some day

Some day, like Anne Shirley, I can call this phase an "Epoch in my life." I am being incessantly challenged to do that which I never thought I would be capable of doing. But I do realize that a trying period serves to strengthen one, in the long run. My scatter-brained self is being forced into an organised mode, of better time management and self-discipline. In long after years, maybe I will lie silently in bed, and recall this phase, how crazy and anxious I felt, how inefficient I felt, and how I worked hard on my short-comings.
I was speaking to one of my best friends from College, about how University was really a honeymoon phase, with extra shots of honey and a lot of moon-shine. I mean, I studied a subject I am in LOVE with..LIT.everyday was like a Revelation, like a new phase of a long lasting love-bond.
Today, I feel elated...elation has come, if a little belated.
I taught a young class, of impressionable minds, about the wonders of Shakespeare. Yes, William has ALWAYS been a firm friend, he has never let me down, and he didn't today.
During my O Levels, his lines were inspiration enough for me to look at life with the eyes of a bright, bright bird...oh the thrills his poetry gave me...his plays were so wonderful..."parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good-night till it be morrow." How lovely. R and J is still my favorite play. I've had to read so many plays after that, but this one is unparalleled in its use of language.
The only play I don't like that much is Measure for Measure...it is indeed a "problem play," in the deepest sense of the term.
I am taking a break from my work as I write this. Writing is really therapeutic. It does what the Coolness of a Mother's hand can do to a hot, fevered fore-head of a sick child.
I miss home. But I firmly believe that this 'Rite of Passage' was necessary. It has helped me grow, in ways that will show in later years. Hopefully.
I am contemplating that elusive yet inevitable PhD...Keats? Shakespeare? Post -colonial? I still cannot decide, but I do think that I will settle on poetry in the end.
Teaching Secondary school makes me feel more grounded. It has really brought me down from the Ivory Tower of Lit. I occupied. Why yes, I cannot deny that Lit majors do live in some sort of Utopic world of Ideal Seclusion. Here, I am challenged by real people, real situations. Literature is ALSO about reality. It is one of the most REAL subjects I know. But vicarious thrills are different from real ones. I must add that all thrills are not pleasant.
I was going mad the other day, reminiscing about Chemistry. Though this does sound ODD, I feel that Chemistry is one of the most romantic subjects ever. I love the way in which chemical bonds can be explained. Even the most inanimate of chairs consists of firmly bonded molecules and atoms. And not everything can bond with everything else. No there are rules, preferences, affiliations. wow. And the Periodic Table Sigh. My fervent desire is to have a wall in my room, wall-papered with the Periodic Table. :))
I miss curling up at home, with a nice pillow to hug, reading, reading and reading. I miss sudden phone calls from my University friends, coaxing me to join them for a walk. I miss seeing my parents and grad-parents every day. I miss all this too intensely sometimes. The intensity threatens to choke and overpower, but I am trying to over-power it.
Whta else? I saw a doctor about the cold I caught, and am feeling much better, though I am yelling meself hoarse in mst of the classes. I still have lesson plans to work on and finish.
And Sigh, what else? Lots more? Nothing else? I don't know...sometimes I feel so confused, so lost. At other moments, I see sparks of light at the end of the tunnel. But does the tunnel even have an end? Where does the tunnel lead to. Most importantly, what is the tunnel? Is it a symbol? Basically, writing is my way of talking to myself, in the absence of my besties.
But I must say that I AM VERY GRATEFUL for all the new friends I have made here.

RANT ANGRY RANT

i AM TIRED OF EXPLAINING TO PEOPLE THAT EVEN THOUGH I LOVE WRITING 'SAD LOVE POETRY,' I HAVE NEVER BEEN IN A RELATIONSHIP...A BIT OF IMAGINATION CAN MAKE ONE EMPATHIZE WITH THE MOST BROKEN- HEARTED OF PEOPLE...I HOPE NOBODY ELSE ASKS ME: "Diya, are you okay?" To which I reply with a bewildered "WHY?" and to which they say,"Oh your poems are so sad, they talk so passionately about sadness in love." And then there are so many people who will go on to say: "Who would have thought you can write such sad poetry? You are always so happy and cheerful. Do you harbor hurt inside?" PLEASE!! GUYS, writers are meant to be imaginative beings.
I don't have to explain this to my close friends and family who know me, thank Heavens.

THE POEM WHICH I WROTE TO TRIGGER OFF THE REACTIONS:
Tonight I'll let you go,
Though you were never mine;
Tonight we're on our own, yet
I know that you'll be fine.

Tonight I heave a sigh,
As my green-dreams pass me by;
Silently disillusioned, I cry,
"Oh Dreams, you lie, you lie."

Tonight my eyes are wet,
But my mind is firm and set;
For, wait a while yet I won't
Since none of my needs were met.
(Just because I didn't have many,
Doesn't mean that I don't have any.)

Tonight I'm just, well, sad;
Though I have reasons to be glad;
There are so many more people to add,
On to the list of friends I've had.

Soon my eyes will be dry,
I'll no longer need to cry,
I'll no longer question "Why?",
As the days will pass me by.

They say Time heals all,
Even skin-marks left by a fall.
But Time alone will tell,
If it can mend a broken heart well.

Tonight I've set you free,
Will you never think of me?

Tonight I've let you go,
Though you were never mine.
Tonight we're on our own,
Will I really be fine?

GROWING UP

growing....growing....grown

There are times when I feel a strange ache inside me. No, the doctor isn't required, at the moment. These are just growth pains. They are supposed to make us stronger, they are supposed to help us cope with the "BIG, BAD, WORLD." Why, wouldn't it just be easier if the world continued being big, and just stopped being bad...it's not an entirely absurd impossibility, if one comes to think of it...
I have often, no, repeatedly, told myself to steer clear of expecting anything from anyone...apart from those I love with every span of my soul, of course...expectations are of a different category with them. But, just in general, it is best to do and give without hoping for anything in return. And I am not talking about material returns at all. I mean, even in friendship, ONE should learn to GIVE love and affection, without hoping to be loved back in return. This is rare...friendship is usually premised on mutual fondness...this sounds difficult, and it is...but the lower one's expectations, the happier she/he will be....this is what I feel. And there are just days when one feels unloved, but everything is all sunshine and Plums the next day again...friends should give each other that space and respect.
Hmmmmm...so what else have I been up to? Well, reading L.M.Montgomery again. I think I will start crying, out of the sheer intensity of revisited and imagined emotions, (revisited because her books are always visiting my mind), if I ever do really go to Prince Edward Island. The trip will be a Holy Pilgrimage, consecrated to my Love for Literature, and my Devotion to the philosophy advocated in her books.

...

I would like to say a very hearty thank you to my friends who say I should consider formal publishing...I will try dearies...but I don't know how I feel about that...because I really feel like Anne Bradstreet does...hehe...sending out a child into the big, commercial world of printing...haha, but the blog has copyright...lol

The story I'm working on now...incomplete as of now........plan to formalize it a bit more before the final publish

