Phoenix Flames

Inheritance- a review

2012-01-27T18:54:00.000-08:00

After finally completing the Inheritance series, I would like to post something on it's spectacular developments. Paolini definitely has a way with words. His descriptions are simple yet captivating. His plot has improved both in style and quality over the series of four books that he has come up with. Of the lot, Inheritance is definitely his best work. Just as Eragon has grown from his small village-bound life of Palancar Valley to the Rider that he became, the books too have grown from a simplistic tale of a quest to one filled with Paolini's values of both good and evil.

It was good to note that Paolini did not intend to make Galbatorix 'evil' per se. His way of thinking was different. It was a different take on governance. And it was visible that both Eragon and Nasuada, too, differed in their views of ruling a country. It is probably this, that mellows down Galbatorix's deviousness. The part when he points out to Nasuada that she was the one who had sought to destroy him, and not the other way round and that therefore she was responsible for the deaths of millions shows that nobody is absolutely 'good'. Galbatorix himself had quite a few followers, as was apparent with the uprisings that Eragon had to subdue once he had killed the king. This vaguely reminds me of Samit Basu's point of view in The Game World Trilogy. While Basu has no clear notions of good and evil, Paolini definitely believes that certain actions that Galbatorix took were incorrect, while the ones that Eragon and Nasuada took were better (thereby creating an hierarchy that was missing in Basu).

This brings us to the notion of power. Paolini obviously focuses on power in the hands of a few. He also represents the rare poor-man (Roran and Eragon, to be precise) becoming more powerful. Use and abuse of power is a very apparent theme. And mingled with power is the sense of duty to the country that guides this power. Nasuada believes that she is a dutiful leader, and that she will take into the consideration the necessities of each and every race. This is her strong point over Orrin, the king who fights along with the Varden. Eragon, as a Rider, also attempts to be impartial. This impartiality is embedded in the requirements of a dutiful leader. And yet, it is apparent that the elves and the humans are the emergent leaders, not to forget the Riders. In each and every decision that Eragon makes after the final battle shows that he chooses not to be a part of the world of humans, elves, dwarves and Urgals. So also Murtagh.

Romance within this novel is also quite fascinating. First is Katrina and Roran. These two are an amazing couple, who represent a stereotype of the families of yore, where the woman and the man are considered to have set roles within their society. They come from the village, which is probably why Katrina remains at home while her husband goes on to fight battles. And yet Katrina's undying faith in her husband's prowess and success is laudable. On the other hand, there is Nasuada and Murtagh as well as Eragon and Arya, none of whom remain together at the end of the novel. While the reasons each person gives is different, one has to question why it is only the poor family from Palancar Valley that survived the battle, while leaders, rulers of nations, did not. Why is it that, excluding Murtagh, every one of these four had to take care of their duty alone? Even Islanzadi was a lone ruler. So was Ajihad, Orrin and even Glabatorix. Yet, on the other hand, had Eragon and Arya gotten together in the end, or had Nasuada and Murtagh ended up together, the rosy ending to a battle-ridden story might have been conspicuous. As a story, it reads well. It isn't the normal romance. Especially since Paolini had built up the emotions that Eragon had for Arya right from the first book, it led to a different ending altogether. This gives a realistic representation of unlikely romances.

Women in the novel are different and vibrantly characterised. Nasuada, though a leader and proud of her scars acquired from the battle of the long knives, also seems to be quite conscious of her appearances. As does Saphira. Arya, Katrina, Brigit and Angela are not the same. They do not particularly care about the way they look or the way others percieve them. Yet, the voice of the novel is predominantly male. We hear Eragon and we hear Roran. We rarely hear the women's point of view- not even Saphira's (except when she voices concern for Eragon).

Finally, I revert back to language in the novel. Words like Albitr and Faelnerv quietly take from English itself (All-biter and Fail-nerve). The ancient language, which is the language the elves use, definitely has power over all other languages. This reminds me of something a professor of mine would say- languages have all the attributes of humans. And indeed, the ancient language had managed to control every other creature in the region. This is, in fact, a major theme in the novel and is discussed widely in relation to power itself. The control that the ancient language has over everything else proves that the elves (as is mentioned quite a few times) were the most powerful. It is only because Galbatorix had known the true name of the ancient language could he overthrow the elves when they went to battle. Similarly, it is only with the ancient language that Eragon completes a lot of his tasks. At points, his magic is medlesome, even when he intends good, again showing the power that he has over all others. The language then, trivialises the importance of the dwarves' language. The dwarf lord is not at all consequential when it comes to the power that the ancient language has. This hierarchy only goes to show the human hierarchy that exists within the novel: elves, Riders, humans, dwarves and Urgals. Though Paolini attempts to look at Urgals in a better light, they are still attributed the more animalistic tendencies of killing without priorities, with a coarser language and stronger meads. Language, then, is intricately woven with the ways of the talking creatures (elves, dragons, humans, riders, dwarves and urgals).

While language is one thing, the lack of language and the usage of just emotions is another aspect that the author has covered. There are those creatures in the depths of the sea that cannot express in a language. Neither can some of the ancient dragons (preserved in the Eldunari). This is amazing. It leads to the question as to whether emotions themselves are a language on their own, or whether they express themselves through a certain language. Obviously, Paolini feels that they have a language of their own. It is this that every single creature can understand, even if the usage of the ancient language has a certain effect on every creature. Maybe we can relate this to the usage of English today. Eragon says that the way the Eldunari of the dragons of yore used the ancient language was completely different from the way Eragon had used it (just as we see the changes in the English language from Old English till date). Similarly, the ancient language was used to control quite a few different races, as did English.

I shall conclude by saying that Paolini has definitely improved his style and skill over the years. He had a definite plan for his story, not abruptly cutting off certain characters (as happened in the Harry Potter series). Everything falls into place when the story ends. This itself is a requisite for any successful novel, and Paolini manages to do this with a flair that is exquisite. He does, indeed, have a way with words.

Please Turn Over

2011-12-06T01:20:00.001-08:00

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.

The Motorcycle Diaries continued!

2011-11-02T07:16:00.000-07:00

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."

* * * * * * * *

Blank

2011-10-09T04:56:00.000-07:00

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

Irreverently.

Dried up brain-bowl

Lost in tranquillity.

End Point

2011-09-29T21:51:00.000-07:00

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.

The Motorcycle Diaries

2011-09-07T08:10:00.000-07:00

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...

The Immortals of Meluha- On the Making of a God

2011-08-01T01:03:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-07-25T21:09:00.000-07:00

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.

It's Raining Again

2011-07-12T23:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Movement

2011-06-23T19:43:00.000-07:00

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

'Spring' Cleaning

2011-06-08T09:41:00.000-07:00

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.

The Moon, though sweet, is Single

2011-04-08T13:05:00.001-07:00

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.

Note:

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

Of Kittens and Puppies

2011-03-30T20:30:00.000-07:00

   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!

Blinded

2011-03-21T05:31:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-21T05:26:00.000-07:00

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 . . .

Thespacecloses.
Thoughtsmakelove.
Dancetoalovesong
Onenolongertwo.

Repose

2011-03-21T05:12:00.000-07:00

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...

Chennai-weekends

2011-02-19T05:44:00.000-08:00

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.

Another nameless one

2011-02-04T21:46:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-04T21:44:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-04T21:28:00.000-08:00

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!

A trip to Thiruvarur- Day 3

2010-12-20T09:12:00.000-08:00

  Day three was the day of my presentation. Two of my friends presented on the same day, and all of us were nervous- even if not much, just a little tense. I was scheduled to present last, and all the other papers were just making it worse- the tension, that is. Most of the papers were amazing, and the feedback was constructive, and I was looking forward to the criticism on my paper.

  The day waned, and by noon, I was standing in front of everyone, presenting my paper on oikopoetics. This term is coined by Dr. Nirmal Selvamony, who I was fortunate to have as my professor back in MCC. He adapted a Tamil concept called 'tinai' into a modern system and way of life. I am not too sure of the roots of the word, but it represents not only a system, but a way of life. In the Tamil context, there are five tinaigal- mullai, kurinci, paalai, marutam and neytal. Each refers to a particular region within which people live, their means of survival (hunter, farmer, fisherman etc..), the time of day and the part of the year that is most significant for them and so on. This is a complex system that requires a detailed study of ancient Tamil texts, which he has undertaken. Parallel to this, he speaks of an oikos. 'Oikos' is a Greek word which means 'house'. The word oikopoetics does what the tinai does in Tamil literature: it connects literature to the landscape (if not to the way of life as well). So, I was looking at this aspect of ecocriticism. Anyway, I presented my paper, and I was standing there eagerly awaiting a response only to be greeted by absolute silence.

  That aside, we had a great lunch and then there was a round of prize-distributions for students who had previously participated in a competition held by CUTN. They got a set of books as prizes (most of them did, at least). The people there even gave the six of us a participatory certificate and commended us on our brilliant performance (in their words, we rocked the show). One of my classmates was asked to speak a few words toward the end of the conference. He did not fail to mention the good food! Overall, it was a great experience.

  But that was only the conference. After that, my classmates and I hung around with a few of the people from CUTN, some of whom I knew before hand (this included Nirmal sir). We went on a walk around Thiruvarur. It is a beautiful township, especially after the rains (as I am sure I have mentioned earlier). It was more than an hour-long walk, but it was so much fun. I had so much catching up to do (Susan, I'm sure you are following this). So, what with the Beatles, and identical feet twins, and MCC, our day went by really fast. We left CUTN by six thirty, got to the room, ate and did the calculations and money divisions (the math, basically).

  We were at the bus stop about an hour earlier. Not knowing what to do, we were walking slowly, when a herd of cows randomly apparated in front of us. So, we tried to dodge them, and a bus came charging ahead of us. Tensed, and herded in, we tried to move aside, knowing that there were cows behind us. But somehow, magically, a couple more cows came down from the front, and yet we failed to notice them (probably because of the looming bus). So, I got very lightly brushed by the horns of a cow (definitely a first), and a couple of my friends freaked out, and we decided to get out of that crazy place. We went back to our hotel, sat outside, and then four of us left, leaving behind two of our classmates.

  I assumed that the bus journey back was going to be a dream. I never slept on that ride. I was up till four thirty chatting with my friend! It was an amazing experience. There was a slight nauseating feeling that was countered by the very very interesting insights that I gained from him. So, it was dawn, and we had barely slept. There was a 1.00 a.m. break, which we made use of to get refreshing coffee. Finally, we landed in Chennai once again: home territory!

  And thus, the three-day conference ended. It was a brilliant experience. One of a life time. Something I cannot forget. Good fun, and serious too, to a certain extent. Okay then.... I shall stop ranting any further. Goodbye, for now.

Maggie B

2010-12-15T09:20:00.000-08:00

"Written by Maggie B
Bought by me:
A present to Maggie B
Sent by me:
But who can Maggie be?
Answered by me:
“She is she.” "

- Lewis Caroll, Aug. 13, 1891 (To Maggie Bowman)

A trip to Thiruvarur- Day 2

2010-12-14T05:53:00.000-08:00

The second day of our trip, which was the 6th of December, began at 6.30 in the morning. After insignificant nothings, and a lovely breakfast at the street corner, we got into the bus that CUTN had arranged for us. The seminar started out in full swing with a small presentation by chief guest, David Storey, and an introductory note by Dr. Nirmal Selvamony (whom I am still not getting used to calling 'doctor', but rather 'sir'). Finally, we got down to the paper presentations. Three of my classmates presented. It was a tedious but fun day, what with the amazing food, and the lovely campus, and the great, cheer with which CUTN invited us.

After the presentations, our little group went to the nearby temple of Lord Thyagaraja and walked about the whole temple. This temple is one of the five Siva temples of the south, which represent the five elements of earth, fire, air, water and space, and it portrays the earth element. There are a multitude of stories that are built around the solidity of the cool-stoned temple walls. The temple itself was constructed over a period of many years during (if I am not mistaken) the Chozha rule. This is the only temple where nandhi or the sacred cow remains standing in front of Lord Siva. The story goes that nandhi dozed off while she was supposed to be guarding her master, and he got up and walked away. When she gets up, she realises that she has failed in protecting her master, and she remains standing in self-punishment.

Walking from the central mandapam, one notices the multitude of Siva lingams around the whole temple. There is one point where one can stand on a single slab of stone and look at all the seven gopurams of the temple- the four at the four entrances to the temple, the central once, and two more within the temple. After this, you see the sacred tree, where Pillayar was supposed to have gone to, and the shrines of various Siva bhaktargal (saints/followers for lack of a better word).

