable texts for long enough. The conversations on duality and the co-existence of them, the importance of narrative in determining good and evil are all, one can accede, contemporary ideologies. This helps put mythology in the perspective of a modern thought process. There is also an interesting fusion of the past and present systems of governance- “Lord Ram... instituted a system where a Rajya Sabha, the ruling council, consisting of Brahmins and Kshatriyas of a specific rank were created. Whenever the Emperor died or took sanyas, the council would meet and elect a new Emperor from amongst Kshatriyas of the rank of brigadier or above. The decision could not be contested and was inviolate.” (pg. 272) It is this fusion, primarily, that makes the book an interesting read.
The author has himself agreed that the novel is a result of debates about good and evil and about mythology itself (quote) and we can see these reflected in the book. Each page we turn has some issue or the other that gains prominence- like the questions of society and the social structure, the varna system (Amish has also  provided an alternative view-point to the system of birth into a given varna), questions about gods and how certain things got mythologized are some of the many issues looked at.
Yet one finds that, though the novel poses a good read, something is lacking by means of depth in narration. The story is fast-paced and there is a constant action, keeping the reader on the edge, but it is evident that Amish does not focus on a descriptive representation of his characters. His aim is only the movement of plot. For instance, there is no poetry in Shiva’s dance, no fierceness in his battles, nor is there any passion in his love- at least, the reader does not feel these emotions running through the veins of the protagonist or even his lady love. Even though Shiva becomes idolised, we do not see his human passions, except when he regrets his decision to run away from his past, which is the only important emotion that the reader notes.
Amish also attempts to translate every Sanskrit/Hindi word into English and this restricts the flow of the narration. One must ask why it is necessary to provide definitions for all the words he uses when there is a glossary available for those who do not understand the meanings of certain Sanskrit words (I use the term ‘Sanskrit’ here, presuming that most of these words are taken from their Sanskritic origin). It becomes cumbersome for a reader who uses some of these words in his or her own language.
Despite these flaws, however, Amish has managed to reinterpret mythology, and has presented a Shiva who is strong, and who is righteous. Even though there is a debate about representations of good and evil as a polarity, one can evidently see that there is a clear-cut ‘good’ and ‘bad’. In the movement of Shiva towards finding righteousness other characters are presented as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ as well. For instance, the beggar sitting at the entrance to Rama’s temple is seen as a ‘good’ man. This characteristic of one man becomes a generalisation for Shiva. When this beggar offers Shiva his meagre meal, the Neelkanth thinks to himself, “Freedom. Freedom for the wretched to also have dignity,” and later he says, “These people were not evil.” By stating this, Shiva bases his judgement of a whole society based on one man’s actions. Secondly, Amish portrays a poor man as completely gratified with his situation in life. This is definitely not an accurate representation of the poor or of poverty.
Similarly, the representation of the vikarma, who valiantly walk to their deaths, is also inaccurate or misleading. While Amish offers a partial solution to the problem of the untouchable, he also states that their status in that society will not change despite a law created by the saviour (the Neelkanth), since the people of Meluha look upon them with disgust even after the Neelkanth states that the vikarma law ought to be repealed: “It had not escaped his notice that despite the repeal of the vikarma law, nobody had touched Drapaku when he had entered” (pg. 321). Thus, Amish sends them to an impending doom instead of bringing them to an equal status on par with the rest of the society, and only in doing so are they respected for their bravery. Amish says that vikarma believe that they ought to be treated that way because they believe that they are carriers of ill-fate and ought to be punished. Later, when one man (Drapaku) rebels, we see that the rebellion itself is cloaked in doom- since the ‘vikarma battalion’ go through a path that speaks of their imminent death. Thus, the vikarma in the novel, get eliminated due to war. This is a rather haphazard solution to a problem that exists in society.
Thus, Amish attempts to blend the past and the present, mythology and reality, gods and (wo)men. To his credit, the battle scenes are well defined, describing each and every move precisely and efficiently. The humour is splattered lightly through the whole book, especially between Veerabhadra and Shiva, or Brihaspati and Shiva. Nandi is the loyal servant, and Sati is a proud warrior princess. One cannot help but wonder if Amish intends to bring the South in his later novels, especially since places of Shiva worship down south is quite vast (as in Chidambaram etc.), and also because he has already introduced Sangamtamil in his first novel itself.
Amish has indeed managed to create an atmosphere of intense anticipation for his next book.