Old Mr. Hanshaw had his face turned towards the wall, as he lay on his bed, living on borrowed time. 70 years had passed by, almost in a jiffy, he thought. But it must have taken AGES, he reasoned with himself, to have built up the repository of memories which were now reposing in quiet corners of his furiously active brain. He no longer felt keenly about the absence of books by his bed-side. It was enough for him to turn over the chapters which were strewn across his mind, and attempt to string them together, in some semblance of chronology.
The doctor had merely given a grave, subtle little nod to the Nurse, that morning. She thought Old Mr. Hanshaw, as he was popularly known, was too ill to realize the dark significance of her little gesture. But Mr. Hanshaw’s eyes had always been sharp, and he felt a sharp pain slice his insides, with the sharp jaggedness of a serrated-edged knife.
The world was far too precious to him. He had NEVER taken it for granted. He’d be up at five, to keenly welcome each morning, he’d sing a silent ode to the hottest of afternoons, sitting at his office cubicle, he’d worship each evening’s ephemeral loveliness, and he would anticipate each new night with the exhilarated eagerness of a love-cloaked girl, awaiting a letter from her beloved.
His thoughts were always with HER. She was by his side, every waking moment, and every sleeping hour. She nestled against him in the soft hours of those lonesome nights, she was holding his hands, with her feathery fingers, in the first hours of the Dawn, when the Dark Curtains of the previous Night were parting, to make way for a brand new day, a brand new scene. She was with him, as he stirred his porridge in his lonely kitchen, as he bent over slightly to see if he had boiled it enough. Her fingers fluttered nimbly, over his, as he turned the pages of the morning Newspaper. She hovered around, like a formless Angel, when he dressed hurriedly, to get ready for work.When he arrived breathless at the bus stop, she would inspire him with her indefatigably energetic spirit. On afternoons, when his clerical duties seemed never-ending, she would infuse him with an enthusiasm so rare, that the people around him wondered at his passion for the monotonous tasks he so smilingly performed.
The evenings were the most Special of All. She would stroke his hair, mop his brow, and effortlessly glide into his soul, as effortlessly as the gentle, sudden transition, with which the sky went from blue-pink-pitch black and star-studded, with a quiet certainty. No, he was never alone. Yes, she was always there, the Moonshine Girl, the Healer of the Spirit, the Stimulator of all things lovely, the girl he had never had the courage to speak to. And yet, he was never alone. Maybe that’s why he was never alone. Yet, she was never a figure of Exasperating Idealism, which a lot of women become to single men. She was real, she had faults...oh yes, she and Hanshaw would argue in his mind, over a plethora of trivial issues...and the end of each session, Hanshaw would leave a silent rose on his window-sill, to make up for his recalcitrance...the first sign of madness, some had said. Mad, had Hanshaw smirked. Who could be labelled as completely sane?
His thoughts drifted even further back, to his mother. The flowers on the table she so carefully arranged, the loose bun on her head, which she so carelessly tied. The warm smell of her gentle, sudden hugs, the lopsided half smile which danced upon her lips when he returned home with his sports trophies. Her love of all food bland, her love for sad, sad movies, which made her silently cry into her pink, pink handkerchief, while the little Mr. Hanshaw watched on, in great distress (he did not like to see his mother cry, but she so often did, thinking he wouldn’t notice), such thoughts came hurtling back to him now, with the speed of an over-zealous train.
His Father. What memories did he have? Mr. Hanshaw tried to turn out his mind, as he would turn out his pockets on his birthdays, when he would receive sweets from his friends. Yes, his father. He had been a big, busy man, busy doing things which Hanshaw had no idea about. He was hardly ever in the house. He hardly spoke to mother. He was hardly ever there. But Hanshaw did remember the rough sting of his father’s one brusque kiss on his cheek, the only form of affection he ever showed, before he left with that brown, or was it grey suit-case. Did the color matter now? Had it ever mattered? How old had he been, Hanshaw? Seven? Eight? Nine? Did it matter anymore? But that was the end of the Father-chapter. Did he miss his father? Did he judge him harshly in his later years? Hanshaw never did. A father was a father to him, if irresponsible, if callous, if cruel, a father was a father. Hanshaw frowned in the Darkness. These were not his words. These had been his Mother’s last words.
Not of mother, though, no. Mother was always there, sadder still after father left, but somehow happier too.
But what about the University degree? Mr. Hanshaw could never complete it. Blame it all on the broken leg, he thought. But a clerk’s job was not a bad one, someone had to do the work, he’d reasonable reasoned with himself.
His office cubicle had been quite a sight to behold. Cluttered one day, organized the next, cluttered one day, and re-organized the next. And the books of poetry…what poetry did to Hanshaw, a bowl of hot soup did to a sore throat, a cool strip of cloth did to a warm, fevered fore-head, a good night’s sleep did to a worn-out body and mind.
Which quote was playing upon his mind now? No, it was not the one he thought would play in his last hours. “Do not go gentle into that good night…” For Hanshaw had ALWAYS been a gentle man, ready to succumb, ready to yield, and ALWAYS ready to re-adjust. No, he had been delusional in thinking Dylan would win over Keats…
“Now, more than ever it seems rich to die…”
And slowly, the jagged knife inside him melted, as though the pain of his imminent extinction was being extinguished by an unseen, cool, soothing balm…
And then there was John Clare, whose "I AM" was embedded in his mind forever...a sudden flash...three boys who had taunted him by calling him fat...Hanshaw shedding tears...the boys laughing...and She, silently reprimanding the boys, smiling shyly at Hanshaw and running away...that had been her last day at school...
Mad, they had called him, mad Old Hanshaw, MAD in his recent days. Why, he thought? Because he spoke to the birds which perched upon the balcony of the Home? Why, because he remained silent for long, long spells, lost in his realm of memories and dreams? Why, because he refused to eat for three days, as he wanted the poor, thin-as-a-rail lady on the next bed, to have his helping as well. So what if she was not allowed to eat solid food, as they had explained to him. Did they ever really matter, the states of matter? What was the state of his life now? Was he about to assume the gaseous state of diffuse nothingness when his solid body would be laid to rest, soil heaped over it? Were the years in between Liquid, flowing from one incident to the next, one state of existence to another?
He remembered his Physics tutor. He had such huge spectacles. And he detested poetry. What was his name? Hanshaw didn’t pursue this thought. It hadn’t mattered then. It certainly didn’t matter now.
All his life, Mr.Hanshaw had wanted to write a book. It was his only regret. His only regret. But now, in his last waking hours, he realized that all books were not written by hand, there were a few which were authored by Life.

?

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder,
That Distance doubles Yearning,
But I am slowly Learning...
To dis-believe unquestioned adages...
Emotional Bandages
On intangible Wounds,
Caused by sorrow and tears, as one so often hears.
Hardly heal.

This December

Well, this whirwind of a month seems to be drawing to a close, and with it the old year is yielding itself to the new. The nip in the air is slowly waning, and Winter will soon have to renounce its strong-hold on Weather Kingdom. Oh what a month this has been, with weddings and family re-unions, loss and love.

My father lost his aunt, something which grieved us deeply. One very beautiful and profound quotation by Cicero repeated itself in our minds (De Senectute)...a person who leaves the world at an advanced age is akin to a ship coming into harbor, a ship which has finished a long and eventful voyage on a wide, wide sea...like a ripe fruit, which has fallen to the ground, having spent its allotted hours on the tree of life. It made me realize that we are all living on borrowed time, and hence life is really too short to be taken too seriously...And life should ideally be a celebration of just Living, and Breathing, Exploring and Loving, Discovering and Learning and Re-learning.

Then there were the Weddings. So many people we know decided to tie the Nuptial Knot this month. Some of them were barely a year older than me. This frightened me. When did I grow up enough to have friends who were getting married? Did the years just slip me by, like the brisk morning breezes which we miss when we over-sleep? "Where have all the" years "gone?" Or have they gone anywhere at all? Don't they simply accumulate, like chapters of a book, till we reach the end of our journey on Earth? In that case, aren't all our lives books, some written, some read, and others forgotten? I remember a Time, a long spell back, when an invitation to a wedding party simply meant shiny new clothes, gorgeous lights and fragrant flowers, and a hearty, delicious repast. It still conjures all these things in my mind, but now I ponder upon other things as well...I hope each couple will embark on years of magnificent togetherness, kinship, and will support and endlessly love each other through their days and nights. Now I look for emotions hidden in the eyes of each couple, happiness mixed with apprehension, strain-mixed-with elation, joy diluted by irrational misgivings...The excited voices all around, the hopes, the expectations which hover upon the couple, the superficial fun the children have, running around and wildly yelling, just as we used to do, unaware of the loftiness of the decision, the risks, and all the wonderful chances the couple who have decided to get married, have taken.

December is a month of Possibilities. I say that because I feel that Cold weather affords a lot of possibilities. Vacations are pleasanter and life yearns to be exploited and explored. We took a little trip to Shantiniketan, a sacred haven still, for Poetry aNd Peace. I might be being fanciful, but I feel that Poetry takes a tangible form in this lovely place. I can feel it in the wind which whips my face in the early mornings, I can feel it in the slight shivers I feel when Dusk Descends, I can feel it each time the Rickshaw takes a sudden turn, and my eyes are accosted by a sudden spray of roses, a sudden bunch of flowers, a sudden burst of trees. I can see it in the Crimson-Orange Sunset, I can hear it in the music of the Bauls at the Baul-Mela, and I breathe it every time I walk in to Rabindranath Tagore's Garden...oh, he has flung Poetry in the air, enough to stir the most prosaic of souls, or so I feel.
And then there IS the warmth of being at home, being surrounded by what is the most precious feeling on Earth: Unconditional Love, Absolute Love, Family Love...feeling warm from Love in a cold Winter month beats consuming a spoon of Medicinal Brandy for warmth, if I may use that metaphor.
And then there are my friends, friends who love me, and friends who I love, those who let me be the way I am and spoil me with their love...friends who I have known for years, who have all grown up with me, we've been through trials and tribulations, but have stuck it out...and that's what counts...
Life is all about making connections, ranging from mental, physical, emotional to SPIRITUAL...
And then, sigh, there is Gilbert Blythe in my lovely Anne books, and the one I still await...still amorphous, still elusive...I wish L.M. Momtgomery would write out this chapter of my life for me...<3
Yesterday we made our annual visit to the Little Village we visit, and I had the most splendid of times, I renewed my kinship with The Bicycle, and I cycled around the "gram," like a girl possessed...and now am bravely facing the inevitable consequences of sore muscles and aching appendages.

A Wintry Morning.

I am back in my room. I am back to the clickety-clackity sounds of my old lap top. My Window is open behind me, looking upon the Bridge, on which I used to travel to and from my College cum University. My room has welcomed me back with an ease which belies my absence.
The weather is just as it used to be...I never want to miss this evasive chill, the mist-laden mornings, the honey-tinted afternoons, which is really almost akin to a turned-over jar of honey being slowly emptied of its sunshiny goldenness. And then the sudden Darkness, the too-early evenings, the nippiest nip in the air....ooh.
And the best thing about being back is JUST being back. It feels like I've never left. All my little idiosyncracies pounce back upon me as soon as I return, the ones which I though I had lost forever. My books are yearning to be read another time, note pads wish to be scribbled in, or so I'd like to believe. And stories are spinning in my head, unwoven thoughts which wish to be woven into a narrative.
And then there are Weddings to attend, re-unions to attend. oH the pleasures they afford.
Here is my room, in which I had spun together the Golden threads of ambition. SorRY fot the constant reference to Golden, but it is SUCH a golden DAY TODAY. In this room had I pain-stakingly solved SAT and subsequently GRE papers. The very walls will testify the many application essays which I had written, the tests I'd studied for. The musical notations which I had tried to make sense of still waft silently across the room, and hang in stillness in the many corners and nooks. Ech piece of furniture has a fun anecdote to share. Like the table which had to be dragged up four flights because it could not possibly be fit into the lift, the wardrobe, built under my mum's supervision, which took days and days to take shape, the red revolving chair which had fallen with me, and had to be repaired, being quite indispensable.
The sounds of the garage, which used to annoy me in the past, have ceased to irk me now. They re-assure me in their steadfast, unshaken presence, something still unchanged in this ever-changing world. Now, that sounds quite bizarre. Hmmmm. And my Purple-Pink Quilt, which I love so much is still so snug and warm, and rosysmelling.
I love the sofa upholstery tooooooo....the warm red and beige stripes which spell HOME.