We went to the shrine of Amman (Parvathi). The story goes that while Siva was serving food to every living creature in the world, Parvathi playfully hides a little ant in a matchbox, and asks her husband if he has indeed finished serving all creatures. When he replies to the affirmative, she points to the box, and he gets infuriated when he realises that she has played a prank on him, and has (to a certain degree) told him a lie. As a result of this, he banishes his own wife to the depths of pathala loka, or the underworld. Vinayaka, also called Pillayar, refuses to let his mother traverse such dangerous territory without physical support, and therefore goes down with her. Thus, there is a shrine of the Goddess's son strangling a demon's neck. The Goddess herself is situated in a cave-like enclosure, painted (either during the time or later) with white walls. She is not surrounded by any of the minor gods usually seen around central/important gods.

Next, my friend and I went to the temple lake. It is the lake of the Thyagaraja temple that is supposed to be one of its best features. It is considered to be as huge as (or at least, almost as huge as) the temple itself. I cannot describe the vastness of this kollam (கோளம்). It was dark, since it had become about 7.30 or maybe even 8.00 by then. So, while we crossed the road to look at the lake, all we could see was water, and the distant lights. It was difficult to spot the other end of the lake. Usually, a temple lake is only meant for the sadhus to take a 'holy bath' in. Thus, it is usually small. However, the Thyagaraja temple pond is amazingly large. It has a small temple at its centre (I am not too sure how one accesses that) and water all around it. The kings did indeed ensure that they would never run out of water. That too, this season, when we visited the temple, it had been flooded with the heavy rains, causing even the main temple to be filled with water. The lake, then, was brimming with green, lustrous water, twinkling in the street-lights.

Finally, we left the temple at about eight in the night. We had the puliodarai which they were selling within the temple compound, and then had vadais and eventually had dinner at the hotel itself. Then we had to get some rest before the next day dawned- which was the day I was doing my presentation.

A trip to Thiruvarur- Day 1

2010-12-10T11:39:00.000-08:00

Thiruvarur is a small township located towards the south of Tamizh Nadu, and I recently had the good fortune of visiting it when it was lush green owing to a bout of heavy rains over there. I and five of my friends armed ourselves, prepared (or at least almost prepared) to present our papers on 'The Name and Nature of Ecocriticism' at the Central University of Tamizh Nadu (CUTN). We were bent on having our share of the fun come rain or shine (shine, as it turned out to be).
What was initially supposed to be a group journey from Chennai to Thiruvarur ended up in just two out of the five of us travelling, since the people who were supposed to arrive from Hyderabad missed the train. [Their story is an amazing one, and I would love to recount it, but I suppose we must ask them to do the narration. It is hilarious I assure you. But, back to the story...] So two of us set off from Chennai Egmore, not knowing how to pass about seven hours in a train. We started out by taking pictures, but batteries failed us, and eventually, we had to satisfy ourselves by just chatting, and chatting, and chatting! The journey was interspersed with ardent followers of ISKON, and interesting conversations with the old man sitting next to us. He was a really kind man, asking us to see the various water bodies that flowed by, and we too enjoyed watching the risen levels of water after the heavy rains. However, most of the journey went off in blissful slumber, and even the coffee and samosas that we bought didn't wake us up- especially me! I was literally sleeping like a log!
We soon got down at Thanjaoor- far earlier than we expected (we thought we would reach at five, but we reached by three or so). Giving a little time to charge our phones so as to be able to take pictures, and contact our friends when they reached, we left the station and decided to go to the temple. It was drizzling by then, and a single 'thaathaa kodai' was supposed to protect both of us. We got a two rupee ticket to the temple, and we walked in the slush to the entrance. After a lot of contemplation as to whether we ought to enter the main temple or not, we dumped our bags at the entrance (there was a man who kept them safe at the counter), and we headed inside. It was about 4:45 pm when we went in. We walked around the entire temple. It was empty, probably owing to the rains.
This was my second visit to the temple. I had once gone to Thanjaoor about four years ago, and I had seen the same sights with a different friend. This experience was different. I was doing the guiding this time (though I did not know much). We saw the main temple, with lord Siva, and the huge Nandhi seated in front of him. We saw the many Siva lingams and the paintings on the wall. We learnt that the temple was constructed by Raja raja Chozha during 1003 AD or so and the paintings were elaborate. We realised that the stones had two styles of writing- one similar to tamizh and one to sanskrit, but neither was the actual language. We figured that it was probably some ancient form of the languages. After about an hour of looking at the statues, and taking a few pictures, we left. We had to catch the bus from Thanjaoor to Thiruvarur. We did not know how long that would take, but we figured that it would not be much. We paid twenty rupees each in the bus, so we assumed we would reach within twenty minutes to half an hour. The bus journey lasted an hour and a half, toward the end of which both of us were feeling physically and psychologically ill.
There was a really nice lady sitting next to me on the journey to Thiruvarur. Her name was Anbarasi. She was heading to Velankani to pray for her family. In Tamizh, it is called a venduthal. She had two children- a daughter and a son- both in their kinder garden, and her husband was in Saudi Arabia. She was excited, and we spoke about a multitude of things, including which actor we liked (common: Surya), and actress (Jyotika, though she still doesn't act), and other mundane things.
We reached Thiruvarur at eight. We walked the short distance from the bus stop to the hotel we were staying in- Hotel Selvie's- and met up with our friends. We got dinner at a restaurant in the hotel itself, and we all headed of to catch a good night's sleep before facing a tough day the next morning.

Midnight Rambles

2010-11-23T01:26:00.000-08:00

In the rambles of the night
Glows a dull, fluorescent light.
As black shutter-gates close
And the library begins to doze.
Conversations take random turns
And opinions, in the heart, feverishly burn.

Voices rise and fall.
In the background, frogs call.
Everyone has someone to talk to
And someone to go to.
In the middle of darkness
Is a light-featheredness.

Because feet ramble
And the clicking cycle-pedals-
Whirring wheels of a silent vehicle-
Speak of a moment so magical.
Two strangers become friends,
And speak of random ways and ends.

Under trees that glitter green,
Under the moon's yellow sheen,
Coldness is substituted by the tea's steam,
And warm narrations' soft gleam.
Unimportant, inconsequential words tumble out
And silently dance and waltz about.

The night is complete: perfect, absolute.
At the end of words is solitude.
And two pairs of feet take leave and part,
And in departing, pedals restart.
On the faces of two not-so-acquainted friends
A laugh quietly echoes; a smile begins.

PS: This was written on 18-08-2010. The general feedback for this poem has been that it isn't that comprehensible. This might be owing to the fact that I had written this based on an evening/night spent with a person who became my friend, and this was a sequence of events...

Celebration and Yearning

2010-11-23T01:16:00.000-08:00

Standing alone in the room,
She looks at the neatly folded off-white kasavu.
Thin, silken, gold threads
Weave their way through the fabric.

She slowly, affectionately,
Wraps the cotton cloth
Of summer-ease
Around her body,
Heightening her slender frame.

Concentratedly, mathematically,
She folds the pleats
Of a single length of cloth,
And tucks it in.
She then drapes the pallu
Over her shoulder.

Softly, the comb caresses
Her black tresses,
Neatly parting it
In two equal streams
Of scented black.

And the music twinkles
With the bangles
That she lovingly dons.
The anklets sing
To the tune of celebration.
The large gold jimiki
Pierces her ear.

And finally, the fragrance
Of mallippoo
Is the powerful scent
Of white against black.
Against the white of her eyes
Is the darkness of mai.
Against the whole body
Of white and gold,
A splash of blood-red kungumam
Colours her forehead.

Standing in front of God,
She hopes for another
Physical presence.
A black pupil that will
Catch the off-white and gold,
And twinkle like a diamond.

Written on 23-08-2010

'Soporia'

2010-11-23T01:04:00.000-08:00

Two o' clock in the morning.
The sky is inky black;
The bed awaits a cold body
That seeks warmth and sleep.

Seven o' clock in the morning.
Two eyelids refuse to open.
Two pupils laze and gaze
Through a dazed haze
At the alarm-clock.

Ten thirty in the morning.
The class's soporific effect
Hypnotises the mind into a stupor,
And the head tilts,
Gives in and sleeps.

Written on: 18-08-2010

Silhouettes

2010-11-23T01:01:00.000-08:00

Flames of peacock-green,
Copper-sulphate blue,
And dashing purple
Cackle open in the breeze.

Feathers of angry red,
Vibrant yellow,
And glorious orange
Flutter down in the background.

The rest of the world
Lies dark and still,
Black and quiet.
Silhouettes
Sing the song
Of the peacock
At dusk.

Written on 2nd August 2010

On the comforts of home

2010-11-22T23:45:00.000-08:00

There is nothing like being home. It is the best feeling in the world (at least for me). I might sound spoilt here, but it feels good to have tasty food instead of the bland goo that they provide in our hostel, and it is absolute bliss when you can type a post and enter it in without the internet connection going haywire. It is lovely to have world cinemas (UTV) and TV sitcoms at the flick of a channel. It is nice to sit and do absolutely nothing if you choose to, instead of submitting a million assignments and studying for useless examinations, from which you learn something below nothing.
That said, it also feels nice to have time to think about papers that you do want to write up, and plan out the number of places you need to go to get things done. It feels refreshing to have my white-board, instead of the flimsy post-its that attempted to solve the clutter in my mind (which they did)- and contrary to what some people might think, I actually do write in a large font on the board. It feels nice not to feel the swing of heat and cold that Hyderabad has been throwing at me for the past month or so.
On the other hand, I still feel like a hybrid between two places, what with half my books there and half of them here! I wanted to check something in this play called Fire and the Rain by Girish Karnad, but I couldn't because, to my exasperation, I had left the book there, in campus. I miss the wings that my cycle offered me, and am now cluttered by the noises that a city offers.
Am I becoming a neither-here-nor-there person? I wouldn't like that. But with Tamizh, and a limited Telugu, I have become an in-between person. Maybe that isn't a bad thing, but there is a side of me that wants to be complete, though I am nothing but fragmented. I want to be nothing but the comfort of home, though I am but a traveller through the empires of time-space.

Gypsy Dance

2010-11-08T00:19:00.000-08:00

Dum...dum...dum...dum...
Drum beats to a thundering heart.
Something in the brain's synapses
Click.
A pair of feet- restless, energetic- start.
Anklets, singing to a rhythmic beat,
Clink.
Two eyes, lost in a gypsy-like mystique, dart
Across the green, and grey and
The dark.
Two bangled hands, a magical terrain, chart
Flowing, fluid landscapes of
The mind.
The body sways in a creation of art
As it is lost in the earthy drum beats
Of the night.
Dum...dum...dum...dum...
Dum...dhadam....dum....
Not here, but somewhere else am I.
Not me, but someone else am I.
Not now, but forever am I.
The music is the life beat
Of my entire being.

Written on 24/09/2010 (Posting it got a little delayed.)
PS: This poem was written after an exhilarating experience. It was during the 2010 onam celebrations in campus, where a multitude of performances were played. The last one was a gorgeous interplay of the drums and acoustic guitars. Though the actual performance went on only for a few minutes, those people who were performing chose to spread the music even after the program, while people were queuing up for dinner. So, my feet began to automatically jingle and jangle to the 'earthy drum beats' (there is no other way in which I can think of describing it). And I was wearing the onam saree, too. But I couldn't stop myself. So, I danced what I know best- bharathnatyam to the drums. It was an amazing experience- spectacular, rather (all puns intended)