Monday, 25 July 2011

There were a lot of things that had to be recorded and kept in store, but they seem to be slipping off my mind like the minuscule droplets of water falling on a blank window-pane. There was a visit to my erstwhile campus, and as always, it was a lovely trip. Every re-turn through those paths reminds me about how beautiful the world around us is. Look at the greyish-blue skies on a rainy day, the lush green around us everywhere, and the cool winds that whistle past the ear. Maybe it is only this that is worth recording.
There was the beginning of the 'new look', when my friend decided to experiment on her beautician-skills. She had never cut or trimmed peoples' hair before, and I was her subject. Well, I was the subject for three 'trainees'. Except, there was no teacher. It was the most fun hair-cut I have ever had. And it looks and feels good too. Because my hair has been cut short, I finally feel the wind brush past the nape of my neck sending a fuzzy chill through the entirety of my being.
There was a train ride in this lovely monsoon clime- with the music in my ear, and the wind on my face. The train ride was an insanely joyous one. The loneliness, the company of nobody but my own voice in my own head.
And finally, there was a re-visit, and the talking and the conversations amongst pals. The remembrance of days gone by, wondering whether they will be again, and the hope that they will. The re-turn was a psychological one this time. Where are those friends we had made, and then lost? Where are those days that we so cherished? And now we all work. Does that mean that we ought not to take that re-turn or make that re-visit? I hope not. After all, trees are for the climbing, branches laden with dew are for the pulling, and the world around us is always humming a mellifluous note. I hope you are listening, for the notes of nature are most vital to our living, breathing and being.

Tuesday, 12 July 2011

It's Raining Again

It's a cold blue dawn,
As the crystal tear-drops fall,
A grey pavement wait,
and a dull train's call.

It's a brown, muddy walk,
and the crunch of the grains of sand
on sharp black shoes,
and the call of the sky to hear his song,
to set eyes upon the beauty
of puffs of dull grey
and the crunch of brown mud
and the bland wait on pavements.

Thursday, 23 June 2011


On the move. Movement. Motion.
And then, there is
A small puddle of calm-
Like an accustomed darkness
In the flicker of a candle-light
In the distance.

There is laughter
Like a soft breeze that
Frustrates the still stillness in the air.
We have always maintained that
“There will be time. There will be time.
A time for you. And a time for me.
And time for a hundred indecisions.”

And that time, is now-
Knocking at the door,
There is the cold calculation of time,
And the wavering, wafting images
That plead to defy the ticking of the clock.

Cold calculations always win-
Perfect in their perfection,
Deadly in their accuracy.
And once more, the wafting mind
Begins its slow, trembling journey,
Picking up its pace,
Losing track of a much demanded stillness-
Once again

Wednesday, 8 June 2011

'Spring' Cleaning

In America, what I was just doing goes by the name of spring cleaning. It's summer here, so I guess I would have to call it summer-cleaning. Well, anyhow, I was rummaging through all the notebooks that I have in my cupboard, which amounts to quite a bit, and I ended up doing what I always do when I clean- reminiscing. I realised that I had a store-house of written material, none of which is even remotely worth the read. It was just a passing fancy that my mind chose to indulge in. Yet, thinking about the stories that I wrote (yes, I admit I wrote stories, but no, they aren't leaving my cupboard) took me to a world that, especially for these past two years, I had left far behind.
In college, and before, there was a secret pleasure in writing, oh I don't know, scripts, stories, random quotes. And the period between 2009 and 2011 June has seen very little of these sojourns of mine. And, I'll admit it, I miss it. Except, I do not seem to be able to get that flare for random scribbles any more. What I write seems to require a backing, some sort of reference and research. This is good in many ways, but it has taken away what is integral to anybody- the "pleasure-dome" of the mind. Now, what is created seems to have to be cultivated terrains where "walls and towers were girdled round". [I'm not sure if that comparison works, but if you want the poem, look up Kubla Khan.]
In connection to those rather juvenile attempts at writing, were not only short stories (minus a plot) but also really idealistic, enthusiastic, terribly dragging narratives. It was about the period in time when questions about life and living were asked. Well, the poems of the sixth or seventh grade student, is understandable. But the writings of the twelfth-grader are the most painful recollections one could ever go through. The ideas and the thought that goes into the work is quite mature, like that of an adult, but the style is oh-so-childish.
So, cleaning up was only showing me how much my own mind had filtered out, and how much I had refined my pages. And though we do look for gardens filled with decorative flowers, amidst the corners of our mind we always find the occasional weed (no pun intended) that grows with random abandon. 