Company...?

I've learnt to keep myself company. My inherent Disposition, or whatever you may call it, wants me to talk to people all the time. It is a strange need, a bizarre urge I need to satisfy. I love communicating with people, exploring their thought processes, sharing their emotions and letting them into my mind-scape. Even when I was back in Cal, I would pick up the phone and talk to people, if I was left alone for over an hour or so. But that needs to change. And it is changing. When you are so far away from all the people you love, and those who love you back with a great degree of Unconditionality, you must learn to be your own best company, and keep yourself happy...with a "little help from my friends," of course....Music, Books, Poetry, You tube, Facebook(I was never so active on Facebook in my life, but now it lets me keep in touch with my friends, there I go with my need to communicate with people again), and of course Movies. What I do miss is Theatre...both watching it as an awed spectator and performing in plays, and the endless hours of imperfect-nearing perfect rehearsals. And Dance rehearsals. I also miss conversations, often passionate, never in complete concordance, with my friends on Literature...I also miss the "DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN..." Conversations with my friends of yore, with whom I have a veritable collection of treasured memories.I also, ok, this will sound VERY weird, miss conjugating French verbs, and never quite getting them right on the first go. And then I miss the pressure of conjugating Italian verbs, which I always muddled up with French, and thus exasperated my Teacher...and I miss lovers of Romantic Literature, who would hyper-ventilate about Keats with moi

A tale

The room was dark and cold. A fire was blazing in her mind. She sat very still in an old, rickety wooden chair. Her thoughts were in a mess...disarrayed, disordered. She shivered slightly, and got up slowly. She paced the room, stopping every two seconds, to take a deep, long breath...she would just let go, she would give up, she would forget...it wouldn't be too hard, or would it? She should have never thought about it the way she had. It was her mistake. She frowned, and her brows JOINED...it always seemed to work out for others...but never for her...people didn't believe her...but it was true..She surveyed the walls, the dampness she detected re-assured her...she would slowly come to terms with the way this was meant to be...and fall into an undesired groove of lfe, which was practical.

...

The Passive Voice of Active Reason,
Kept milling in my mind...
It was one of its kind...
It spoke in murmurs, it told me the Truth,
Which was half-blurred in its illuminated sanctimoniousness...
I didn't know what to think,
I questioned myself
Should I be sad, hen I'd rather be Glad?
This is why I detest getting emotionally attached...
Expectation is a Dangerous Thing...
The world of Fabricated fancies is a safer place,
Life is easier, when it is a fast and furious race,
With no time for extra thought, at a contemplative pace, slow
Is not the way to go...
Thinking is drinking the mind away to waste...
Why expect anything, when Fate already has plans?
Or does it...is it not what we make of it?
I dunno...my mind is spinning,
Yarn upon yarn...none of them ever cme true...
Well, not ALL

May I, please?

Dear Blog,
I would like you to grant me permission to hyperventilate about the aspects of the world which I love!!! I love CREATIVITY...I am totally captivated by Satyajit Ray's brilliance...I mean, how versatile can you get? He was an excellent movie maker, and he touched upon many sensitive social issues, and came down heavily on superstitious practices, ( a film like Devi, for example), he was an amazing author, his short stories are quirky, informative, and very well told, well-spun yarns. His Feluda is UNPARALLELED. And boy, was he an excellent bi-lingual -speaker...he could give established orators a run for their money...and Rabindranath Tagore...OMG! need I say more? How could someone use a language so beautifully? Though it is true that Bengali is a very, very, really very beautiful language, and I love it and am so very, very grateful to have been born in to it...
I also find it fascinating when people do work which can really make a difference to the lives of others...which is why I have such high respect for those who teach and those who heal...as in, doctors and nurses..., and those who do research in areas which need to be researched...
I don't know if I will ever make a difference in any one's life, but I hope to touch lives along the way...and I hope to help them in some way I can...
And I miss my home, but I feel that this'training' was necessary...I was just thinking about something...this can really pull you through life...you can either try your best to 'adapt,' or you can just be 'miserable.' Adapting is easier...
I bought a new pink camera, this is a random insert...but cameras are strange machines? They can really freeze moments in time, and replay and record with uninterrupted ease...

Oh for the sake of rhyming...

The Light engulfed me from every side,
Until, all that I wished to hide,
Was washed ashore, with the in-coming tide,
And I sat down in despair, and cried and cried...

I really don't know why I am writing all this...This is going to be a random post...desultory is another favorite word of mine...I think I have forced myself to focus on something concrete for three years and a bit...which is good, I feel less desultory...though it is STILL a favorite word of mine...and what else...the moon was engulfed in a sea of clouds today...I wished to quote Noyes, and call it a "Ghostly Galleon," but then I realized that the word "galleon," could not be applied to a full moon, as it really means a ship, which is echoed in the moon's crescent shape...I have realized that I love making conversations with people and that I love making new friends...and I am sniffing adventure in every corner, as I used to do of yore...and my imagination insists on running wild, though I keep it in firm check...and I love so many things...every tree is really a friend...

I have realized...

tHAT i KEEP REFERRING TO EVENINGS ALL OVER MY BLOG, IT Is a recurrent motif....why though? I ask myself...I love evenings, the time of the most magical transition...as Light slowly slips us by, changes her garments, dons many hues and steals away, bidding adieu for the night...I really feel like Nature is throbbing with life, at this time...and the soft, black curtain of night unravels itself on us, like a rich cascade of raven-hair...

WHy?

The articulation of Silence

As I was walking home this evening, a wonderful velvety, mellow one, I was just trying to compile the myriad thoughts which have been building up in my mind, over the past few days...And in the uninterrupted stillness, I found myself focusing on every breathing, palpable minute...My past few days have been a rush of activity...I've met so many new people, stumbled upon so many new perspectives and have felt more at peace with the world...I had an interview a few days ago, and just when my adrenaline was beginning to 'kick' me into a state of worried frenzy, I chanced to look upon this fish in an aquarium...and it seemed to be living only for the present moment...and all at once, something just seemed to flash inside me...that each moment should be enjoyed to the fullest as a unique experience...and no mistake you make will last forever...I don't know, perhaps my connection was random, but there it was, just there.
I don't know if I'm really making sense, but I have begun to really appreciate life for its minutest details...like every time I just inhale...I just feel soooo lucky, so blessed...and it has helped me become, or at least strive towards a greater level of acceptance, tolerance and understanding...Besides that...well, you know...

...

The last time I looked, the flower was blooming,
It's thorns were young and green;
Life, like a ghost, was desultorily looming
It's real form yet unseen.

Thoughts

Some evenings, like this peach-pink one outseide my window, are reserved for thinking.
Thinking about the various goings-on in the world and MY COUNTRY.

The Jan Lokpal Bill has raised a stir in India, and a lot of eloquent commentary on it is flying around websites, newschannels, college campuses and possibly coffee houses. And it is very heartening to see so many Indian citizens taking such an active interest in the Bill. There might be people who actully whole-heartedly support this campaign, others who might detect flaws in it, and yet others who may feel the need to oppose it. There might be people who are still pondering over the Bill's efficacy, and the consequences which might arise if it is passed by the government. I must say that as an Indian citizen, it is heartening to see so many people so actively engaged in thinking about this movement, in critically scrutinising it...we should realise that apathy is never the answer, and the 'aam junta' always has a responsibility...to think, to be vocal, to analyse and to act...indifference will only breed danger for all...we must use our faculties to the best of our abilities, in times such as these. Whether the Bill is successful or not, if passed, is something only time can and will tell...it is not possible to make entirely accurate hypothetical predictions, though one may well draw upon similar historical incidents...but contexts are ever-changing things, and I do believe that any step towards a positive change should be ruminated upon, encouraged and yet scanned thoroughly for loop-holes, instead of being simply dismissed into the realm of apathy by those who believe that their lives will not be directly affected by it...such were my thoughts when returning home from the library today...out of all thoughts emerge ideas and actions, some of which may directly affect the society we inhabit.Let's hope for the BEST.

What I miss most, not least...Part 2

I miss waiting for classes to begin, I miss waiting for classes to end. I miss wearing a new outfit to class, I miss feeling very apprehensive after a new haircut. I really miss resisting my friends' many attempts to coax me into having phuchka, and then finally resisting the temptation by yielding to it, to borrow from Wilde. I miss discussing books, analysing them for hours and coming up with bizarre interpretations. I miss reading poetry together with ma fiends, and making each other laugh with our weird comments...read:"balmy drops, " from A. Tennyson's IN. M...I miss studying together before our exams, shesher dike online, on gmail...and sending each other random links which we thought might be useful...What don't I miss...I miss those sudden trips to Dakshinapan, those stolen visits to The Dolly Tea House, those never ending walks of ours, our way back home via the Dhakuria Bridge, how my friend and I bid each other adieu on the steps...how I felt a gush of warmth when I saw the blue gates which spelt home.