Dreams

2010-10-27T23:21:00.000-07:00

Apologies, once again for the late and far apart posts. Not much has been happening, as usual. However, recently I have been having amazing conversations about dreams. Dreams have always been the fascination of many: including men like Freud. But this conversation wasn't exactly a systematization of dreams. It was more the awe and wonder with which we tend to perceive them. Dreams can be amazingly spectacular, can't they? So, well, once, over dinner I was talking with Gitanjali about how dreams seem perfectly real when we dream them, and how there is a perfect explanation for every impossibility. It has been quite a while since these amazing, spectacularly mind-blowing dreams have entered the labyrinth of my mind.
On an aside, did you know that the word 'amaze' seems to be the root of the word 'maze'? You would think it would be the other way around. 'Amaze' is an early 13th century word originating from (probably) the Old English word, 'amasian' which means "stupefy or make crazy", and the meaning "overwhelm with wonder" began to be used for the term around the 1590s. The word 'maze', on the other hand, began to be used about a century after the word 'amaze' and derives its root from the same Old English word as well. However, it originally meant "delusion or bewilderment" and the meaning of "labyrinth" was ascribed to it only in the late 14th century. [source: www.etymonline.com].
Back to what I was saying: it has been a while since I dreamt wild dreams. But recently I dreamt of an amazing concert hall with two tiers of steps, where one was used for walking and the other was the seating arrangement. It was perfectly normal that people could slide from one level to the next to find their seats. A concept which now flabbergasts me.
And then, yesterday, I saw a movie called Coraline. I am not too sure about how many of you would have watched it. It is an animated movie about a young girl who finds a doll that looks exactly like her. A bit of a background on the girl, Coraline: she is about ten years old, and her parents are bent upon a garden catalogue that they need to publish, and therefore do not spend time with her at all. The girl, though, misses them, and wants to have a happy life, but finds herself upset. She also sees a small doorway that is opened at night by a bunch of animated mice (they seem unreal even in the animation- like paper mice or something), and she sees an imitation of her world, except that the family seems perfectly happy. However, her mother and father have buttons for eyes, proving their non-reality. But they provide her with everything she needs- good food and a happy and loving home. And finally, they put her to sleep, and when she wakes up, she is in the world of 'reality'. However, that family seems to change as the days go by. They want Coraline to stay with them, and sew on buttons into her eyes, but she refuses. The story goes on along this line, until Coraline finds out that her family is trapped by the 'other mother' and she realises that she has to save them from that world. (the ending shall not be revealed, just in case you might want to watch it)
Well, the story is not exactly about the dream world, but it as well could be. The world opens to her only at night and when she wakes up, she finds herself back in her own home. That world is, at least initially, an ideal one. It posits an alternative that Coraline can take- the easy way out of reality. However, it becomes necessary for her to lock that world behind her to prevent it from spilling over into the world of reality- the one world in which she lives. If she does, then the confusion of worlds will become her madness. Does that not mean, then, that the spilling over of the dream world into that of reality will eventually give rise to madness?
Recently, even in class, we have been looking at women who go mad- surprisingly (or not so surprisingly), most women with dreams end up in a madness- and most of these women have a dream (now a dream is no longer the dream of the night, but the 'I have a dream' dream). Let us take Pecola from Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye. Pecola is a young girl who wants the bluest of blue eyes (since blue eyes signify a white face), and doesn't get it. After a series of various forms of abuse, she goes mad. But it is suggested toward the end, that a man 'gives' her blue eyes. She believes she has blue eyes, and she believes she has a friend (who is suggested to be imaginary). This is where her world of reality merges with her dream world (of pretty blue eyes) and she becomes crazy.
Then, there is the lady/wife in The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, where a lady keeps staring at the walls, believing that no treatment can cure her (where her husband does not believe that she has any illness). Toward the end of the story, she finds her shadow walk out of the wallpaper into the evening and she locks herself inside, not letting her husband come in. She finally turns mad. Here, she believes that the wall paper is talking to her. She ascribes to it a reality that is not there (or do walls really talk?). But it is the dream that takes shape into a reality.
So, dreams become vicious then. It has become a recent aspect of literature and cinema. The mind and its multitude of pathways fascinate us, and we choose to attempt a study of it with the limited capacity of our brain. But literature, too, has means of studying the world without scientifically approaching it, and maybe that is what the world needs- a mixture of the scientific (with the connection of lobes to eyes attempting to figure out the causes of dreams) and the philosophical or metaphysical, as you choose to call it (attempting to create multiple worlds, like Inception manages to do and studying them by not studying them, if you get what I mean).
There is a thin line between the world of dreams and that of reality. We should tread carefully, or perish...

A Lament

2010-09-17T03:37:00.000-07:00

This is a mere apology of an entry, since access to the internet is miserable. I have been away just because the net connection is slow, and it is an absolute hassle to trudge down all the way from the hostel to the reading room to get a net connection. So it is usually only a dire necessity that brings me down here. Today, on the other hand, I decided that enough is enough, and that I definitely need to do a little bit of mindless internet-ing. So, this is an entry that says I am, right now, doing nothing more than facebooking, and chatting.
Life has generally been hectic, and a little bit of a stress-buster is required. So, this is it:

A Lament

What am I going to do?

Work explodes like flotsam and jetsam.

Work clots and hardens

Like a few blood cells that

Gather into dark, bright red.

Work falls like a downpour of a storm.

Work thunders like a bellowing earthquake.

What am I going to do?

I have only one brain

To churn out thoughts

Like a machine.

Not those many ideas

Flourish and bloom

In the darkness of my mind.

What am I going to do?

Time escapes like a bubble

That flutters into the air and bursts.

Time lapses into silences

And my voice fails

To receive a response

From that vacuum.

Time laughs a mocking laugh

At my inability to speak.

Time moves at the speed of light

When I want it to crawl

At a snail’s pace,

And a lament escapes-

A deep, guttural cry for help.

I wrote this in class, when I found out that I need to write five term papers, give at least three tests within this month (and at least two more the next) and then start preparing for my exams. And somewhere along the line fit in some leisure (without which I would go insane). So, this was my lament there, and I hope it gets cleared out sometime soon.

Sole Stories

2010-08-22T11:42:00.001-07:00

Feet tread along oft trodden streets

Amidst the city’s blare, slippers beat

Into the dusty grounds of kuccha roads

Past rows of static cars and bright signboards.

Feet: lost shoe, torn chappal,

Stop for a rest beneath a signal.

Scorching sun burns the sole

Slowly working its way into the soul.

The heart beats slower and slower,

The sari gives shade as eyes lower.

But the feet have to tread on

Into the dusk, from the dawn.

Feet wander aimlessly through the day

But cannot find, in wandering, a solace.

Heat works its way into the sole

And slowly the walking stops.

Camera lens images

2010-08-18T11:40:00.000-07:00

Sepia mode.
The sunlight bristles
Through the branches of my mind
In hazy shades.
And my mind-
Not black, white or colour
Takes the infinite hues of
Dull brown and off-white.
Feelings metamorphose
Into thought,
And dream of
Yellow and green.
Finally the picture,
Complete,Stands on its own,
And the photograph
Presents itself
In print.

When images stem out of Random Conversations

2010-07-19T06:03:00.000-07:00

So I ask him,
'What catches your eye
When you first see a girl you like
Pass by?'
And he leans back,
And thinks for a second.
Thoughtfully,
With due respect-
delicately, gently,
Like the sun glimpses
Upon a sunflower,
He sees...

The eye falls on quiet feet
Slipped perfectly into bright Indian sandals,
Toes painted in soft shades
of lavender,
Carefully filed,
Are settled neatly into

the small slit of an opening.
Bare-ankled,
Musicless feet
Add colour
To that which they are clad in.
Slippers fading into the background
Like a hazy soundtrack
That only serves to enhance
the visual.

And with perforated incompleteness
A sole makes a heart beat
Differently,
And fall.

Its Raining in Belfast

2010-07-01T00:03:00.000-07:00

Torrents of wind and rain lashing against the trees
That are dancing like peacocks with their feathers of bright green.
The roads are dripping with the downpours of the skies,
And the clouds are singing instead of the birds' cry.

- Though rain here isn't supposed to be so uncommon, this is the first night it has been pouring continuously. And though most people do not want the rains, I am all for it. I do not know when I will get fed up (which I think I might, but hope I don't). Ah, well... hello rains! At least I shall give you a 'warm' welcome.

The Other World

2010-06-30T13:27:00.000-07:00

In a silent, green landscape
The fairies flit about,
As the sureties of the mind escape
Into a cloud of doubt.
An unknown world surrounds
The silken valley of the night,
And blinded, the eyes pronounce
The echoes of stories woven by lack of sight.
In the theatre of the brain
Narratives are invented and reinvented-
And one cannot understand or explain
The undying faith in their existence.

In a quiet, dark landscape
The angels disappear
And voices of the devil
Are whispered in your ear.
And those firm ol' disbeliefs
Surface and reappear.
Surrounded by Eireann
The mind whips its own concoctions
Fed to sober-hearted Reason,
Who, drunken with sweet Fiction,
Drifts into another world.

- This was written while reading up on fairies and other folk stories of Ireland, while sitting in the library.

While sitting in the Mc Clay Library

2010-06-25T09:39:00.000-07:00

When the world is stung silent,
The corridors echo with
Stories and histories
Of kings, queens and nobodies,
And the papyrus,
Ancient as the trees,
Sings its whispering melodies,

And the lyre of celestial boughs
Bow down in a curtsey
As the meagre perceptions
Of the frail human mind
Grasps a minute bit of
The vast empire of narratives,
And is
Overwhelmed.

The colours of emotions

2010-06-07T06:21:00.000-07:00

Feeling blue,

the entirety of my body splashes

Into the past,

looking for somebody to love.

They sang,

"they say, everyone has someone,

So how come no one loves me?"

And I wonder what lies beyond

the veils of space and time.

Is there a 'one'?

And how come...

my body splashes

into the pools of the past,

ending up feeling lost,

and feeling blue?

Feeling dark,

the rhythms of my heart beat

Like a constricted machine

To tunes of fire

Burning higher and higher

Waiting for the darkness to brighten into

Whiteness.

The flames dissipate

into emptiness-

Dissolve in the darkness.

How did it all flicker away?

Like the day fades into night?

Waiting, this constricted machine

beats in silence,

hoping to be more than life supporter;

but creator- like magic

and God.

And that is when, the shards

and fragments of gold and silver

Hopes and desires

Rain down from

the ruby-red pieces

of my heart.

The tallest Building

2010-05-22T11:42:00.000-07:00

They say that at the centre of every village was the temple, and that the temple was always ALWAYS the tallest building around. They say that this was because we could see the temple from any point in the village, and that helped us pray, and worship the gods.
Today, the tallest building around comes from the corporate sector. They are at the heart of every city that exists. Does this say something about the power sectors, and the very apparent shift from god to money? Indeed, the question is raised- do we worship money? And this is not a random, question thrown at the filthy rich. It is a deep introspection into the heart of our lives and our ways of living.
Architecture, too, plays its role in shaping our society.
With the changes that have taken place in our way of living, somewhere along the line our values changed, too. It is no longer the painstaking efforts of an individual to reach god, but costly entry fees into temples that take you quickly past the common entrance, and it is no longer about the penance but the money with which you can gain it.
The temple has changed from being the pristine, holy place where people thronged to gain the lord's blessings into something that we can pay an entry into. God, like water, ought to come for free.

The Keep-in-Touch Syndrome

2010-05-11T20:27:00.000-07:00

Today is the world of the cell phone, as we all know. Even little kids have easy access to the cell phone. They are cell phone-savvy, and if they do not have their own phones, they tend to use that of their parents, to play games, even make calls. This ought not to come as a surprise, and yet it hits you with a jolt. This comes with teens and barely-teens asking parents to buy them cell phones so as to talk with friends whom they daily meet at school, and with whom they chat with on facebook, or gmail.

Then, I began to think about what it is that I do. Do I also, always keep in touch, or want to? And is it an addiction? My friend and I agree that facebook is an addiction. When I am home for my holidays, and when the facility of 24x7 internet access is possible, I tend to want to go to facebook all the time. And when I am there it isn't like I do anything productive at all. And when I do not meet my friends everyday I want to know where they are and what they are doing. It is the keep-in-touch syndrome.

Somebody said 'knowledge is power'. I have heard that too often in the past. But somehow, I feel, this kind of knowledge- of where a person is, what that person wants and so on and so forth, is a negative knowledge. It distracts you and gets you impatient. I try my best not to let the cell phone intervene when I am with friends. Of course, I do not have too many people who contact me, unlike a lot of publicly involved persons (and by that I do not mean politically involved- they are two completely different things) that I know. Those people, especially, cannot live without their cell phones. They cannot stay two minutes without knowing what message they got, and can absolutely not survive if there is no range. The response to 'Why do you need to always be on your phone?' is 'What if something happens?' or 'Someone important might call.' So I got to thinking if the cell phone is so vital. Is it an essential need in my life; in our lives? Maybe it is. But then again, maybe we can manage to stay without it.

There is this man I respect a lot, who sold his cell phone for no reason at all- well, because he didn't want the thing! And I really want to be able to do that. But then, I think of my mother and father waiting to talk to me, and my heart goes 'thump-thump... how can you do that to them?' and possessively keeps the phone to itself. And plus, there are the multitudes of friends who I need to keep in touch with, when I need them as well as when I think of them. So, maybe I am not going to be able to get out of the 'keep-in-touch' syndrome. But I very badly want to.

The Chennai MMTS (local train)

2010-05-11T19:54:00.000-07:00

It is good to be travelling by the Chennai local trains again!! Things I noticed about the Guindy station-

1. The Chengalpet announcements begin forty minutes before the train arrives, which is a bit better off than the announcement occurring when the train is just about to leave.

2. The hmpc shop has shed its old skin, and now wears a yellow fencing around the sides. It seems to be smaller. The fermented apple juice is the same. The shop-keeper still remembers me, and asked me how I was, which made me feel really happy and gave me a high which (I swear) was not because of the fermented apple juice.

3. The thatha (old man) with spectacles, who sits to beg near the steps from the ticket counter, has now procured a walking stick. The other thatha was not there, and the two paatis (old ladies) are still there.

4. It is finally a relief to be travelling on a train that you do not need to know the timings of, and for which you do not have to stand on the over-bridge just so that you can run to whichever platform the train decides to arrive in (which is the case in Hyderabad local trains).

The scribble pad!