Friday, 8 April 2011

The Moon, though sweet, is Single

In a brilliant arrogance of gold
He awakens, strutting into the dawn.
Untarnished, perfect-featured, bold,
He unleashes a radiance unto the morn.

Two worlds away lies a love-struck soul
Faithfully revolving 'round a green-brown maid,
his torn heart still waiting to be made whole
With a glance of her lustrous eyes, thrown his way.

Enveloped by the dark night, steeped in despair,
he watches her ravishing gaze turn
To stars of day, and an arrogant glare
Of light upon her panting body burns.

Pock-marked, belonging to night and darkness,
he jealously watches her glow in His
Desire. A Lunar, lunatic madness
Eclipses his young-love's extreme bliss.

True, Innocent, Impotent, his influence
Is limited to partially swaying
The tide of her moods. Though in distance
he be near, a place in her heart denying,

She praises the great ball of fire and fury.
Though His glory burn dry her grassy bosom,
Though He cause her grief and make her eyes teary,
She lives for Him in every petal's blossom.

The earth in her first passion engulfed,
The sun in His arrogant pride and heat,
In holy communion are betrothed;
It is the moon that is single, though sweet.

1. 'he' and 'He' (with a capital 'h' are different characters).
2. This poem was written based on a topic given by my friend.
3. It was written on 06-04-2011

Wednesday, 30 March 2011

Of Kittens and Puppies

     Well, this is the season of proliferation, I guess. This campus seems to have become densely populated. Well, exaggeration, obviously. But the ladies' hostel has a bunch of puppies trundling about outside the gates with their mother keeping a close watch over them. One white, two mixed coloured and one black pup. They are, needless to say, terribly cute. I have taken an especial liking toward the black one. Now, I do not know what absurd names my hostel-mates have decided to keep for them. To me they are nameless. So, this black puppy is the adventurer of the group. He loves jumping up at people and nibbling at them to find out their mettle. He is also the one in the group who will go off on small, exciting trips (no doubt) around the ladies' hostel gate. My friend tells me that while she was petting the little thing, he decided to grab hold of her finger, and she just picked him up by his tail. He was hanging in mid-air for a while before he realised he was air-borne and quickly let go of her. The other three pups are quite cute as well (though I am most definitely biased). It is always nice to see the women in our hostel give them milk and other titbits of food. During holi, they were in danger of being harmed by the chemical water and colours, so some really thoughtful girls took them back to their rooms, and let them out when the fun was over. Really sweet of them. It never occurred to me.
     Apart from this, my friend has adopted a stray kitten. She is really cute (though I probably seem to be repetitive here, there are no other words that can express the level of cuteness of these little creatures). She named her kitten Maya, after a character in a Samit Basu book, which she rather sheepishly acknowledged she was reading at the time. Well, apparently she chose a nice name, because Maya in Khasi, someone said, means love. Though that little fur-ball is a mass of energy and enthusiasm, clawing and nibbling at everything she gets, she is quite well-tutored. She is one lovely kitten and reminds me a lot of the little kitten I once adopted along with a few friends of mine. We had named him Simba. He was a gorgeous white kitten, and I am sure I have written up something about him somewhere in this blog. (Miss you sorely, Simba. Hope you are all right).
     The hostel in which my friend stays also has a fast-growing-into-a-dog puppy. He (at least I think he is a 'he') is quite black and apparently quite naughty as well. I haven't met him much, but my friends call him Muffy (or muffin, I'm not too sure which), and he looks nothing like either name. He has managed to survive though and is a nuisance, or so I hear, since he uproots the dustbins over there.
     So that is the scene. What with puppies and kittens, this place is glowing with energy and the beauty of new life. It is quite awesome, actually... For those who like animals anyway!