A STROLL DOWN A LANE OF RAMBLING NOSTALGIA

What is it that I miss the most about my days in JU? I think I miss the smell of the rain-drenched grass by the jheel. I miss the slowly approaching summer evenings,the mellow and sudden winter evenings, the pink and violet evenings of spring, the clear and bright Shorot evenings, the stormy and tempestuous monsoon evenings... the time reserved for twilight and friends, the steaming cups of sugary coffee at Milonda's dear canteen, our cups of tea from the cha-walla near Char (4) Nombor Gate, our rant against the mosquitoes and red ants, our endless conversations about endless things. I can vividly recall our dissected dreams, our myriad littlw hopes, our comfortable fears and our feelings of togetherness, when the sun had set. I miss running into people from University, and having the most random, mostly interesting and sometimes very profound conversations. I miss sitting near Vivekananda Hall, dodging the cigarette smoke, listening to other people play the guitar and sing undecipherable songs. I miss popping into the book-store and occasionally hopping out with a treasured buy. I miss the sudden greenness, I miss the random chaos, I miss the undeniable order of things, which insisted on structuring our lives, despite all our liberty.
I miss my classes, I miss the Ledge, ((never sat on it, though.))I miss getting sudden glimpses of people, I miss discussing our lessons together. I miss so many things, and yet I am not sad...I remember more than I yearn...a lot of misunderstandings can occur among friends, but one should not let that freeze up, or embitter one's memories, should it? The good times must always be remembered in fond and charming fondness.
I miss coming in late for a class and feeling terrible about it, I miss exchanging glances with friends, I miss our pointless debates, which ALWAAAYS had a point, I miss missing the point totally, mostly in relation to innuendos, ahhem, I miss ambling around, I miss complainin' about term papers and tests, and the secret sessions of SparkNotes we all completed...I miss the frantic phone calls before end sems., trying to figure out how much choice we had in the question paper, and which texts we might very, very safely leave out. I miss our group study sessions. I miss the feeling of being attached to a place which had suddenly, and unknowingly become my own. And i miss going HOME at the end of a day...
I might as well enjoy my time now, before it slips me by, and I begin to miss a new episode...

A Story to Tell

As the evening unfolds, so does my story. It begins in the bylanes of a small locality, which shall remain unnamed. I must begin at the very end. The chapter of the unseen planets. But how did I get there? Must you know? Well, I began the story, I know that, but must I articulate every inch of my tale by myself? I could use some help, for sure....

Dear Diary.........!

Dear Diary,
I am infinitely grateful for ever so many things. I've always wished to 'study' in another country for a spell. It has been one of my most ardent, deep and long-lasting dreams. I had imagined a life so different, so full of infinite possibilities and unknown potential. I love interacting with people from different cultures, and engaging in enriching symbiotic relationships. All those dreams are blooming like a mysterious flower, petal by petal, each new day. I am happy, to the say the least. But something, I can't quite say what, seems to be missing...oh, the campus is lovely, a verdant wonder, ....more later...

Another evening

The evening pulls me into myself,
In silent contemplation,
In exhaustive introspection,
In quiet, private, expectation,
I will wait for you.

Though the days are blurred and hurried,
Though the hours are capped with work,
Though my songs are left unwritten,
As they die upon my tongue,
Though my thoughts are still amorphous,
They crystallise at times,
When I convince myself,
That the wait is worth the while...

I have a life to carve,
I have a dream to shape,
It may take me a while,
To realise what it was,
I will spend my idle hours,
(Though there are very few,)
I will re-construct my desires,
And wait the while for you...

I have a while to work,
I have forever to learn,
We all have livings to earn,
But I shall not yearn
for you,
I shall instead,
Wait in well-rehearsed optimism...

So when walk past the lake of dreams,
Limpid with our love,
When we taste the bite of reality,
As we brush past its rude shove,
When we dance amidst the rainbow clouds of expectant hopes,
When we avert our eyes from blazing, orange flames,
We'll be together, and our wait will be over at last.
If only for a while.

Surprise

Nothing ever prepares you for the initial jolt of realisation! Every inch of pragmatic philosophy flies out the nearest window, as soon as one of my knind leaves home. And it becomes essential to re-discover oneself, and hunt out one's deep, unchangeable identity.
I really don't know how to articulate the way I often feel these days. Waves of homesickness insist on breaking themselves over me, whenever the tide is in...and that is more often than not. Sometimes I ache to meet the person I used to be. I don't think I've changed...I hope not...but I fear that the mad idealist, the irrepresible dreamer and the incorrigible enthusiast are all hibernating for the time being. I miss all my kindred spirits, I miss a certain ease with which I used to view life, I miss a certain unexplainable way I had of looking at things...I miss mt frequent flights of fanciful imagination...I miss myself...I find myself bereft of my indulgent friends and family members. I am, of course, very grateful for all that I have...and whenever I'm in a spot, I never fail to count my blessings, (a habit of yore, which I've yet seemed to retain)...I just wish these non-issues would sort themselves out soon, so the gushing romantic ( about the world, of course) in me could return soooon.

a tale of 2

A voice insistently lingers,

In a crevice of my mind:

And its silken fingers run,

Softly down my spine.

That hint of a quiver,

And that silent shiver,

Refuse to let me pine.



There flits a lone mistral,

A lightly tripping breeze...

A pastiche of past perfumes,

Which puts my mind at ease,

And yet

Does its best to tease

My soul,

By dividing it,

And yet

Making it whole.



There lilts an arcane melody,

Amidst the whirring of my heart:

Which matches the rhythmic beats,

With its tuneful art...



There lies a sleepless whisper,

In the depths of my ear,

Which keeps you locked in me

When you're far from near.

I can still hear that voice

Since you're far yet near.,

AN EVENING

There are just so many ways in which one can actually spend an evening like this...the best way, for me, is to spend it carefully, in idle contemplation...sometimes life is so mesmerisingly beautiful in its connected wholeness, in its infinite potential, in its glorious epiphany, in its stingingg disillusion, in its absolute absurdness, in its incredible dynamism and its beautiful stillness...in the unsurpassed, surprised wonder of each new friendship, in the amazing incredulity of each newly-forged bond, each unthinkable kinship. In the unforgotten poignance, in quietly treasured joys, in its strange silences, its imagined romances and deep introspections. In the way in which Life whisks us across space and time, across people and places, across latitudes and oceans and unseen seas. Over Unknown meadows, far away hills, empyrean heights and deep, sunken gorges. I cannot quite understand and am trying in vain to figure it out. Everything both makes sense and doesn't. It seems to resist and invite intepretation...so alluring and evasive it is...