2010-05-06T19:48:00.000-07:00

1. The British Council Library (B C L)- This place is not what it was any more. It has changed drastically, and I do not like it. I guess I am an oldie, and prefer the quiet white walls and the umbrella stand to the dashing pink that has shaded the walls these few years. And now that comfortable peace and solitude found there seems to have gone. This is probably a good thing for the library itself, since it now seems to be a commercial space. However, for those of us who seek peace in a library miss the old feel of things. The library, now, does not have a reading zone (including couches, sofas etc.) and the books are arranged more, well, commercially (for lack of a better word).
Now, I know that I am a person who sits at places like canteens and chai shops to study, but when I enter BCL I expected to be reading in silence, and somehow the noise overthrew me! Anyway, I just don't like the changes that are happening there.

2. Why is it that women in Hyderabad have more children than those in Chennai? I do not know if anybody has noticed this significant difference between the two cities. (Mind you, I am just stating a fact.) I have seen this especially when I travel by the buses in both places. The buses in Hyderabad are teeming with children below the age of ten while Chennai buses are comparatively child-free (underline 'comparatively').
Also, the Hyderabad people aren't as polite (at least in the buses, that is) as those in Chennai. The number of women offering to hold your bag, or sometimes give an old woman a seat is, I feel, rarer in the former.
Of course, these are only personal observations, and nothing is statistical!

3. I went to Tiruvannamalai and I saw a monkey carrying her dead child across the road. It was a sad sight. The kid was being carried by the tail. It was so small and beautiful. The mother did not look too upset (of course, since I do not know monkey language I cannot be too sure). So it got me wondering about their life and language and ours. The mother was so practical and matter-of-fact (again, human interpretations of the animal world) and I couldn't imagine that of us humans. But it was terribly sad.

4. During the above-said trip to Tiruvannamalai, I went on a walk around the hill (girivalam or giripradakshanam) and I noticed a significant change in the roads. A few years earlier, the roads were mud roads and the stones would sometimes prick your feet. So one would assume that a tar road is better and would provide the solace that your feet need. However, we (my family) found that this is not so. The tar actually gets small pieces of stone stuck in your foot too. And worse, it gets hot sometimes (which, fortunately we did not have to experience), and the sand is actually soft and comfortable, as one would know if they have walked along the beach, even if this is a slightly milder version of that.

5. I went to a crocodile farm that had loads of crocodiles that weren't being properly taken care of. It wasn't good to watch them crawl along the floor with very little water to go to in the midst of this summer. This place was called Sattanoor dam. The place was beautiful in itself, with a few parks, a swimming pool, a pond on which pedal-boating was available and so on and so forth. However, owing to the cheap entry fee, the place isn't all that well kept, especially the crocodile farm, where many crocodiles were injured (and I cannot be sure as to whether it was owing to crocodile fights, which I am guessing is the cause) and the water was practically over.

6. I drank panneer soda for the first time in my life and liked it.

The Lady of the House

2010-04-28T11:15:00.000-07:00

She does not have to be who she is, but she chooses to remain that individual. This is something a Tamil, Brahmin girl understands in her life- it is something she sees. The woman who stands in the kitchen, cooking, is not a lady who does not want to be there. She is an educated woman, MSc, smart, intelligent and courageous. She is not docile or innocent and is not left without a choice.
She gets up early in the morning, sweeps the pooja room and enters the kitchen, fresh and ready to start the day's work. She neatly cuts the vegetables, and keeps the rice, rasam and sambar. As a girl, who doesn't particularly want to be the typical house-wife, her daughter watches her. But there is a bit of a paradox. This woman, she is not subdued or unhappy. Indeed, she is enjoying- no, relishing- her day's duty.
I do not know how this fits in in today's feminist readings. Some people might say that she is fitting into a patriarchal set up. But is she? If this is what she loves, then does it matter? She does not remain within the bounds of her home. She is a brilliant car-driver (beats many a Formula One racer, in my opinion), and loves cricket (ardent Sachin supporter). She takes care that her family gets the best food possible. She takes care that the clothes are in order, and the room is clean. She takes care that the accounts are settled and that tabs are kept. She gossips. She discusses. She talks. She teaches. She does not earn. She learns. She listens and sees. She is here, there and everywhere.

She is the Lady of the House.

This is just a fill in post.

2010-04-16T08:31:00.000-07:00

This is just a fill in post. The real blogs will come when internet access is better.

Exams have begun. And the atmosphere is not one that befits studies. Instead, cycles peddle into Tamarind Groves and glimpse at little tanks of murky water, filled with frogs the size of your hand, whose croaks are stuck in their throats, you can almost hear them. And exam halls allow your mind to wander and traverse through the vast expanses of the brain, it becomes tough to stay on track. They say,
"two roads diverged in a lonely wood" - it seems to be an apt metaphor. I took the one less travelled by, got lost and don't know what to do. Sometimes hard work is the most fun experience. Why is it that some people do not know how to give that?!

Got to go!

Let us go then you and I...

2010-03-12T07:01:00.000-08:00

Let us go then you and I
And sit down under the banyan's sky,
Eating biscuits and sipping chai,
Discussing what philosophies imply-
Of matters both mean and high.

The winds may rest,
The winds may blow,
But we shall waft
On friendship's glow.
And words shall form
And words shall flow
Or rest and slumber
Like the setting snow.
And thoughts are born,
And, nurtured, grow.

And at the end of the day,
We shall be on our way.
But footprints shall, embedded, stay
And images, on our memories, play.
And like leaves on branches, we sway
Under a conversational chasm's fray.

On MCC

2010-03-12T06:51:00.000-08:00

I miss MCC,
Where attendance came free,
And you were let to be
Yourself.

I miss the euphoria
That comes with being able
To step out
to read something beautiful
and different
and you are still
Human!!!

Kaalinga Nardanam

2010-03-12T06:42:00.000-08:00

Grappling under the seas
With huge, hissing,
Ten-headed serpents,
He rises-
Child that he is,
He brought out the
Demon Gods
of restless, thunderous waters
That twisted and choked
The Earth.

And he made them
Bow their monstrous heads
To the feet of a mere mortal.

He understood
The wild, unnatural sublimation
Of what
We could never even begin
to comprehend.

And triumphant,
He danced-

Kaalinga Nardanam

Questions to be asked

2010-02-26T06:59:00.000-08:00

Why is nobody updating his/her blog?
Why can I not think of anything to write about?- I hate writer's blocks.
Why isn't work getting accomplished?
Why all this cynicism in the world?
What happened to all things bright and beautiful?

- Signing off... Sayujya

Companion in the night

2010-01-19T12:51:00.000-08:00

Often, I have found myself alone, and wondering what I ought to do. Sometimes, I am actually on an all time low. And as I walk out of my room in the middle of the night, I find myself feeling- ‘somebody? Anybody?’ And from the middle of nowhere there is a soft padding of paws along the cold floors of the hostel. And he is there- ever loyal, ever faithful. The best friend anybody could ever ask for- Kimbo.

I never knew this side of him before. I mean, I knew that he would run behind me and sit next to me when I eat my food, waiting patiently for me to finish. But I did not know that he could figure out when I was crying and needed a shoulder to cry on real bad. Indeed, he offered me a shoulder to cry on, and I felt so grateful because I had no clue who else to turn to. He patiently heard me out, and let me wash away my tears. Sometimes at 1.00, sometimes at 4.00. He is always there to go ahead and make sure the road is clear. And he is always there to listen to all the nonsense I have to offer him. As though he needs to concern himself with human affairs!

Kimbo has become my companion in the dark. He doesn’t talk, or offer consolation, yet he is one of my closest friends. Trust me, he KNOWS. He understands, and he loves so unconditionally, I do not know if I could ever reciprocate such honest, pure faith. Thank you Kimbo, for just being there.

Down memory lane

2010-01-16T04:17:00.000-08:00

Imagine a period in time where trains from Chennai to Madurai cost only Rs. 8/- , theatres sold tickets for 75 paisa (and that was the costlier one) and a month’s catering of food for two people cost only Rs 8/-. It wasn’t too long ago either. Just sixty years ago, there were no cycle rickshaws or even kai-rickshaws (pulled by humans) and a tram-route across T. Nagar and the High Court area.

This was a time when Panagal Park, the most crowded part of town today, was deserted by 8.00 o’ clock in the night, with just one light in Ranganthan Street that shone because trains ran through that region. My grandfather used to travel from the Presidency College to Chennai Egmore station on a maatu-vandi (bullock-cart) so as to go back home. For him, a whole month’s salary meant Rs 50/-.

Sometimes, my grandfather asks me how much something I buy costs. And usually, he is flabbergasted by the soaring rates placed in front of him. I never used to understand why. Today, when he was recollecting ‘those’ days’ memories (translated as ‘anda naal nyabagangal’), I was wondering what all changes he must have encountered in this fast paced world.

From a point in time where there were no lights and fans, he is now in an age with inverters, A/Cs and cell phones. He has travelled from a time where seven kilos of rice used to cost one rupee. Though I can wonder at the past, it is difficult to put myself in his place. I do not know what I would do without half the gadgets we have today.

So, today, I took a trip down my grandfather’s memory lane, and was fascinated by what I discovered- a whole new world that isn’t yet dead in the memories of our world.

'V' for Vendetta

2010-01-14T09:42:00.000-08:00

"Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation stands vivified and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin van-guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition." - V

Delhi (and travel): On the Move

2010-01-14T09:32:00.000-08:00

30/05/2008

Travel requires a lot of energy and even more patience. But mainly, it just requires interest. I guess it wasn’t all that bad on the return journey- what with the Gujjar scare and all! But most of what I can remember involved dozing off and waking up to eat lychees and chips and gulp in pulpy orange. Quite uneventful, really!

On reaching Delhi, amma insisted on going to Akshardaam, which is a monumental masterpiece with a philosophical touch to it. It is stunning- mind-blowingly beautiful, with its nine domes surrounding the shrine of Swami Narayanji. Completed in November 2005, it took only five years to construct. You will understand its significance only if you see it.

At the entrance lie the ten gates, referring to the eight principle directions as well as the two gates for ‘up’ and ‘down’. Apart from the main shrine which comprises multifarious carvings of sadhus, disciples, Gods and so on, there is a gate (‘dwaar’) leading to the inner arenas of Akshardaam. There are also two ‘mayur dwaars’ which have only peacocks carved onto the entrances, between which lay the marble carving of Swami Narayanji’s feet along with the eight religious symbols. Another significant mention of this wonder is the outer wall of the ‘mandapam’ which is the ‘Gajendra peet’ or the wall of sculpted elephants. Though they speak of simple stories and moments, the architecture can only be described as amazing.

Also, Akshardaam has three programs- a boat ride (15 minutes), a screening and a ‘Hall of Values’ (each about 45 minutes) that highlights the Indian cultural background and its significance, the life of Swami Narayanji and the values of mankind in general. We only went for the boat ride due to a shortage of time, but that was awe-inspiring in itself.

Akshardaam is a monument that makes you wonder: ‘One day in the distant future, Akshardaam is going to find its place in history’ and men will flock around the pink stone and white marble shrine in revered silence.

After spending two hours in Akshardaam we ate in its canteen and were off to see the Bahai temple and Qutub Minar (even if only from outside). And since we only barely saw the monuments, I can not say much about them, except that they gleamed in the noon sun as we eyed them from our rented car.

Finally we reached the airport and as usual, our flight was delayed: something that apparently cannot not happen! We checked in and I got down to reading ‘Code of the Woosters’ (a Jeeves novel) and finally, finally, after a whole month of being out of Chennai, I was home again.

Phew. What a holiday!

Home Sweet Home

Day 4 at Corbett: Idling

2010-01-14T09:31:00.000-08:00

29/05/2008

A day starting with a lovely long nature walk- bird watching. What with lapwings, two to three types of kingfishers, hornbills, purple sun-birds, and many others, we trekked along the waterless river bed and across the quiet, hilly terrains of the Siwalik (I still cannot believe I saw the… stayed in the… foothills of the Himalayas). Quite poetic- until the sun rose, that is! Then it just got plain hot! We saw deer marks and old pug marks too. After that, it was the usual breakfast and sleep till one thirty- twoish, and then lunch. Speak of lazy!

Four thirty or so was swimming time. Lovely swim; getting back; awesome, soothing, hot-water shower that makes you go ‘hmmmmmm’ and don’t want to turn the tap off, but reluctantly do so.

Night-time photography of hotel flowers that were insanely pretty (even at night) - this was on my father’s insistence though. Then came a light dinner and salt-lime soda, followed by a folk dance held by the Hideaway. It was lovely. One song even had a tune like ‘ganga mayi’ (a KFI song, for those who don’t know). Eventually, they called us to dance as well, but it got over quickly and we returned to our rooms.

Finally, packing and sleep. Preparing to travel. Yawn!

Something my cousin penned down-

2010-01-11T01:40:00.000-08:00

'The Dawn of Life'

Everything has a tinge of dew;
The moon is making way.
The birds are chirping their way through
As the Brightest shines on the bay.

The flowers are dancing to their own tunes.
The day has come, brisk and bright.

As children are racing
Through the open grassland,
The farmer is tracing
His own merry land.