Monday, 21 March 2011


Everyone with a cause, an agenda.
Everyone with lives at stake,
With nothing but one's own identity to save.

Somebody, a nameless-mask, who has everything.
Somebody with the world at her feet.
With everything, complaint lingers on the lips.

Suddenly, there is a new world that was unknown-
That of a struggle for existence, for survival.
Learning that lives of millions go to waste while that one somebody
Lingers on insignificantly, in her bubble of isolation.

It is then that her world changes for a moment-
For one uselessly insignificant second, it is changed,
Altered, and she forgets her petty qualms,
Yet, knowing that she will turn back into that selfish, narcissistic self.

Thought dance

There    is     a     space.
S      P      A      C      E.
And     tiny     thoughts     that
D      O             N      O      T
Fill     that     space.
They      skirt      it.
T           W         O
thoughts.     Or     TWO
peoples'      thoughts
D     A     N     C     E
a         dance         of
tug     -     of     -     war.

T h o u g h t s
M o v i n g   t o g e t h e r
T h e   s p a c e   c l o s e s,
A l m o s t   c o n n e c t i n g . . .



After a hectic three weeks, I am finally finding the time to re-visit my blog. And finally, I get time to sit back, and enjoy the sunlight straining through the leaves of the neem tree past the transparency of my window, successfully filtering into my room at five o' clock in the evening. I finally got to pick up a book from the very inviting stack on my table to read just for the heck of it, and not for some ulterior purpose of marks or classes or discussions. So I chose to pick up James Herriot's The Lord God Made Them All. I forgot how it was to visit the green hills of Yorkshire- if not physically, at least through the mind's eye (indeed, the latter, I find, is a way more exciting sojourn)- listening to a little bit of Mozart. It was perfect. I feel happy and lazy (in a good way...)
We were discussing King Lear in class today. I don't know how many of you are Shakespeare fans, and if this will ever appeal to you. I used to hate him at one point in time. And I realised why. People tend to deify the man! He was human, for god's sake! He wrote a lot of stupid plays. But he was one genius of a man. And, I'm guessing eccentric too. I had the opportunity to visit the reconstructed version of Shakespeare's Globe in London and the tour guide there was talking about the history of the place. Apparently the first time the theatre burnt down, it comprised of a thatched roof, and during a performance of one of his plays (if I am not mistaken, Richard II) he decided that it would be brilliant to use cannons for the war scene. And the plan backfired (literally), and the roof caught fire. [Sounds like a madman to me]. Well, like people say, he has this amazing ability to present so many different points of view and he is barely ever there in the play itself... Okay, okay. I get it. I am ranting, as usual. Well, so it was an amazing class.
There has also been a lot of dance in the air of late. It feels really nice to dance in a group, in an organised fashion, for a change, though dancing alone is equal fun. There was a DJ party, too. Madness was in the air. And the freedom that comes with such madness is exhilarating. I danced in a saree! As I summarised in a word- 'madness'.
I also had black coffee. Which for some reason heightened the effect of the sunlight. Though coffee with milk would have been better. Ah, well. There is a slight pleasure in sitting at my table and doing everything leisurely, without a hurry. The coffee was just a part of this whole setting and atmosphere, I guess. I shall now sign off. Enough about the luxury of time and leisureliness!! Until next time...