Just a Happy Love Story...in need of Much revision

Paranthetical insertion
Sheena cast a surreptitious glance at the boy seated next to her. She was inwardly fuming and flaming at the thought of being forced into this hasty alliance. Aunty Rita sat opposite them, her face caked with make-up, her heavily shadowed azure eyelids glimmering in the sunlight which streamed into the room. “We told you she was very striking,” she was saying while nodding her head vigorously in Sheena’s direction. Ma and Baba stood quietly in one corner, a little bewildered by the alacrity with which things were moving. Sheena took one glance at them and felt irritated. What was the point of feeling surprised now? Why hadn’t her father worked harder to deflect this ‘appointment,’ as she had expected him too? And WHAT was the deal with her mother’s exasperatingly vacillating expressions?
Uncles Anu and Ajay had taken their usual posts at the table, and were eagerly supervising the laying of the table by the aged and rather crusty workers at their house. “You must try Babu’s biriyani,” Uncle Anu hollered across the living room., while Ajay urged Babu to serve the guests with his signature mint and rose syrup. The boy’s mother looked directly, too directly at Sheena,or so it seemed to Sheena’s parents, whose anxious expressions belied their forced smiles and nods.
Sheena wiped her forehead. She’d taken great care to look as unkempt and care-worn as possible. Her hair was tied up in the most casual of buns, something she knew her parents hated. She’d deliberately left her eyes un-smeared with kajol, and she was wearing an old t-shirt and skirt which she had long since relegated to antiquity. What Sheena didn't realize was that her casual elegance was serving the perverse purpose of heightening her attractiveness. Her sandal-tinted cheeks looked flushed with anger and embarrassment, her eyes shone a little too brightly in silent rebellion and her tense body gave her a charm that was at once appealing, alluring and somehow dangerous.
The boy looked almost as uncomfortable as Sheena felt. His dark hair was frequently smoothened by a rather nervous hand, and he kept his eyes trained on the floor. He seemed to be surveying the carpet with great attention. Aunty Rita took this as an opportunity for sparking off a novel conversation. “This is from Iran. Sheena went there last year to visit her Married friend Natasha!” said Aunty Rita, wiggling her finger emphatically and adding unnecessary stress on what she felt was a significant word. Sheena sighed. That trip, with its myriad memories had ceased to conjure pleasant images in her mind, ever since she’d heard of Natasha’s unceremonious separation from her husband. It had been no one person’s fault. After the first rosy veneer of illusions had faded away, they had been left with nothing to carry on with. Sheena hadn’t understood at first. Weren’t people supposed to make an effort? How come Natasha and her husband didn’t realize this acrid truth during those two years of incessant phone calls and finger-numbing text-messages? How come they used to go out on those dates to expensive restaurants and movie halls? How could they have expected to get to know one another if they never really communicated with one another? They were always surrounded by people wherever they went, and it was as though they were serving some larger purpose by dating, contributing to the popular, prevailing culture somehow. But Sheena did not want to be too judgmental. It was always easier to analyze from an objective distance. Real life situations always have the ability to throw people horribly off-- guard. And Sheena began to feel that she was thinking too much about the whole affair while Natasha was moving on quicker. Sheena’s sensitive and over-empathizing nature was making her more bitter than either Natasha or her husband.
The boy’s mother pricked up her ears at the mention of Iran. “Iran…Tehran is such a lovely city. Do you remember Akash how your daddy and I took you there when you were 9?” exclaimed the lady with a dreamy expression in her eyes. Sheena looked into them for the first time since they’d entered their house. They were so warm, so soft and so, so liquid, Sheena felt herself thinking. Her eyes seemed to be pensively picturing the mist-clad mountains of far-away Tehran, where she’d been secure and happy in the company of her husband and child. Sheena felt suddenly moved, somehow suddenly touched. She glanced again at the boy next to her and saw him looking shyly at her. He would have hurriedly turned his face away had she not smiled.
It was only yesterday that Aunty Rita had bounced into their house with this laugh of a proposal. She had a notorious reputation for being a passionate binder of hearts, but so far Sheena had managed to escape unscathed. She was always so serious and studious, so impossibly and remotely romantic, that neither she nor her family members ever bothered about pairing her up in reality. Sheeena was content to satisfy her own romantic yearnings through works of literature and films. She was growing up, but not quite, not being one to renounce her hold on childhood that easily. What difference did a few measly years make when THERe was still plenty of time to behave like a full-on grown up she figured.
Well, so Sheena didn’t keenly feel the lack of a boyfriend, though she did have her wistful moments. It was never really peer pressure that got to her. It was more the phenomenon of sudden bursts of anxiety over whether she would eventually meet her soul-mate and be able to recognize him to be the “one.” She wasn’t crazy enough to expect him to appear on a steed of gold, with accompanying fanfare and music…rather she hoped for someone who’d love her forever in a quiet, steady and rather loyal way. Oh yes, and it would help if she found him a teeny bit good looking.

So there was Aunty Rita, her rapidly ageing face dolled up as usual, puffing and panting into the house. Sheena had just finished typing out her latest application essay when her mother‘s happy laugh greeted her ears. “And why not? Whenever he wishes!” Sheens heard her exclaim. “What are you talking about?” Sheena demanded as she climbed down the stairs to the living room where her mother was serving Aunty Rita with tea and her favorite Marie biscuits. “There is someone Rita-di would like you to meet…someone special,” her mother giggled like a hopeless teenager. Something inside Sheena squirmed and she glared at her mother in anger. “I thought I told you N-EVER to fix up or arrange anything for me mommy,” she exclaimed, aiming her comment towards Aunty Rita. Aunty Rita was not one to be deterred so easily. “It’s not like you have a boyfriend or anything…let this just be a trial…who knows? You might even end up dating him.” She retorted. “Oh, I’m the first victim of your latest project, the blind dating academy?” Sheens found herself exclaiming, much to her horror. She’d always been so polite, especially around relatives, but she could not help feeling distraught and distressed. Aunty Rita was suddenly making her feel so hopelessly inadequate, as though she felt Sheena was incapable of garnering a boyfriend for herself. In fact, it was the ever-prudent Sheena who always turned down proposals from boys she found unsuitable. Anyway. Sheena rather dramatically turned on her heels and stormed out of the room. Her mother, who had been trying in vain to establish a modicum of peace between the two, wrung her hands in despair and rather dramatically collapsed on the nearest sofa.
Sheena had run up to her room and flipped open her newly acquired pink laptop. She’d not allow any kind of artificial arrangement, which was altogether too business-like for Sheena’s taste, deter her lofty ideals of romance. She made up her mind to be as difficult and stubborn as possible. Aunt Rita seemed exceedingly shallow and intrusive to her at the moment…and her temporary wave of anger made her forget for a while just how well-meaning and honest-intentioned a woman Aunt Rita was. She was a rather lonely lady, who had lost her children in a long-ago car crash. Her husband had decided to abandon her when she’d given birth to a second daughter. Aunty could have become a bitter cynic. But she’d decided to carry on with life…her unhappy past had curiously re-in forced her faith in God, and she had committed herself to helping others the best she could. “I literally want to bring colour into lives!” she’d exclaimed, when a few baffled people had criticized and questioned her decision to “always put on so much make up, that too given her tragic circumstances…” Some people dismissed her as insane, others found her eccentric, some found her heartless and uncaring…both those few lives which she was able to touch were never the same.
The next day was cloudy and rather grey. Sheena was rather annoyed. She loved savoring days when the weather was tempestuous, but today was already marred by Aunty Rita and her strangely concurring parents. However, she had to admit, if only to herself, that she was feeling slightly nervous and somehow excited. A part of her was curious, the part which made the butterflies flutter in her stomach. But she didn’t exactly know what to attribute this feeling to, and so rather tiredly began the seemingly arduous task of getting dressed.

Akash was feeling out of sorts that morning. His forehead felt unnaturally warm and his eyes seemed to sting. “Drat!” he said to himself as he looked out of the window near his head. A rainy and depressing day, he thought, just the kind he disliked. It was time for him to get dressed and head to someone’s place. Someone who might turn out to be a life-partner, a soul-mate. Akash usually kept an open mind about most things. Ever since he had returned from the U.S. he realized it probably was time to settle down to the idea of ‘settling down.’ He had always had a very strong paternal instinct latent within him. He loved playing with small children at family gatherings and parties, where they would inevitably flock to him like bees to honeyed flowers. Maybe his soft, velvety brown eyes were particularly enchanting to little kids who insisted on crawling all over his lap, requested him for stories and took turns to ride on his shoulders. Of late his thoughts seemed to be centered excessively around children. Maybe his father’s death had had something to do with it. He remembered how wonderful and caring a parent his father had been and perhaps wished to re-connect with his lost father by becoming one himself. Often he found himself wishing he’d become a pediatrition instead of a cardiac surgeon.
He thought of the vacant years which lay ahead of them…his father had been inseparable from his mother. So much so that sometimes even Akash felt himself feel like an intruder, in their company. His parents were never aware of it themselves, but every unconscious gesture or look on their parts suggested that they had lost themselves in one another. Akash often came home to a dreary house now, with his mother burying her face among the heaps of his father’s shirts in a cupboard. She had refused to emerge from her room for days, until Aunty Rita, her mother’s new neighbor, had really drawn her out. It was a surprising camaraderie, but it worked wonders for Mrs. Ghosh. Aunt Rita actually taught her to look back on her husband’s memories in fond remembrance, and to celebrate their years of togetherness, rather than solely lament for him. The very mention of his name no longer made her want to torture herself with agonized tears, but brought a sudden gush of instant happiness and a bitter-sweet smile to her face. More importantly, and perhaps strangely, she never felt his absence any longer. Somehow he was always with her, and she knew exactly what he was saying, and how he was helping her. She even surprised herself by regaining bits of her old, rather wicked, rather perplexing sense of humor. Akash was much relieved, and often marveled at Aunt Rita’s capacity to work wonders. She seemed to have spilled some carefully preserved sunshine into their suddenly darkened lives,without even having known his father. Had never even seen him. Some inexplicable things can really make a difference, Mrs. Ghosh thought.
Akash shook his head. His long working hours had begun to take their toll on him, and he found himself without an appetite at the breakfast table. His mother looked concerned and a bit jittery herself. “What’s up, Akash? Not feeling well?” she said as Akash fidgeted with his porridge. “No I’m fine, just a little un-hungry,” he grinned, not wishing to worry his mom. “I think you need a break…you’re wearing yourself out with your work. I’ve been telling you so for ages.” Akash sighed. “Mom, you know doctors can’t afford to be lazy or lax…you know how I feel about this, ever since dad…” his voice trailed off slowly and his tired eyes met his mother’s moist ones. “Sorry ma,” Akash reached over and patted his mother’s arm “see, I’ve taken this day off and have agreed to accompany you, without even a hint of an argument.” “You’re looking mmuch too pale for a prospective groom and your hand feels clammy…maybe we should just call it off for the day? Let’s go catch a movie or something?” his mom anxiously suggested. “Come on mom, I’m not that sick…you know I hate going to claustrophobic movie halls!” Akash grinned wanly as he left the table to get ready.
They had hailed a cab to the Bannerjee’s residence. Mrs. Ghosh would not hear of her son driving that day. She was not entirely certain if she was doing the correct thing by trying to arrange a marriage for her son. She had immense faith in love marriages owing to her own idyllic years with Ratan, her husband and companion of many years. Even as a young girl she’d never had much faith in the arranged marriage concept. If it worked, fine…even love marriages involved risks and chances…but the whole idea of putting two strangers, who knew not the first thing about one another , under the pressure of a marriage seemed bizarre. But she knew Akash was lonely, was too shy to garner a girlfriend for himself, and she also knew that he secretly craved his mother to find someone for him. She probably felt more nervous that her son, who was leaning back in his seat and trying to catch a quick nap.
Sheena didn’t know what to think. The guy’s mother was really nice, she thought. After a few moments of customary awkwardness, they’d struck up an interesting conversation. She discovered Mrs. Ghosh’s love for Leonard Cohen and L.M.Montgomery. “I grew up on a healthy diet of Lucy Maud’s books…and I even got my husband and son hooked to them,” she smiled in fond remembrance…”much as he might not admit it now,” she continued, glancing at Akash, who had turned a bright shade of crimson. Sheena looked at him and he felt he that should try to release his tongue from the fetters of silence, and say something to her. “So are you studying Literature? That’s what Aunty Rita told mom yesterday! It’s such a fascinating field.” He managed to say. Sheena smiled, without looking at him. His eyes were too intense and she suddenly faltered under his gaze. “Umm…yes, it is…” she managed to mumble. “Why don’t you take him up to your room and talk in peace?” Aunty Rita chimed in, wishing to push things as much as she could manage. She was delighted that things seemed to be taking off. Sheena glanced at her parents. Her mother gave her a little encouraging smile and the slightest nod, while her father looked away, embarrassed. He just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that his little child was old enough to be considered ‘marriagiable.’
Sheena led the way upstairs. Akash followed rather hesitantly, as his head had begun to throb again. He was now beginning to feel more than a little alarmed with the whole episode, and was suddenly feeling confused and dazed. What if this attractive girl had a boyfriend? What if he was about to listen to an unceremonious rejection in her room? What if she found him a dismal and dull person, not worthy to be spoken to? Sure, he’d had lots of friends of both sexes , but he suddenly felt as though he’d never had a single conversation in his life before…he felt devoid of speech, blank and vague. He forgot that he was a lovely, fun person to be around, that he was a brilliant conversationalist, with a unique sense of humor. So he walked into Sheena’s look feeling every bit the nervous wreck, without realizing that Sheena was feeling much the same.