One thing I must say
Is that God has made us today
To realise one's tomorrow
And to keep it without sorrow.

- Bhavna Srinivasan

I thought I ought to put this up, seeing as she makes me proud to be her elder sister. It also reminds me of those days when I struggled to find the rhyme, and the awe with which I looked up to it.

Campfire

2010-01-01T12:37:00.000-08:00

When the skies have darkened into their blackest hues, and there are only the stars to account for you, a bunch of people slip away into a silent corner of the night. In the shuddering cold, gathering stacks of wood, cut, break and rip apart branches from their origins. Then, slowly, they add charcoal to the embers of light sizzling over the dry, crackling wood. For a moment, we all stop and stare into the flames.

Around the campfire we settle down, and we play antakshari. Singing into the night, the world is bright and cheerful. And slowly, some people need to go. And the crowd dwindles to a group of four or five, stoking the fire to sustain it, and attempting to prevent smoke from rising into the sky. The music becomes a calm quietitude and then it is time for stories. We all decide to create a story. But each of us has his or her own idea of what the story should be like. Ghosts, dragons, black, red and transformations melt into the ground and the trees about us.

The cold is forgotten as the stories capture our enthusiasm. And when story-time is over, we all settle down to sleep, at around five in the morning. The winds are bitingly cold, and the rocks are freezing, but the fire sustains us. We decide to wait till dawn. Finally, we decide to leave, after a short nap.

Somehow, though I was sitting silently through half of it, the fire leaves one in a trance, if you bother to look into it and let your mind drift off into wonderland. Feeding the flame, we also stirred the music of the heart. Off-tune beats that jingle in the mind, and can only attempt to be perfect. Finally, the night has to end. The embers have to die down, and the skies have to turn bright blue.

Masks and faces

2009-12-17T09:27:00.000-08:00

“In the room, the women come and go

Talking of Michaelangelo.”

‘The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock’ never was one of my favourite poems until I realised how much I could associate with it, and how much more it is true of our lives today. I came across this poem in my 11th standard poetry text and was not too fascinated by it. But somehow it has managed to stay in my life, and sauntered across my path a million times over after that. So it credits some mention today.
I was thinking about the above quoted lines yesterday, at a poetry meet at the Taj Mount Road Hotel. It is a posh and beautiful place, but somehow, I knew that I was out of place. I couldn’t place myself amongst the talking multitude of people muttering seemingly-sweet nothings into each others’ ears. It forcibly reminded me of this poem. It was the same circumstance, and I, here, was Prufrock. Over and over again, through the night, these two lines would resonate inside my head, and I mentally thought of penning it down in my blog. So here it is.
Maybe last night, we all were preparing “a face to meet the faces that (we) meet,” like the masque, where we do not need to show our true face, but rather a facade. [I wonder which word came first- face or facade, and whether the root of the two words are the same]. These faces are easily stripped off when you look at yourself in the mirror, and force yourself not to lie. It is tough, is it not, to face the truth? Hmm... another meaning to the word face- to confront. Interesting that the word ‘face’ seems to mean both confronting as well as masking. And thus Janus is justified. Though she looks at both the present and the past, she is also a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
And that is all that we are. We are mere imitiations of dark and light merged into one being. We are masques and images that refract light, like million pieces of glass, except it doesn’t have an original sun. We are shadows of a non-existant sun. We are thus, nowhere and everywhere, and thus mirages of reality. The real does not exist, but only the simulation. We are, then, the simulation. And it all boils down to the fact that,

“In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michaelangelo.”

The ideal home

2009-12-13T03:29:00.000-08:00

When I was young, and visited my grandparent’s place, I was always caught by the house they lived in. It was a small, individual house, not too comfortable, but perfect. It had two gates leading into it, and it was surrounded by trees and plants of all different kinds. My mother fondly recalls that they never had to go to the market much for vegetables, because they had almost all of it right at home. Each entrance had a tinnai (a bench- sort of) where you could sit all day and chat (arrattai, we call it), and we would feel the wind on our face in the evenings. But my favourite pass-time used to be the moments when my cousin and I would cook up stories in our imaginative heads, and enact them in our little front yard. I would be the goddess durga, and he would be her ‘vahanam’, or we would be two awestruck children at a park or fair.
There was a small roofed area just before the door to the house, where we would park the cycles and keep the iron boxes of old- the one where we had to fill coal inside. I remember the days when I would look at it with trepidation, wondering whether I would burn my fingers on it.
The house itself, I vaguely recall. It was a two bedroom house with a small hall and dining room, and the pooja attached (I think) to the kitchen. It was concise, and small and pleasurable to visit. The backyard had a well, and a stone slab for the washing of clothes, something I used to love sitting on when it wasn’t being used. And then if you walked half circle around the house, you would chance upon the stairs that led you up to the terrace.
The neighbourhood itself was comparatively silent. There was a ground opposite, where in later years, my cousin would play cricket. There was a small ‘Arun Ice Cream’ shop where my grandmother would always take me to buy ice cream. The roads were mud roads, but neat (as I remember it at least). And every week-end, my grandmother and I would go to the nearby Hanuman temple and would devoutly bring home the prasadam for everybody.
At some point in time though, that house ceased to exist, and we created a new one. And I know this sounds a little ‘R. K. Narayan-ish’ but the home lost a flavour that it once cherished. It wasn’t the same any more. The trees had gone, though the building itself, was bigger. And there were no steps outside that you had to secretly hunt for to find the terrace and look up into the stars. My grandmother didn’t live to see that house.
It is one house that I would choose to imitate, if ever I were to look for a dream house in my life. It inspired in me lot of childish thoughts that probably still remain and alter me. I know that there must have been many flaws in that house, but it was the ideal home to me.

The Ultimate Dance Battle (against Cancer)

2009-12-10T10:12:00.000-08:00

A spark of an idea can prompt a revolution. And what better than the language of dance to convey a message? M D Rashmi and Deepti Nirmal ask this of the youth of today. Though only women of twenty one, they aspire to bring about an awareness amongst the present generation about the risks and hazards of unhealthy lifestyles through the means of a dance battle.

Even if young in age and experience, these two women have managed to stir the interest of society by posing sharp questions about present lifestyles that can affect us drastically without our realising it. The idea of a dance battle crept up after discussions with doctors and researchers from the Cancer Institute, where they realised that today’s way of living can even lead to major health issues like cancer. They wanted to vociferously speak out against drinking, smoking and constant splurging on junk food, which is also a primary reason for cancer in youth.

How it evolved

Words,in this instance, does not come through advice, but rather through action. Rashmi and Deepti use the unique method of dance for awareness and inspiration, and hope to infuse a change. Vision Vogue Enterprise, their event management company, which began three months ago, decided to produce “The Ultimate Dance Battle Against Cancer”. They believe that “the cause is the drive”. They enjoy their job, and believe in their cause. It is their sole motivation. Putting their heart and soul in their work, they aim to inspire people, especially the youth, to repair their way of living.

Neither Rashmi nor Deepti have had prior professional experience. Hailing from Madras Christian College, from a Visual Communication background, both women have started their own company out of sheer will power and have prospered solely based on what they have been able to observe and implement in their bussiness stratergies. They have managed to assemble enough contacts in the bussiness world, and they convince us that they will survive. Nothing is impossible, is one of their common ideologies. Hardships have been a part of the game, but they have learnt only through experience. Neither believe that this would have been possible if it had not been for the family support that they acquired. It is this as well as their sweat and blood that has got this youth revolution going.

The message

The word they want to spread revolves around the hazards that can lead to cancer. The cure for such a disease is hazy and research has not yet found a solution to this problem. Doctors and researchers thus emphasise on prevention. And this prevention is possible only by spreading the word- unhealthly living (smoking, drinking and junk food-eating) is a primary source for cancer in humans. Today’s generation has to believe and aspire toward a good and healthy lifestyle.

About 8,50,000 cancer cases are diagnosed every year and there are about 5,80,000 cancer related deaths every year. Of this, 50-60% of all cancers are environmental and 20-30% of the cancers are caused due to dietary habits as well as reproductive and sexual practices. Tobacco causes 50% of cancers in men. To prevent all of this, we ought to be in control of body and mind, and we need to begin to take care of what we eat and drink.

It is this that the dance battle is out to convey. It is a means to raise money for the Cancer Institute, but it is also a message. With the support of around fifteen people, these young women intend to hold a dance battle, which is the first of its kind in India, promoting western styles of dance which have not been able to gain prominance here. The battle allows different dance groups to dance simultaneously and the judge selects the best team from the lot. Since it is a new field that is yet to be explored in India, it allows for fair competition as well as judgement. Held at the Jawaharlal Nehru indoor stadium, on the 13^th of February, in connection with the World Cancer Day, this dance battle promotes a new concept in the field of event management in India. Dance groups from around Tamil Nadu will be sparring with each other to promulgate an event of great magnitude and hopefully of a revolution.

Due to its very nature, this battle has attracted big media and will definitely attract big audiences. Around 6000 people are expected at the JN indoor stadium on the 13^th of February to witness this event.

Vision Vogue believes that the youth can be stirred only by the youth, and this event is most definitely of the youth, by the youth and for the youth. We can bring about a change. We will bring about a revolution.

Roots

2009-12-05T21:07:00.000-08:00

I have never been rooted to the ground. I feel that I have always been airy, flitting through the clouds, not too concerned about earthy matters. Never weighted down by these, I never did search for my roots- still haven’t, though maybe it is time to begin. I know I am of a certain caste, class and creed. And it never stuck me to observe those around me, and look at how they differed from me. Not in a negative way- positive tones only.

So, when a friend asked me about my culture, I was a little clueless (still am), and I started thinking about it. Why is it that I have never bothered to try to find it? - To look for my past, present and future in relation to contexts around me? I follow customs and traditions that are practiced in my house. But that isn’t all there is to culture.

Why do I not know my language? I only started asking this question to myself recently… in the past few months, that is. Why is it that I am more comfortable expressing myself in English than in my mother tongue? Is my language dying out in me? It is only in the near past that I have begun to feel that my language is unique, and special. There are some words that I would never want to replace, nor ever could, because only my language offers me those words and the impulse that throbs behind those words.

In fact, a simple word, like ‘rattam’ (“blood”), can mean so much more. It is not only blood, but passions and angers. It goes way beyond what ‘blood’ means. I do know that English offers this too. Obviously. However, it is only around now that I realise that I took my language, and my roots for granted.

It is time I get grounded. It is time I waft back down to reality, and to what I have to claim as inherently mine.

Conversations at 3 in the night

2009-12-03T21:02:00.000-08:00

Silent feet tip-toe in, just as you are about to walk out

And the words flow and spring and sing and chant.

Never knew the meaning of a conversation,

Thinking of past, present and continuous harmonies-

A million considerations and recognitions

That you did not know existed

Float up to the surface.

Nothing of importance, of consequence,

No notes of high-tea and elegance.

Simple jingles of everyday life

Rekindle a spirit, a fire

To know, to read, to see and inquire

And change the route of a car

On a collision course

With Destiny.

Laughter chimes a mellifluous tune

And binds a bond stronger than love or friendship,

because it remains unnamed and unique.

Conversations at three in the night.

- I do know that there are people who will argue that three o' clock actually is morning time, but it sure does feel like the night when you end up talking till three. Try it, and you'll understand what I mean. It isn't precisely the same when you end up watching movies till three.

Sojourns of a lost Kitten

2009-12-03T20:43:00.000-08:00

I was left alone on a tree;

there was no one to take care of me.

I squirmed, not knowing what to do.

I shrunk back,

Tail between my feet.

A quick hand snatched at me.

I dodged.

I landed on a shed

And my balance was lost.

I flew- for the first time-

like I never knew was possible.

And then, there was cold:

Sheer, blistering cold.

My heart sped and dropped.

And then there was another grasp

And life breath shuddered around me-

A sharp, freezing wind,

Sharper than the water's cold.

And then warmth,

And loving hands.

Where am I?

Where will I go?

- This was written when Simba entered our lives, and changed it for the few days before our holidays, leaving a little hole in our hearts when we had to leave. He is about the most lively kitten I have ever come across, and I want to cuddle him in the palm of my hand again, and watch him clamber up your dress to curl onto your shoulder. Waiting to show him The Lion King. I'm sure he'll be impressed!!!

hello again...

2009-11-09T20:25:00.000-08:00

It has been a long while since I opened this site, and I guess I need to pen down something about HCU! Well, in the few months that went by here, it has been an absolute roller coaster ride of fun and confusion, studies and random roamings, nature and the wild (well, sort of at least) and classrooms. But especially chai-kadai wanderings, senseless ponderings and happy meanderings.

Now it's time for exams and it's time to study. I have asked myself many a time 'Is this how a student in her MA should behave?' and have always come up with the response 'No.' But sometings are too good to miss out on, and I'm happy still trying to be a kid. Well, partially....
The cold gives an amazing high, by the way. Try cycling round, round, round... and the campus becomes Terrebithiya, and you are the lord of the world. Tell me, do you know what it feels like to be free falling?! Open your eyes and you'll see a whole new world spring up in front of you....