Saturday, 19 February 2011


Hello one and hello all (something I felt like saying... randomly). I realised "random" has become something I rarely am or is not the way I usually act any more. Except, today I went for the last day of Deepwoods, my college (fine 'old college') culturals, and it was amazingly random. I rediscovered random. I went back to the randomness that MCC offers. For a day, I no longer had to be the student who wrote assignments, who spoke serious stuff. I met a whole new bunch of people who were as random as random can be.
The day started out with a street play that we saw, and then we went to the karaoke competition, which was amazing fun. There were only four contestants, but all the other MCCians just decided to sing random songs anyway, and people videoed it, so I'm assuming it will soon be on youtube! And we were all singing along. It was happy freedom. After a quick lunch comprising of a frankie, I went ahead to watch the quiz show, which was won by 'the pav bhaji cynic', 'the real pav bhaji cynic' and 'the only pav bhaji cynic' (or so their certificates claimed!! But they went by the pseudonyms of Shyam, PG, and Ronak respectively). I also met 'Casual' and 'George', who is actually a she! And there was the Kitchi, and the Gitanjali, as you-su-al. We spent some time taking pictures of small-diaries-on-the-heads-of peopleness. I also met Jane Austen, who is now the pet dog of the literature department.
I do hope I have covered all these wonderful people and the lovely creatures that inhabit the glorious campus called MCC. The train travel back home was fun, thanks to these people. All in all, this weekend has been an absolute bundle of fun.

Friday, 4 February 2011

Another nameless one

When I thought the flowers snuffed their fragrance,
When I thought the dew was dry on the crackling grass,
When I thought it would never be the same,
You walked into my life.

The Empty Terracotta Jar

The empty terracotta jar,
Not painted: bright, mud-red
with shades of brown.
Oozing shades harden
into a depth of blackness
Containing nothingness.
Little, unseen crack
Not allowing permanency.

The empty terracotta jar
of the mind:
Grey, pulsating, painted
Blood-red with life.
oozing shades lead to
the blackness
of an empty slate.
Little unseen crack
Letting everything out.

Footnote- the title was taken from a phrase that I heard my classmate quote from a book called Bliss, by Peter Carey.

Catching up

What with the new year having come about, it is quite conspicuous that I have not written for a whole month. Now what I have been doing this whole time is a little bit of a mystery, but apparently I have managed to keep myself occupied enough not to visit these pages. So, I am taking time off this mysterious work load that I have to fill in something about... well, I guess it would have to be about my one month into the new year.

1. I reached Hyderabad on the second of January with a horrible cold that only got aggravated when it met with the Hyderabad weather. It remained for quite some time, refusing to let go. It finally did leave, though, and I was elated and delighted.

2. I went for a marriage to Bombay, which was good. But I did not manage to see any place there, which is sad. But I enjoyed, which was lovely, especially since I got mehendi done by an amazing person, who refused that she did good hand-work. She was a close family friend of the groom, and one fun girl. And I hogged on all the delicacies that were offered (which were amazing too  many), and I hung around with loads of people I knew. So, basically, we had a whole load of fun. On the other hand, I never managed to eat a gola! And Bombay is supposed to be famous for its golas.

3. I have been having lots of presentations, that make me look like I'm going mad because I keep saying I need to study, which I don't feel like. In relation to that, I finished reading Surfacing by Margaret Atwood, and am now re-reading The Game World Trilogy. For those who don't know what the book is about, I advise you to go buy a copy right now, and start reading. I assure your entertainment shall be provided for. I also went to a book fair that had a lot of these children's novels, and I bought a whole load of them. So, well, it was great fun.

4. I went for a kuchipudi dance performance (and this is the most recent update, since I went yesterday, 4/2/11). It was amazing, awe (wait-for-it) some [hopefully you watch How I Met Your Mother], and breath-takingly beautiful. The performance was by the students of the University of Hyderabad, and the main dancer was their dance teacher, and head of the department. They did the Telugu kuchipudi version of Chandalika, the story of a Dalit woman, who eventually fell in love with a Buddhist monk, and converts into Buddhism. It was really touching- the drama of the dance, and the movements and the rhythms. Okay, the ranting shall stop right about here!

5. I have a couple of poems that I do need to put up, that shall, hopefully come soon.

I did not realise how eventful January has been. And the moral of that story is: do not forget to blog!