Akash leaned against the wall and looked out of the window. The rain was really pouring down now, making visibility difficult. “I love the luscious rains!” Sheena said dreamily, feeling a bit more relaxed. “You’re looking as perplexed as I feel!” she exclaimed with a laugh. Sheena had a sudden, infectious and rather delicious laugh. Akash looked at her and smiled, feeling his apprehension melt away, by ‘soft degrees.’ “Why don’t you sit down?” Sheena said and pulled up a soft, cushiony chair. “After you,”Akash said softly. Sheena sat down by the edge of her bed and Akash lowered himself on to the chosen seat.
“I don’t know how you feel about this whole thing…” Sheena found herself saying. This boy was alarmingly good looking, in a very unusual sort of way, she thought. She found herself being enveloped in a cloud of diffidence and began to stammer a little. “I..It is not as if I’m…I mean I’ve never been…it might sound strange…but I’ve …you know…never really been in this situation, or in a relationship before this…not that I’m labeling ours as…I mean…I don’t know what I mean…” Sheena finished with a gasp. What was she saying? He must think her awfully stupid and not in the least like the powerful speaker an English major ought to be. Akash’s eyes laughed but he kept a straight face…”Are you an expert in legilemency apart from literature? I mean, you just echoed my thoughts verbatim!” he smiled, and found himself feeling rather paralyzed by Sheena’s casual charm and her unpretentious personality and her intelligent yet innocent way of speaking. Her eyes were so hypnotic that Akash had to force himself to look away for a bit. Sheena somehow knew she could trust this lad. She didn’t know why, but she just knew it, with a confidence she’d never felt before. He came across as one of those instinctively pleasant people. What they both begun to secretly realize that they were both young, romantic and hungry for love, and they might just end up being wrapped up in that emotion. They might have things in common, they might discover a multitude of differences, they might have quarrels, they might hurt one another, but they both suddenly hoped they’d stick with one another, no matter what…idealistic yet practical…or so they thought to themselves…
“I haven’t been too well today,”Akash disclosed. “Oh I’m sorry to hear that!,” Sheena exclaimed genuinely concerned. “Would you like to lie down for a bit?” she said. “It won’t be awkward!” she quickly added. “No it’s fine… I’m just feeling a little bit over-strained!” he confessed. “I have always loved the medical profession. But you mustn’t work yourself too hard…” she added gently. “It’s what I use to keep myself distracted…ever since my own father…passed on…and I was called back from the U.S…it’s been a tad difficult…” Akash never confided in people easily, but somehow Sheena already felt like a kindred spirit. The fact that they were expected to become husband and wife didn’t exert any pressure on him…in fact, that knowledge coupled with his instinctive feelings towards Sheena somehow made it easier for him. Sheena had always been a good listener, and she’d often dreamt of the day when she might assume the role of her beloved’s confidante, whom she would be able to help and care for…whose feelings she’d respect and be respected in return. Sheena’s heart warmed to Akash who spoke in such an earnest way, so as to not demand sympathy or attention. He gave her a candid account of his hopes and desires, to help people who were unwell, to see his mother happy, to perhaps be a good parent someday. Sheena blushed. She loved children too…she thought nothing as sacred as motherhood…and she gently broke these feelings to an elated Akash. “I’ve always earnestly believed that motherhood should never be an imposition on women,” she explained rather confusedly. “I mean, it should always be allowed to remain a choice. A woman who does not want to be a mother should not be labeled an aberration by those who do….I’ve always wanted children for myself…but I see why some women might not!” she finished. Akash nodded rather seriously…”I know what you mean…only I could never phrase it as eloquently as you just did.”
Sheena secretly thanked God that she had refrained from following the paths of some of her, well rather unrestrained friends, who changed boyfriends every week, till the novelty of romance completely wore out for them. If she had succumbed to peer -pressure, would she have felt as ‘blythe’-spirited as she was feeling now? Akash, too, had always been teased for being too idealistic and romantic, by his friends. “Just cease the day and grab a chick,” one rather offensive guy had once told him…”But doesn’t she have to be the right one?” Akash had rather emphatically asked. “Is ANYONE ever the right one?” the guy had said, throwing him an exasperated look. “Well, at least I have to be deluded into thinking she is!” Akash had responded before turning away. Now it seemed as though he had deluded himself enough to work up an appetite for the biriyani that awaited them downstairs.

RAPTURE

Just what IS it about L.M. Montgomery’s writing that makes me fall so overwhelmingly in love with her again and again? Her works have become such an integral part of my consciousness; my soul seems to have entirely imbibed her inimitable imagery, her startling humor and her liltingly melodious language. She is an author who seems to offer me more revelations about myself and life, more than most others. I come back to her books after long breaks and each time I re-discover her poignant brilliance, her subtle artistry, her keen sense of observation, her alluring aesthetic appeal, her vivid characterization and her mesmerizing linguistic charm. She is the writer I’d like to passionately defend from (sometimes justified…perhaps?) criticism. Once this person I knew said that her books need to be re-written from a postcolonial perspective. I love Post-colonial Theory myself, but I don’t see why and how this statement is relevant…yes, we do hear mentions of missionary workers in the Oriental lands, but I don’t think L.M. was saying anything offensive, or out of her own immediate context. I do not want to be a litterateur who seeks to problematize when it comes to her books. I am unscholarly and biased, when it comes to her work. Her works have guided me through my adolescence, have seen me through my teens and into my twen-teens like a softly shining, always enchanting, sometimes evasive little star. Her emotions are expressed so beautifully, her ideas are so well-developed, her writing is so acutely introspective and mature…I have begun to realize just how mature her writings are off-late, when I cast a few retrospective glances at how they have helped me and continue to do so. And I will fiercely defend her from the charge of being a weaver of sunshiny and romantic yarns. Her stories never fail to explore the darker side of life, the many sadnesses which accompany every individual, and her war literature is so personal it’s touching. It’s just that her philosophy is so positive, so inclusive, that her writings can’t help but make one feel happy. I do not like it when people condescend to relegate authors solely to the restricted realm of ‘children’s’ writing. I have the greatest respect for children’s literature and am absolutely fascinated by the way in which authors can play upon the imagination of a child’s eager, open and curious mind. If a writer can appeal to children and adults alike then he/she is a truly commendable author, because one does not grow out of her works but simply re-discovers newer aspects to them, with age. And when a writer is writing for children, who, by virtue of their age, have limited 'Prior Knowledge,' I'd say they're no less talented than adult-authors.
P.S.: i LOVE THE PEOPLE WHO DON'T AGREE WITH MOI...you know who you are

My Blog Reads My Mind

'Man is by Nature a Political Animal'......t'is the qoute of the day on my blog!!!! and to think I came across and ruminated upon this quote thrice today, when reading a book on Comparative Governments!!!!

The Helen Schlegel in me is still alive...

much to my relief.

The heat was unbearable, the humidity terrible,
The curtains inadequate shields for the sun...
How was I to while away, this sultry, resinous April day?
Was there a way, if only one, To bear the burthen of this sun?