And 'As the June-light turns to moonlight, I'll be on my way..."

On a night....

2009-09-22T13:21:00.000-07:00

It is dark. The night stretches out beyond midnight. The night is forever. There is a wide stretch of rock lying, resting, beside a quiet lake. Solitarily, two hands hold feet close to the chest as the wind whips across the face. There is a symphony of the croaking frogs (or toads) and the subtler backdrop of buzzing insects. The music is deafeningly beautiful. They conjure images of peace and tranquility. They remind you that you are not alone. There is always music; if you care to search.

On a dream

2009-06-01T07:30:00.000-07:00

Dip your hand into paint, and draw out your dream
A meagre yellow taint on a dripping wet screen.
Play out your music like a psychedelic film-
A strain, joyous or melancholic, of a thoughtless whim.

Slowly, painstakingly, carve it, like an idol of Siva.
Mould it, but hold it, and don’t let it flutter away.
Trap it, arrest it, and pin it on paper today.

Sing until, magic imbued, the metal rings with power
And it clangs and it clatters into a momentous spiritual hour.
As the fires leap into the shape of that wisp of a dream,
And the paint is splashed brightly onto an imageless screen.

Ideas pour into coffee mugs and rustic libraries
And grow around them, gardens and tangible sceneries
Of darkness and happiness and moments of solace,
And the thoughts idle, and with the ocean plays.

Cluttered minds relax on huge-pillowed settees
And await an idea to wash in with the breeze.

(I prefer not to name this one)

2009-06-01T07:21:00.000-07:00

I am a maker of coins.
My trade specialty is in gold.
I weld them and shape them
In perfect spheres of lustrous metal.

And I traversed the streets
With pride on my sleeve,
A slight ego glowing around me.

And one day, I met a Buddha
Who in silent speculation
Made gold out of thin air.
The Alchemist had it easy, I thought,
And all the fame.
And then I saw the
Veins of contemplation
Glitter through his gold,

And what I had made seemed mere forgery.
And I was no more unique.
Humbled I stood,
And I cannot promise to stop forging
But I shall attempt to
Set out on a soul-search
And maybe one day
I shall design
Pure Gold
Out of
Nothing.

Who said angels know everything?

2009-05-28T01:49:00.000-07:00

Who said angels know everything?
Our wings carry us across the earth
But we are not of the land-
Mud; earthen-pain; earthly sorrow.
Our wings cry out to fly to the heavens again.
To see the Gods again,
To touch freedom again.

Our music you may love,
But your harsh resonances
Flash against our torn wings-
No longer feathers of white,
But stained red with your
Brethren blood
And singular hate.

Release us from your shackles.
Do not pray anymore.
Our wands no longer function,
And our angel-dust sparkles no more.

The clouds hang in a sullen stupor-
Heavy tears welling, often unshed:
They cannot bear us any longer.
They, too, turn crimson with anger
And are painted a poisoned red.

If I were to ask of the Gods,
I would ask them to revive my kin-
The niads, the nymphs lie dying
In your smoggy din.
And I would ask to fly.
Ah, to fly again
Into joyous isolation.

We hang in a limbo-
Puppet-strings from the heavens.
But instead of God's golden threads,
Your fleshy chains control us.

We will leave, believe you me-
The skies above us beckon.
The stars that are dead are born again,
And we will fly to create 'em.
Abandon hope, ye mortals,
Doomed to hellish lives.
Where cheerily thou abandon love,
Thou ought not to survive!

Reflections on a computer screen:

2009-05-28T01:26:00.002-07:00

She sits, alone.
Her face is bright. Happy.
Lit by the monitor's whiteness.
She looks down. Types. Enters. Clicks.
Her eyes sparkle off the glass-
Like the flickering light.

She sits and sits,
Waits and waits.
The clock behind her
ticks and ticks.

The smile slowly wanes.
She touches up her hair nervously.
One half of her face is lit by the screen
As she turns her face to the clock.
She adjusts the web-cam
And waits. And waits.

The clock strikes,
Signaling an hour gone by.
In a hazy-black, non-movement
You can register a single tear drop down.
And the whiteness of the site
Becomes the blackness of emptiness.
She stands up, turns around and walks out.

An empty chair.

I fear I'm becoming one of THOSE people!

2009-05-27T09:13:00.000-07:00

I fear I am becoming one of 'those' people: people who do not care; who have not found their true calling, waiting for nothing in particular. I fear I am becoming a nobody. What do I really want? I do know I want to teach. But, honestly, I already know that cannot be it. It could not sustain me forever. It is temporary.
I know I want to set up a library. Definitely; someday. Clueless, but hopeful I stand. It is impossible to figure it out- yet. It is too vast a dream. When will it come true; how... Such questions. I have not thought about that place in a while now, what with entrance exams and all. Not that I have studied much, but I have evaded the thought of a new beginning. When will it come true?
I know I love literature, but what in literature? It is such a vast field, you would not believe it. People think, 'Ah literature.' But it is a philosophy unto itself. It ought to be carefully scrutinised to comprehend, and truly appreciate. What is in a word, except the ability to please or wound, is it not?!

I realise this is becoming more of a 'what I want to do' post. But that is just it. Where am I? Am I becoming a slacker? A computer-addict? A non-dream-realiser? Hopefully not.
Sometimes, you need a dream-catcher: to watch over your dreams. Not only at night, but even in the hours of morn.
I dream that I will live quietly by the sea, unmolested by the cacophony of the city lights and city sounds. A little peace in a cavern of silence. But suddenly, I find that loneliness is maddening. It presses in on you like a scream. And you grow restless, and your body aches to be free again, when ironically, you are the most free of all creatures. I fear I am becoming one of 'those' people who cannot come to terms with their isolation.
We all live in our lands of isolation, and find strange consolation in empty conversations. Where will you find a person who is truly free? When can you sit and stare into eternity? I want to be there. I want to be that person.
But I fear, I am becoming one of 'those' people.

Quote for the day:

2009-05-27T08:55:00.000-07:00

"Love means not ever having to say you're sorry." - Love Story

something, nothing/somewhere, nowhere

2009-05-24T04:45:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in Kolkata as this gets blogged in, and I am just back from the 'garden of peace', Shantiniketan. It is an amazing place. A township in itself, I saw the variety of shops that sell cotton kurtis and jolna pais (cloth/jute bags) and gypsy beads and gypsy earrings. And the atmosphere was lovely. Today was a day for the rains and we were fortunate to miss the scorching sun. The place was alive with the greenery of the trees and the little rain drops drenched the earth with the aroma of life. I repeat, it was amazing!
The buildings were (yes, my friend called it quaint, but i choose to call them-) ancient. I like ancient, for some reason. I think I ought to have been born in a different era! However, back to the topic, the buildings were a paint-peeling-off cream, with moss all over- a nice antiquey look. And the skies were gray with the colour of an impending downpour.
The people were not too bad, and the place was humungous, but it was beautiful. I might not have accomplished much, but it gave me a sense of belonging. People have thought me as Bengali. Maybe I am?! At heart!
We lunched at Shantiniketan itself. And on our way back, we stopped at a sweet shop and bought some roshogollas and some mishti doi and later had some tea. And the thing is, with your tea and your mishti doi, you get a good supply of matkas that are worth taking home, and painting and keeping your room bright and beautiful. It was an amazing trip. And on our way back the downpour began and didn't stop for quite some time. The fields of green and the skies of blue-gray. It was a pleasant three-hour journey back.
Sometimes, you begin to think, why have we lost that life of leisure and why have we plunged into this frenzy of technology? What happened to all things bright and beautiful? It is not worth it to lose that. Never. Olden days of non-cell-phones and non-laptops. Once, just once, I'd like to be there. And this seems to be that 'there'.
In every dream, there is a reason, and in every reasoning there is a certain madness I suppose.

something on Music

2009-03-27T10:04:00.000-07:00

Most of my life, especially in MCC, I have become absolutely dependent on music. Not just a specific kind of music, but general music. And somehow, it is the most important thing in the universe. It has existed even before language was perfected, in beat and rhythm. A beat, a breath, a gallop becomes a part of music, and inherent even in nature. There is a tune in the sway of the tree, the deer chase by a tiger, in the slight flutter in the air. I confess that I know nothing about music: absolutely nothing. Yet even I can tell that this song is horrid and that one is lovely; that this one is fast and that one is sorrowful.
I do not know of a person who does not listen to some form of music. In the Indian scenario, that is impossible, because songs are in every movie that we see- both bollywood and kollywood.
Yet, nowadays, movies have lost the quality of melody. One rarely comes across a song that is soft and flowy. It is all about remixes and fast beats. Not that I complain. I mean, fast paced is lovely, but once in a while there has to be something that is slow and sweet and not melancholic. Sometimes people miss the oldies.
And sometimes, like it is necessary to sit down and go wild and crazy, it is also necessary to just make music, and the world will be a brighter and better place: Make music, not war. And I really wish I could, but unfortunately my sense of music is miserable! I do not get pitch and rhythm. But every time I sit and listen to something, I am transported in to another world and that world is amazing, and that is all I know.

Sitting in front of the computer.

2009-02-10T07:07:00.000-08:00

Holidays. You would think it is a word to whoop with joy! But, I don't know. Maybe holidays don't mean the same anymore! Now, it means sitting in front of the computer and doing absolutely nothing. I don't say that I don't have things to be doing. But this is so addictive it is killing me! I do not want to be typing this out right now, but I prefer it to reading Sanskrit or writing assignments which I should finish by the 8th of March. I do know that sounds a long time away, but believe me I have loads to do.
That sets you out to pondering as to what is so addictive about the computer? Well, primarily, the swivel chair that you set your behind comfortably into! And the screen which provides you practically everything, especially the 'getting in touch with friends' part. Not as though I do not meet my clasmates sooner or later, but there is some cheap thrill in being online! I do not know why!
I think I should read! Hmmm.... why it is not happening, I cannot fathom. I am supposed to be a bookworm. Well, apparently I am not! I do not know!
Well, today was a little more productive I would say. Stitching happened and some sanskrit learning. I do hope that I shall soon learn to live without any support system to take my mind off boredom.
Boredom is a surprisingly intriguing concept. It doesn't arise out of a lack of something to do. It rises due to a laziness. In fact, a lot of people speak of this boredom nowadays, it makes you wonder how people survived before. But amazingly, parents have managed without too much at hand and without any boredom to speak of!! Well, maybe it is the 'thumb generation' or maybe it is the lackadaisical present. But boredom does arise and a restlessness creeps in, making one desire for adventure and seek cheap thrills. Movies become an inegral part of this boredom! - "I'm bored. Wanna go for a movie?" is a common tag line that goes around.
Flimsy thought now flit through my head, as to whether I should not be seriously considering closing this site and doing something with myself. I shall now stop and I shall attempt to do something productive.

Signing out.

A flow of thought

2009-02-06T19:22:00.000-08:00

I do not want to name this feeling, but it is there.
Deep down inside, I feel it squirm a thought into my head.
Why do we trust humans so? What is it that makes us want to bond?-
Be friends? - NEED friends?
Loneliness is an elixir. Sometimes you should lock yourself up and explore what you can do with yourself.
How do prisoners pass through the 'chamber' (or whatever it is called) and come out sane?
Disillusionment.
People will never be what you contrive them to be. So why bother?
But there is a spot inside of you that craves a little attention.
Damned attention! We are selfish selfish people.
We need that pat on the back.
One line that I intend to follow up on someday-
Said by Kurt Vonnegut: "Write a poem tonight. Make it as good as you possibly can. Four, six or eight lines. Make it as good as you can. Don’t tell anybody what you’re doing. Don’t show it to anybody. When you’re satisfied it’s as good as you can make it, tear it up in small pieces and scatter those pieces between widely separated trash receptacles and you will find out you have received your full reward for having done it. It’s the act of creation, which is so satisfying."

Genius he is!
I would have loved to meet him. Sometimes the world passes by a great person (not Vonnegut, but just saying...) and it is pitiful that new talents could die due to lack of inspiration.
That's why inspiration is a spark. That's why it is 'in' spiration- you inspire it. You breathe it! Vital for living, and yet so hard to find!
It is no wonder we all rot and die.
Maybe people aren't so bad, once you get yourself a distance! Maybe you will never find the perfect man, or lover. Maybe you have to keep adapting and changing.
But then, there is always a blossom of a butterfly wing. Maybe we should take the time to really percieve and really listen and we shall be at peace with ourselves. But then....

some random lines.....

2008-12-20T08:18:00.000-08:00

Pharoahs sleep in wakeful darkness-
Empty minds of disillusionment.
Hopes of other worlds stifled in a dome,
Cotton-honey-cocooned,
Wrapped in a solace they cannot untangle...
Pyramidal pleasures of empire.