I picked up a book I never thought I would...
The front and back covers didn't seem too good.
'Not literary enough,' said my fine 'sensibility,'
This tome is trash, an unwanted liability...
But I felt brave, and flipped it open,
Romance I'd craved all morn you see...
And it did seem to me
That this book would be soppy enough to please me
Mushy enough to annoy and tease me
And apart from the irrate comment or two, (or maybe 3)
It did mostly woo...
my mind. A most troubling yet gratifying find.
It did too help, that I
Imagined, *here I sigh*
**r*** **h**'s form in the protagonist's role,
Down to the very last mole...
And I fished out romance from the most unsavoury parts,
and skilfully escaped the author's chosen darts...
He couldn't pin me down to his biases or opinions,
My imagination flew off on a pair of forged pinions...
What am I writing, oh for the sake of rhyming,
My mind is whining, I should be dining...
SOOOONEER

more sooner

I discovered what it feels like to re-visit a city which never ceases to feel like home, having been mine for a good couple of days.The past week has been indescribably hectic, but rewardingly memorable...down to the rough bed-sheet at the #### hostel room. They passed me by like a whirling dervish, carrying me, a half-conscious, half-willing bundle of contradicting emotions, with it...

An ode to an Arboretum

I am surrounded by beauty of an excessive sort...of a pulchritude which refuses to register itself in my mind...this place should open a botany/ecology department, the whole campus would be an ideal class room...and the campus can also qualify as a literateur's muse...the stone walls, the bafflingly-beautifully confused architecture...I want to get lost here forever, to drift among the lone paths, to stumble upon unexpected flowers, to discover weeping butterflies and benign bees...to listen to the wild murmurs of the Night flies...IIMB, thanks for this chance...I will remember it forever....and also Professor V.M. for being so encouraging and literary!!

MellowWallow

I am deeply unhappy
AND
As a consequence, rather snappy.
I am sad, my head feels bad,
It aches, the world makes
no sense...morose is me,
Even
A cup of my favourite tea,
Didn't quite do the trick.
Prick! go my nerves,
Or maybe they don't
Maybe I should laugh it off...
But maybe I won't...
Maybe I over-react
But I'm entitled to a fault
Why doesn't someone just hug me very tight?

TO TB

I have constructed the warmest and most huggable teddy bear in my imagination...I hug you whenever I'm feeling low...I rarely feel this down...but your soft arms pull me up again...your nose is always dog-wet...thanks for being my cuddle bug, my comforter...I love you. Thanks for that warm, goofy smile...that shy look, which always comforts and dis-comforts.Thanks for being there for me always, whenever I need you...thanks for doing exactly what my mind wishes you to...and Memory, I respect you...I will not let go of the memories of the good times I've had with any of my friends....JU or Cis or BIS or DI...and I will use my 'icy personality' as often as I need to. I love you Cuddles. And I know you will always be there for me...always always.

Leia Broods

Tonight’s a night of indescribable melancholy. Of an earnest, yearning and persistent pain. Strange notions of sadness are floating aimlessly across the air. I am bereft of your company. This is one of those nights when this awareness hits me all too sharply, sharper than the most stinging vinegar on an unsuspecting tongue. I wish to be near you, but this thought pushes us farther apart. What is that music, which is emanating from the moon? What crossword puzzles are the stars trying to solve, edging past one another, amidst the chaos of those clouds, which gift-wrap the sky? Is the breeze whistling that tune we used to hum? Is my imagination flying off with the screeching owl, into the realm of silent seas? My fingers tremble as I reach for the phone, but, suddenly, your voice is not enough. The sound waves which can traverse the Atlantic make me feel inadequate, and make a mockery of our love. I would have said a lot more, but right now I feel like jealously guarding my own intimate emotions and feelings…I will only whisper them in your ear…when I can see and feel and touch your ear…but not now, not like this.

TOEFL aargh!

All's well that ends in a 119! Yes, the ecstasy has finally sunk in...but I can't believe I missed the BOI-MELA...WAAHHH.

adopt your own virtual pet!

Murmur

My heart aches, my soul breaks, the world shakes...
We just don't seem to have what it takes
To make this work out...I shout
At you, I even say a thing or two
I immediately wish I could take back...
I rack
My brains to find a way to make it up to you,
The stakes
Are simultaneously too high and low,
I can, but can't quite let you go.
will somebody show
Me the way to do things right?...
WE fight and love with equal ferocity,
We epitomise reciprocity
And yet, we as a couple atrophy,
I might have worked this differently,
Had I another chance:
I would've re-worked things through a single, conciliatory glance.
But it's a whit too late, much as I hate to admit it.
I'm not entirely sad, nor am I entirely glad...
I mean, you were a cad...
Or weren't you?

Randomness? Random mess.

okayy, this won't be the greatest post ever. WHY?
I am tired
My stomach hurts for some incomprehensible reason.
I am sleepy.
I seem to have sprained my neck.
Did I mention being sleepy?
so Life is living up to its complicated image...all sortsa creepy problems are cropping up...don't ask..
People are strange...weird...okiedokie...but I'm lucky to be frinds with some of the greatest people on the planet.
Sometimes you can extend the olive branch to ameliorate a friendship gone sour situation...and sometimes the olive branch is very primly shaken, as if it were a formally extended hand, and that too in the most condescending manner EVER!
And the there is the problem of ..... what is it that goes on in their heads? or wherever?
and then there is the ever piling course work...
and the application jhaamela
and the anxieties which accompany this arduous process.
And then preparing to leave JUDE...whatever preparation that may entail.
I don't wanna read Dream Play...oh dear...

...

A kiss is flying through the air,
Now it's entangled in my hair...
Why, it's staring me in the face,
It's moving again, what a pace,
But now it hovers, gently static,
Ecstatic...
Paralysed by its own fulfilment.

WHY did I write this? gawwd

The sun had not come up in days. Leia lay in bed and looked up at the fan...its services were not needed for a spell...as afternoon waned away, and evening reluctantly approached, she hoped this night would be better than the last. Vardaleck was being too persistent...at this rate, her parents would diagnose her with an acute bout of anaemia. Why couldn't he go gentle on her blood? She shivered slightly, and sighed. Her enervated body was cold, as cold as Vardaleck's icy grip, his frosty touch. She didn't know how to shake him off. It had all seemed so fascinating at first, being wooed by a Vampire and all. He would literally and metaphorically sweep her off her feet, and they'd graze the sky together, at unearthly, unlordly hours. His cloak would serve as her magic carpet, and she would view the distant world of mere mortals from her newly gained dizzying height. But all that soon changed. Now he only wished for her blood. He'd been gentle at first, loving even, when draining her of her erythrocytes/leucocytes. Now he was insistent, harsh, his demands increasing by the nocturnal minute. She would soon have to leave this world...and then V. would probably leave her, to court another healthy, blood-filled mortal.

?

you eyes said nothing to me that night,
why did they seem
So hollow, so vacant, so bereft of sight?
I tried to penetrate their silent reticence,
but they remained unyielding, shielding
your thoughts. What nonsense
Am I writing? When you
Will do
nothing to
Put my mind at ease?

AVATAR........!!!

ok, so despite what most people seem to think, i quite liked avatar...yes, there were loadsa issues up for analysis in the film: the evils of colonisation, illegal/insensitive land acquisition for mere material gain, the representation of 'the other,' assimilation into a foreign culture...the White gaze of the outsider....but I think the film dealt with all these issues in a way which didn't offend me. I didn't think Pandora was depicted in an 'exotic' way...it was just a very beautiful, enchanting world, bio-luminescence and all!
so some might say that why was it necessary for Jake, an American in his avatar to lead the Navis' to victory? Well, he always re-iterates the strength of the people of Pandora, and he makes a choice to stay on and help them? Is that such a bad thing?

thoughts

T'is that time of the year,
When Spring seems quite near...
But not quite,
though this Spring might
linger for a spell longer
than usual,
being the remnants
Of the coldest, boldest, Winter
I've felt in a while.

In Summer, it takes me
hours to get through each second,
to cheat the sun, to beat the heat.
Monsoon's nocturnal showers thrill me,
AS I spend my nights
tracing the tunes of the rain drops,
as they break into my dreams and tear into my sleep.

This Winter evening, I walked several miles
In the snug company of friends.
The chill of dusk
Settled around me,
Unsettling me, teasing my shawl,
challenging my inadequate sweater.
Imminent night, with its falling degrees,
Was fast falling on us, as we walked.
The mosquitos annoyed us
With their incomprehensible melodies,
And their un-amorous bites.
My ears rejected their bold proximity,
Their un-desirable intimacy,
while they drew out my blood.
Un-charming vampires of winter nights,
I'll settle for Count Dracula any day.

hmmm

there are days when you indulge in some unflinching introspection...and those when you look back upon life, in lazy retrospection....there are moments when you have to make those tiresome, life-changing decisions, there are times when you are on your own, just you and your life. i feel like an architect, (yes, that analogy had to come in), trying to construct something of a career...but i am a desultory being...i wish i could pursue anthropology now...i wish i knew what is best for me...can any one ever know? the concept of one 'best' decision...whether it pertains to one's career/partner/friends/etc is problematic....best among all the options seems a better bet....i am re-kindling old friendships and that feels good. have i really dug my roots into JU? will i miss it as intensely as i still miss school occasionally? i don't know...only time will tell. as of now, i just wanna make some new beginnings.