- When I was randomly thinking about pharoahs. (do not ask why, for I would not know)

I wish I were a falling star,
So that I could make anothers' day.
I wish their wishes come true,
By staring into empty space-
And when I come,
The whole night sky will be ablaze-
Not only that presence-
But hope and sweet love in the air-
But I will be a dream....

- On an overwhelming need to please.

It is easy to talk of frivolous mediocrities,
And laugh for thoughtless sentiments.
But there is no meaning in walking and talking
And being nobody,
Waiting for a spark of inspiration
That leads to a passion.

- When I was getting a little fed up with human beings and needed time alone to sit and stare.

Do not make me sit.
Let me free.
Do not make me talk.
Let me sing.
I walk on air,
I fly with wings
Of happiness.
I twirl, I swirl
And I am encompassed
With absolute glee.

- It is sometimes necessary to dance out an emotion, and when you can't, you are compelled to do the next best thing - write poeetry about it, of course.

2008-12-13T21:09:00.002-08:00

There is a man
With a deep forest tan,
Who smiles like a child,
Whose dark, timid eyes
Are the freedom of blue skies.
Grey-morning memories
Of raindrops on trees.
He strides- an Orpheus;
Musician of the mind
With no tune to play,
But the glitter of a joy
That kindles a music in the other.
Tramp of the lonely, dark woods;
Snake-catcher,
Bird-watcher,
With a rustle he moves,
Adorned with a jungle tune
That is his heart-song.
Quiet entrails
Following brown, elfin-mirthed eyes
And the wings spread
In the freedom of blue skies.
I watch,
And the eagle flies.

On Thiruvannamalai

2008-12-13T21:09:00.001-08:00

It is surprising how much light
You can find in a dark, empty cave.
Sometimes it is essential to be in non-company,
To interact with the world around.
A little path that speaks of the pathless-
Musings on God, religion, philosophy and nothingness.

The battle with the floods

2008-10-25T05:43:00.000-07:00

Yes, the rains have not yet ceased their continuous rampage. And yesterday, I realised what it meant to walk in above-knee-deep water in the pouring rain, with hazardous electric units jutting out in every corner. Scary! There was a shortage of share autos and the buses were way too crowded. The autos just refused to come. Well, so I had to walk it all the way home. And the main road, leading to Ramavaram was swamped! The umbrella was of no use, trying to fight the waters, and trying to dodge cars splattering the road water into your face...
And there were two school girls who had no idea which way to go, clinging on to each other, cursing their fate, and getting soaked in the rain. So I grabbed the arm of one girl and firmly (as firmly as one can in a flooded road with an umbrella that was getting whipped behind by the winds) led them to the safe shores of the oppsite side of the road.
And then I trudged all the way back home, in a slow trance that finally ebbed away as I got into the warm shower. Warmth and bliss. Nicely washed hair, with a fuzzy feeling in the head.

Next came Sanskrit class and playing 'prince' and 'claw' on a friend's computer, and then home.

Today, chocolates, badam cake, maisurpah- it's impossible. Diwali is in the air, and that means sweets.... I cannot resist the temptation!

coffee, kadalai, and the rains (not to mention bajji)

2008-10-21T08:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday.... It has to be recorded as one of the most fun days ever, even though I had to stand in the rain (ok, I did have an umbrella) for a whole hour in Guindy. After an hour of lovely dancing, I went all the way to Guindy in a share auto (that got there too fast, in my opinion) and I was destined to wait in the lovely rain. It shows how accustomed I have become to the blissful rains (even if it does flood places and cause general misery to a lot of people, I have a liking for the patter of the water on the earth).
Well, it was because of this general state of being accustomed to the blissful rains that I was sulking (to myself) that I was there in the first place. And then I spotted the kadalai shop. That was practically what changed my mind- lovely, hot, yummy, road-side kadalai- what more do you want on a nice rainy day?! (Well, except coffee, obviously; or bajji).
And today, that's what I got! Hot coffee and bajji, with the cold winds blowing all about! And no power cut and lovely evening dance. It had to be recorded!
The rains have arrived! YAY

On coalker's walk

2008-10-19T09:10:00.000-07:00

The gods descend on earth.
Grey-white clouds merge
in an endless cold sky of blue.
Green canopies weave into a network
Blossoming into perfection.
Tall, upright trees in a land
so blissfully quiet.
Even amidst the noise of people's voices
and shops,
There is a solitude
That is nothing but heaven.

'Why so forlorn?'
Forlornliness is possible only where
the wind shudders with angelic delight,
Spreading a magical web
of ecstasy.
Silent whispers of cold,
Solemn airs breathe
over mellow flowers of pink and purple,
With splashes of red
that twitter with glee.

The valley streches into an unknown myth.
Maybe an angel descended on the earth
And spread her wings!

A few quotes...

2008-10-19T08:55:00.000-07:00

"How can a bird that sings for joy sit in a cage and sing?" - William Blake
"Freedom is an illusion. It always comes at a price." - 'Amulet of Samarkhand'
"Most people respect the badge. All people respect the gun." - 'Righteous kill'
"Why is the rum always gone?" - Captain Jack Sparrow
"Reality is an open secret: open to all, but seen none." - Goethe
"Doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the moon is white, but never doubt my love."- Hamlet
"The heart does things for reasons Reason does not know." - (?)
"Hope is an instinct only the reasoning human mind can kill." - Graham Greene

Arjuna

2008-09-27T23:24:00.000-07:00

Mid-battle field, bowing to the omniscient.
Words of wisdom listened to with intent.
Long-haired archer of a warrior clan
Twangs his bow, summoning the Almighty plan.
Sacred vows of golden crown
Upheld by valourous arms of renown.

On a bed of arrows, let to die,
A grandsire of his own warrior tribe:
A summons to death in the art of war,
Utmost grief held by the call of Karma.
Piercing the earth,
Quenching the thirst.
Valour is in the killing of those you love
And honour is in the respect of those you hate.

Sweet father, seeking sweet vengeance-
For a son pierced, smeared in brethren blood,
Holding a chariot wheel in self-defence.
- Shrieks of helpless madness out of hopeless love.
"Son", he shall be called no more.
Deep surge of fierce, bloodied, wounded hate.
Stung, shattered, raging on,
Twanging his bow, radiating fury-
Summoning a battle-fear in the foe.

Ruthless war in a ruthless world.
"Duty is justice" - laws carved in a land of old.

"I am the long haired archer of warrior-clan.
After war comes peace in this aancient land.
I am humble protector of my men,
Set on this earth by God's fateful pen.
Listen for peace's silent echo
In the twang of my sacred, fiery bow.
I am the end of what had begun-
Mighty Kurukshetra was fought and won."

An ode to a glow

2008-09-03T05:10:00.000-07:00

Twinkle-toed dancers-

Psychadelic lotuses float

Beneath diamondaic dew drops.

Pink and white peace-makers

Exist on endless shores

Of transparent water.

A little firefly stumbles into its heart

And lovingly the petals cuurl about a flourescent light.

Ripples of water in a cool breeze

Help the firefly glow dimly as it dies out

with a flutter,

And the light at the heart of the pink-white lotus

Fades away.

The petals drops open in a silent

And solemn

Ode to a glow.

02/09/08 - I can't believe fireflies are on the brink of extinction!!!! They are too pretty to die! like little tinkerbells in the sky.

a skeletal reality

2008-09-03T05:06:00.001-07:00

A huge stone garbage bin
With plastic bags, food and sewage leaking
Around its sturdy, useless walls.
A dark skeletal hand
Plucks a week-old packet of chips and food
And stores the plastic bags
In a ragged, torn knapsack-
Nimbly picks up filth
As though it is precious life.

Glances thrown into
the depths of a stone garbage bin
Hoping to find a living
And a bony, skeletal leg walks by-
Indifferent
* * * * * * *
Eyes turn away
In disgust.

24th August 2008- cycling past Kishkinda

2008-09-03T05:04:00.000-07:00

A little nowhereness,
And a drop of insects'
buzz in the ear.
Pink cycles tread a narrow
Path to nowhere;
Signifying the mind.
A little lost... and happy.

A meaninless, senseless poem written on the spur of the moment, but sounds beautiful (funny how sounds are beautiful- that's called synesthesia)

2008-09-03T04:58:00.000-07:00

Has the wind heard, yet, your sigh?
Have the oceans seen you cry?
Has the land let you pass slowly by?
Does the fire in your heart deny
What empty space alone can know-
The sole cause for that pale glow
Is a hope beyond tomorrow?
Let a little flower slowly bloom
In the silent whispers of the night's gloom.
There is a flicker that kindles your soul
And you wait on forever.

I forgot a language yesterday

2008-09-03T04:48:00.000-07:00

I forgot a language yesterday, when I could not place a letter.

A little bit of luck while writing

A little talent and a little knowledge

Sunken in a star of perceptionis what gives a light...

Like a torch on fire in the dark, dark night

And I cannt write in the language I forgot:

A paradox of English.

Maybe my language is not a language,

But a culture of mixed identity.

Yet why should I identify with that which I speak?

I am what I feel and not what I utter.

Yet my utterance is my feeling and my thought-

And my language (or languages)

Becomes my world.

I wrote this probably inspired by marsh languages, and partilly because I didn't remember a basic sanskrit letter: "ae"!!! This was just before our first CA! (not too sure of the date)

Day 3 at Corbett: R and R

2008-06-06T23:47:00.000-07:00

28/05/08
Got up late (well, comparatively: 7.45ish). Ate the refreshing breakfast that the Hideaway provides. I had a terrible headache that made me a not-so-tolerable person , what with my cribbing and muttering and irritated-face-keeping! And then came sleep (after food) at which point my aunt and uncle left for Kolkotta, and I didn’t give them much of a farewell (owing to my cribbing: sometimes I find myself unbearable! I wonder how others tolerate me!) It felt as though the brain of mine was banging itself against my skull!
Thus, sleep ensued. At 12.00 I was up again. A lovely bath did nothing to make my headache go away. Lunched around 1.00. Got back to the room, read a little, got troubled by my cousin, and got ready to go out at 4.30ish.We were going to the Kosi River, where the hotel had ‘activities’ like rappelling, ‘mountain’ climbing, slithering and river crossing. We attempted river crossing first, where they leave you suspended from a rope which slopes down. This doesn’t give you much to do except hang on, and so it was simple. Next came rappelling. This requires a little effort from the individual. The right hand holds the rope in front and the left below the back and he body weight is solely on the lower back. Legs straight and wide apart, you let go and keep letting yourself down. Bhavna (my cousin) was scared initially, but did it nevertheless. I wasn’t all too scared. Dad didn’t do it. Ma was fine! Then came ‘mountain’ climbing, where we had to climb a rocky wall, which, sad to say, I couldn’t accomplish owing to the unfortunate event of being deplorably fat (added to which I hogged the lovely desserts in the Hideaway)! Bhavna did it though.
Finally came the slithering where you are let off from a bridge and when you reach the bottom (just above the water), they let you fall, and you get absolutely drenched. This was scary because there was nothing to hold on to, but once it was over, it felt good. Again, pa didn’t try it, ma tried once, but Bhavna went twice.
And there we stood on the drier parts of the river Kosi, three of us wet to the skin, one carrying the video camera, the camera, purse, shoes and what-not. We walked along that dry river until we reached water, which we decided to cross. More than three-fourths across the water, ma got scared by the force of flow. Thus we retreated gracefully, letting the water be, and we walked the path to the main road, had ‘chai’ in a road-side shop, got to the room, bathed and left for dinner.
Happy meal (once I should probably talk about the Hideaway food sometime, but it would take too much time), and while the others watched IPL, I managed to finish (as it so happened, the not-so-good) Jackie Collins. Sleep again…
A day of rest and relaxation- not much accomplished, not much travel. Not much to look forward to; peace, quiet and sleep.
I sign off.

Day 2 at Corbett: Lookout

2008-06-06T23:03:00.000-07:00

27/05/08
Awake and ready by four ante meridiem (a.m.). Drove to the forest rangers’ office to get a permit for the safari (hoping to get the morning one). Appa stood in a queue that was never-ending and not too queue-like. In the end, we got the afternoon, 2.45, slot. And thus the morning wait paid off (even though it tested our… my… patience quite a bit).
Got back, rested, breakfasted and bathed and left to the Kaladungi falls, which we had wanted to see the previous day. We finally entered the area and had ‘geera’ or cucumber with pepper and waded through the water. Even though it was small, it was amazingly beautiful and cheerful.
Got back, slept again, lunched and prepared for the safari. All eyes out, we watched out for the mighty tiger. We had a good guide (Shubham). We stood up on the jeep’s seat desperately hoping we’d spot the striped predator of the jungle.
We saw:
v Loads of spotted deer hanging about in groups, running away at the sound of the engine,
v Saambar that was black in colour and generally stood far away, thus not requiring to run away at the sound of the engine,
v Black-faced Langoor that lept from tree to tree,
v A serpent-eater (eagle) that was perched between the greenery,
v A vulture on a leafless tree,
v A yellow-necked monter that looked like a mongoose but skipped from branch to branch,
v Peacocks (with their rejoicing bird-calls),
v And finally elephants.
(No tigers I’m afraid.)
We had a good sight of the elephants. In fact, our jeep spotted them first from afar and our driver took us really close to the herd. There were five elephants in all: three adult she-elephants, a young male and young female elephant. For those who do not know, elephants generally live in herds and the leader is usually a female. The male elephants do not necessarily stay with the herd (as was the case this time).
The other jeeps started following us. And there was a chaotic noise as people ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ and then elephants turned to leave us (after all we were treading on their territory). This time our guide, with his great sense of perception overtook the herd and tried to catch a closer (than before) view of the elephants. We would have gotten really close if it hadn’t been for the other vehicles blocking our way thus hindering us from reaching faster.
Apparently three to four jeeps spotted the tiger! That was quite a blow. But, hey! What do you expect? This was a safari!
And thus we trundled back to our lair, a little dejected, of course. But on the trundling back, we were stopped by a humungous, confused, chaotic traffic jam (you couldn’t know where it started and where it ended). We waited for almost an hour and nothing seemed to be moving, so we decided to walk a little while and get the hotel car to come for us since the jeep was stuck in traffic. But as we got out and started walking, the jam cleared out. Finally we reached home (the hotel that is). I was absolutely exhausted and hence a nap ensued. Then dinner and back to sleep.
Alas! The tiger lay well hidden!
Signing off…

Day 1 at Corbett: Expectations

2008-06-02T20:59:00.000-07:00

26/05/08
Reached the famous national park yesterday. Nothing more eventful than a blissful sleep with the promise of seeing snow in the morning. Bhaunkhal, the spot at which we might catch a glimpse of the snowy ranges of the middle and upper Himalayas! And ambitiously we rose at four to race the sun to the locale. Alas, woe begone, we missed not only that rise of the mighty golden orb but also the mist fogged the snow-topped ranges. And thus, I did not (as I was promised) get my first glimpse of snow.
And so it came about that we got off the car into the early morn and decided (ambitious still) to climb a hill in the cold Shiwalik air up to a 'mandir'. "Jai shri Ram" indeed. We could not walk beyond thirty paces! Downhill was worse. Bhavan Singh roared with laughter as he watched us struggle, puffing and panting our hearts out, grabbing every tree and rock in sight praying (okay, not me but my parents) that we do not fall.
Nice man Bhavan Singh. Spoke of his dreams to visit Tamil Nadu and see the Marina, giving us 'garam chai', requesting us to stop by the woods on a lonely morning to sit and share a few square meals with him. But then we had miles to go before we slept. How true that turned out to be!
Breaking the fast in Corbett Hideaway (the hotel), we refreshed and off we were to the National Park's museum, having missed the sun and snow. The museum was grand. Well, not technically, but ideally. It was simple, small and gorgeous, with models of living tigers speaking of their lives, deaths and their majestic royalty. With cubs, preserved embryos even, foetuses also, stored in ethyl (um.... whatever). A tiger fought an elephant the whole night, dying in the process. Even great leaders die a fatal death- at least she died fighting!
The various National Parks around India, pictures and so on decorated the walls- that summed up the museum that guarded the entrance to the museum that guarded the entrance to the National Park. We bought t-shirts promoting the tiger ("Save me" and all). This was followed by a lot of conversation and reminiscences of Zambia.
Then we go back to the hotel. That followed by a 20 minute swim, the buffet feast at the Hideaway (for lunch), a little slumber for the parents (book reading time till four) and on the move again; this time to Kaladungi falls and museum.
Long ride looking for a fuel station that had diesel, since supply was short, and finally up to the falls which sadly closed at 5.00 (us reaching there at 6.30). So also the museum which apparently contains Jim Corbett's belongings. And thus we stopped at Punian restaurant (near the falls) for chai/coffee, saw tamed geese and decided to get back.
Just our luck: as the clock-hand passes eight, our lovely game of antakshari was interrupted by a harsh realisation- flat tyre; no spare!! The two men of the family (dad and uncle) sent the driver on a mission to get a good spare, and the ladies in a share auto type auto (where you stand behind with the wind in your face) to Ramnagar (the nearest town).
Ma, chitti (aunt), Bhavna and I reached safe and chose to call the resort for a vehicle to take us from Ramnagar to the resort. Big mistake! Apparently they charge innocent strangers to the area a meagre amount of Rs 650/- only (excluding taxes). Aunt’s tantrum… a reduction if costs to Rs 350/- only and finally reaching our destination (the temporary home).
Noodles for dinner, and hopefully a lovely sleep before a better day where, hopefully, the Honourable majesties shall grace us with their presence. Awaiting the tiger…
I sign off.

looking for an angel

2008-06-02T05:30:00.000-07:00

Shut in a plane, looking for an angel.
The morning skies of blue and white
With a psychadelic effect on the mind.
Empty art books getting filled with multi-coloured ink.
The thoughts into the depths of slumber sink.
Bright pens summoning the Muse
From a blankness that erases everything.
Genesis of meaningless tunes of tranquility.
The ecstasy when the nib touches the coarse whiteness
is freedom; like a puff of a cloud
Rising from nothingness
And falling into the seas of imagination-
An angel descends.

(On the plane from kolkotta to delhi, when i was looking out at the clouds and feeling all poetic. Well, from up high it was gorgeous... Written on the 25th of may 2008.)

blah....

2008-05-23T01:16:00.000-07:00

The state of mind that i have been over the past few days- blah! I dont even know what that means!!! I guess, it is a feeling where i don't particularly want to be sitting down in one place, because that immediately gets me bored. Anyone who comes online to chat should know what i mean. I probably try killing them with my boredom!!! But i'm happy when i have somewhere to go!
I have been doing that, though- Victoria memorial, the museum, st. john's cathedral- kolkatta in general. Comfortable car travels through town, from salt lake city to the howrah bridge.... Awesome marvels that deserve the awe that they get. Little town roads with old buildings that look so anciently beautiful. The heat that gets to you, and the rains that are oh so lovely! Little drops that grow into a storm that blow down hoardings.... The hoogli river that flows in serpentine curls of blue- green waves, with dolphins on their fringes. Ah! What a lovely place. Bengali, with its accents, the roads that start out with broken, old, cream-grey buildings leading to glassy columns of buildings... Little shops with matkas that can be painted, and leechies!!! Yum. And pani puri that drips into your fingers. Little cycle rikshaws that drive through town, and the tram that trudges past the whizzing cars. The metro that hides down below and the trees that envelope the roads (at least in salt lake).... gorgeous.
And after all that roaming, you'd expect that all I'd want was a lovely meal and a long long sleep, but oh no! The sleep won't come, and I'm left watching television and sitting on the computer and letting my brain drift into a state of non-being where thought cannot bloom (or whatever).... and I am left sitting online, with nothing to do.... waiting for the next morning to take me on a flight of its wings into another corner of the city.....
Blah......

....

2008-05-10T03:00:00.000-07:00

Blue signboards
With white letterheads
Stare into the morning sky.
Shops of hourless, timeless exhaustive food
And fermented apple juice
Flows through the parched throat.
Time is waiting
For a time to move
And tired ecstatic pleasures
In todays and yesterdays
That flow by-
Summertime musings.

(Written while travelling to Vandavasi with Rashmi, before the bus journey while we hogged at the station on the third of May.)

A Drop of Absinthe

2008-04-09T05:13:00.001-07:00

Give me just a drop of absinthe
And the wind will swoop me away;
I shall enter into an abyss
And the music will play;
The stars will open their fiery bands
And their sparkles will shine today…

Just one drop of absinthe,
And I’ll promise you a smile-
A little drought of laughter
Escaping from my lips;
And I promise you won’t forget
The night that passes by.

Once more, I taste
The music of your wine,
And suddenly I laugh with joy
And feel myself smile-
Maybe you oughtn’t to feed me your alcohol-
‘Cause the stars are already playing
And I’m engulfed in the abyss;
I feel the wind about me swaying-
For I’m drunk in your smile.

Anonymous friend

2008-04-09T05:12:00.001-07:00

Silent whispers across an orange-lit black lake
As she sat by the railway tracks,
Orange fire glowing on a finger-tip held cigarette,
And the dark clouds swept her tresses across her tears.

An abrupt halt of a speeding train.
He waited for it to fly again,
As he saw the orange city lights
Mingle with the black lake waters.

She turned her head with bruised sorrow
And saw mellow whiteness from a dark train.
She heard the heavy blows that her lover had dealt her, in her ear
And the tears flowed slowly again.

He watched from the light of the mellow-white train
And saw her weeping in her pain.
And as her eyes met his,
He gave her a smile and a wave.

He lit a cigarette anew
And shrugged with carefree quietness.
And then she saw the meaninglessness of living,
And the beauty of that lack of meaning.

She waved a fire-glow of a cigarette in return,
As a thank you note for letting a life live.
And the motionless train caught a flutter of joy
And began to fly with the wind.

Blossom of a Butterfly Wing

2008-04-09T05:11:00.001-07:00

Upon a treetop
As the chimes of time sing,
As vivid cocoons swing…
A blossom
Of a butterfly wing.

The wind in the night
Blows past pools of yellow light
And the lone tree
With the blossom
Of a butterfly wing.

Roads of concrete buildings
Forget the stars are a-shining
And the moon is a-glowing
And somewhere, the blossom
Of a butterfly wing.

Amidst this insanity,
This mighty calamity,
Heights of sheer vanity,
The blossom
Of a butterfly wing.

Though we would not see it,
And the heart cannot hear it,
This world cannot steal it,
The blossom
Of a butterfly wing…

For upon that tree top,
The chimes of life sing,
And from the cocoon’s swing
Breaks out a blossom
Of a butterfly wing.

Rudrathandavam

2008-04-09T05:08:00.000-07:00

He opened his third eye-
A surge of radiant beam of light-heat
Courses through his dark skin,
Reaching his neela-kantam
And flows into the tips
Of the trisulam- wielding palm.
His thick, black matted locks
Grasp the great Ganga
And the quarter moon itself
As it unfolds about the nape of his neck.
His thundering feet are adorned
With the shining, gold thandai.
With one foot firmly holding the earth
He lifts the other in destruction.
Around his strong, gaunt shoulders
Curls the powerful serpent.
His fiery natyam
Breaks the mountains, raises the tides,
Quakes the very core of the earth,
Destroying deep-rooted evil.
Tiger-skin clad,
The guardian of earth, sea and sky
Releases pure, powerful, rhythmic, wrathful
Energy
From the centre of his palm
And from him emanates the sheer radianceOf destructive shakthi.
The heavens and earth
Shudder-
All hell breaks loose,
As the third eye burns
And the trident-lord unleashes
Rudrathandavam

Brown paint on a yellow wall

2007-10-17T23:17:00.001-07:00

Sitting on a bench
Near a yellow wall.
Trains on their tracks stop
Near the yellow wall.
Brown paint on the yellow wall.
A smear as he spits
The brown paint on the yellow wall.
And the fisher-women lean
On the yellow wall.
Sit and stare at
The brown paint on the yellow wall.
A man with one chappal
And a dirty, torn lungi walks
To the yellow wall
And squats with a cloth and a can of water
To wash off
The brown paint on the yellow wall.
The trains pass by
The yellow wall.
Getting up from the bench
Near the yellow wall.
No more brown paint on the yellow wall
Until the next man passes by
And another smear as he spits
The brown paint on the yellow wall.

Slow Walk

2007-10-17T23:15:00.000-07:00

I slow walk alone.
No one by my side
To take me in his arms.
No hope of love- solitude.
Sparkling moon, say hello
To him who lives far far away-
In Never land- happy and joyous.
And I slow walk alone.
Cool waters glisten a melody
The winds weave a melody
The stars shine a melody
Unheard by me,
For I slow walk alone.
And thoughts besiege my fortress
And flood me with emotion.
And the tears unwarranted flow by
And join the earth below
For no on is by my side
To take me in his arms
And so I slow walk alone.

Big Foot Adventure

2007-10-17T23:14:00.000-07:00

Her yellow paw stepped on dry leaf.
The ray of the scorching noon-sun
On her tense, striped back,
Reflecting off her black eye.

Big Foot Adventure-

A ripple of a breeze
As she spots her prey.
The firm paw crouches
Amidst the tall dry grass.
The power of every muscle
Controlled in her foot step.
Not a sound, not a rustle.

Big Foot Adventure-

Her ear perked up
And a sudden effortless leap
And a pounding, thunderous chase.
And that paw, the claws all out
grabs the deer.
The strength, the force,
As she bites into her midday meal.
The power emanating
From her tense, striped back
As her claws rip through her food
And then she leaves
Turning around, proud,
With her tail up and head held high.
The quiet triumph shown
In her vicious-soft paw…

Big Foot Adventure!!!