*blink*

in the light of the tilted orange lampshade,
with the half broken bulb,
the words of the book
stared dimly at me.
my eyes were swimming
in the blurred,
articifial twilight.
my brain kept rejecting
the words, which tried
forcing their entry:
my sleepy mind
the faithful sentry.

a night lamp is just not the way
to prepare for these tests every single day.

statement of purpose

thst's what i'm supposed to be working on, the operative word being obvious. it's simplistic to assume that a 500 word essay can ever hope to contain the desultory ambitions of this confused being. sometimes i wish i could be engaged in activity that's more "hands-on"...not that scholars are remote analysts or distanced aesthetes. it's just that i'm still looking for a calling to respond to, and narrowing down my choices has ALWAYS been the hardest part, ever since i had to choose my subjects for my O levels. i sometimes can't help but feel that i am exceedingly different from most people my age...with the exception of some friends...was it my school, or my family or what? am i over-wary, are my foot steps too cautious? sometimes i read the blogs of others, and more often than not, they invariably strike me as more complex, deeper, their posts more evocative, somehow more experienced. but i have no regrets...it's just so much easier being me...atleast for me...does the world in general has a prediliction for complexity, which is sometimes a synonym for pretension.
and it's not that i lie in a pearly sea shell...i've been through a vast number of hardships which life has intermittently belted out. but so what?

title?

ok...so i was wondering...a recurrent past-time...about things in general...so much rubbish happens in the name of "love and relationships" i see it all over, more so in the microcosm of my uni...how about some old fashioned, marshmallow flavoured romance? now i don't know what i mean by that...but sometimes a tiny part of me wishes that life was a little less complex(read:ulterior motive infested} and a little more, well,for the lack a better word, romantic. hmm. people fall in love so indiscriminately...and most often because they are bored...wow, wayyyy to beat the monotony.
also some people write SUCH pretentious academic essays on blogs...
also some friends were just NOT worth it...so glad that's over...at least for the time being...and i thought things were going fine for once.
and i'm haaaaaaappy about several things as well!! life's good. great and delicious////ohh, and i never grow too old for books...they grow up with me...and i just discovered that Tagore and Beatrix Potter have some ideas in common.
and i still lurve beverly clearey...and for some random reason, the name Darla suddenly appeals to me...
ok, would the randomness of this post qualify for the stream of consciousness category?

//

believe me, i loved her,
beneath the feathered skies of a blurred Moon night,
the moon flitting in and out of sight...
protecting our privacy, yet on guard
to ensure all we did was right.
the sands on the beach were listening
to our bare feet shuffling
along
like two crabs
only our grip on love
was not as tight,
as theirs.
the stars were swaying
or was it our heads?
while she was saying
what i'd never said.
and what i never ever managed to say.
that was the last day
i remember with her.
it'll be sixty years ago
this year.

buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.......................

i'm tired and sleepy, exhausted and drained, but still awake cuz' my mind is buzzing with activity...maybe it's the inertia of writing a never ending term paper.i hope the alphabets on the keyboard will lull me to sleep, the clickety sounds will serve as my lullaby. man, is this a cheesy post or what? but remember i'm tired, and this is my own little blog, willing to forgive a few occasional lapses into cheesiness on my part...ok, ok, i know...i should really go...and visit sandman for a spell...aah well.

yay/wail

i had such a great diwali weekend. a complete maelstrom of hurried, flurried activity!! hyper - social as i like to say. so many new people i met, i can't say. i was pampered and stuffed with dish after delelctable dish.hmm. i wish i could have gone for the kali thakur bisharjan with my neighbours. i've been twice and it's a divine feeling, it is. travelling in a rickety open air truck, under a 'fireworks' sky. and then you see whole hordes of other bisharjan groups staring over at your vehicle, and for once you don't mind the stares. you're all a part of an inexplicable, collective process. and then the insistent clamour of the kasha. hmhm. why do i have to write term papers whn i could be enjoying a perfectly poetic, incredibly intoxicating, mesmerisingly memorable night out? ohh and not to forget the chaos on the ganges and the last minute goodbyes to the pratima who has silently accompanied you on your journey. she stays silent though all the festive sounds are occasioned for her. and the wonderful, warm people who feel like family!! and the squeaking balloons we annoy the sound out of on the return journey and the salty taste of warm groundnuts we are always treated to...and finally the delicious warmth of a snuggly bed, after a long, tiring, hard day's night.

unresolved crises

hand in hand
over land
and sea
we
travelled, the
untramelled
bits of the world.
round and round
unbound
and free were we
as we
strolled.
him and me.
we had nowhere to go
but that didn't slow
us down.
not one frown
of worried anger
corrugated our brows
now
was the time to roam
with no desperation
to find a home.
to explore
and create
new homes, in new plots
each in different slots,
each called us with
a different flavoured voice.
ephermeral
seemed better than eternal.
until we had to make that one choice.

bisharjan blues, sharod's hues.

the other day i was curled up on my balcony railing, the sound of valedictory dhaak beats resounding through the air, and i was battling an incurable case of bisharjan blues. this inexplicable(hardly) malady afflicts me without fail on an annual basis. and since i spent most of my pujas pent up at home, things seemed doubly worse. sobsob. i am always comforted, however, by the intoxicating fragrance of the wild chhateem flowers that toss their perfume so indiscriminately into the incense filled air.
the funny thing is that i actually saw Kash phool for the first time on the drive from Mumbai to Pune, and they were the featheriest things i've ever laid my eyes upon...erm, barring feathers. sorry for my newly developed sad sens'o'humour. i am in pune now, and if i could eat the weather i gladly would, it is so delightfully delicious. sigh. the sky is many hued, complex, clear, bright, mysterious, alluring and evasive.
life can be really delectable and deplorable...like the whimsical, half made up mind of a child feeling suddenly capricious and difficult.

i've been up to some prosaic deeds off-late. like mending the undone chain/zipper of my bag. and i really miss the last year, as in pg 1.

left and right the city breeze blows, scattering the scent of the urban rose.

people complain that my blog is devoid of posts...and so it has been of late...i think i'm suffering from emotional anaemia...and every time i think i might just wish to begin liking someone, i suppress it as quickly.

i can't come up with titles

jasmine looked over her wedding jewellery yet another time, sitting on her silent bed, isolated from the boisterous bustle of the rest of her house. the necklace was an ornate affair...a symphony in gold and emeralds...not that she cared much for emeralds...at least that was what she'd told varun on those pleasant evenings which now seemed so distant. her eyes didn't reflect the heaviness of her heart...maybe because she wasn't feeling as bad as one ought to on such occasions...perhaps she was relieved that she was spared the ordeal of an ugly confrontation with her family. or maybe the heavy make up, which was causing beads of perspiration to trickle down and tickle her neck was doing a good job of concealing her grief. she was being given away to an unknown stranger, a man she'd only seen posing against a huge car in a flashy photograph. and to think she used to squirm at the mere mention of an arranged marriage! or had she secretly accepted this as an inevitability, through out the long years she dated varun? maybe latching on to varun was her devised method of keeping this final truth in abeyance? i can't make up my mind. and what am i doing imposing my fertile imagination on a woman who might be a perfectly prosaic, formerly unattached bride? i move away from the open door of her bedroom, leaving her to admire her jewels in peace...and turn away quickly, before my mind concocts a new story.

boo-hoo.

i want to sob into the comforting shoulder of my blog. snifff sniffffffff.

even in the cold glare of the broken neon
her face looked beautiful
bereft
of the glow offered by sunsets and half moons
her beauty remained unviolated
and unchanged...
being of a different breed...
a beauty which doesn't change
with time or settings,
or the frail flicker of Age's flame.

the rant unravels

see, as i've said before, Calcutta really strips the romance out of rain. i've been fervently praying to the weather-workers for a sound drizzle or two, but i had SUCH an experience last night. Mrinalini and I had gone over to the B.C.library and had a fun time immersing ourselves amongst shelves of Romatic writers. then i insisted on maintaining my tradition of whiling a while away at the new-fangled cafe...on descending, we really walked into the heart of a tempest. and it wasn't quite as romantic as it may sound. we waited, exercised varying degrees of optimism, and finally decided to venture out when the shower had waned to a mizzle. but real perils awaited us. we traipsed up and down camac street, jumping over obnoxious puddles...we were both beginning to feel like pendulums, oscillating to the obscure rhythm of Plain Bad Luck. i guess we walked for miles and miles, from stretch to stretch with no taxi in sight. oh and the buses were literally over-flowinf with floods of people crammed in. and i was silly enough to have taken the trouble of leaving my umbrella back home. so we were drenched, dreadfully tired, (we'd had an excruciating exam that morning), and dis-tastefully dis-illusioned. the occasional taxi bluntly refused to accept us as passengers, preferring to take older people, mostly men. i was so hoping we'd run into a friend, a saviour. finally we decided upon using the metro, and then taking an auto to gariahat and finally walked down the last stretch together. gosh!!

hmm

why don't some people call when i want them to?!

"sweet summer sweat?"

How is this summer sweet? t'is most vile!

mmmm hmmm. cravings. pointlesspost. don'tbother.

i want to eat an enormous slice of a very chocolatey cake, replete with pecan icing. i want ice-cream soda with cherries and strawberries, if such sodas exist. well, i want one even if they don't. and i want to have lotsa whipped cream with blue-berries. i could eat an orchard of rosy, sun-kissed apples. i want a sizzler steak. and an oreo-infested, marshmallow invaded ice-cream sundae. i want cold prawn cocktail in a VERY tall glass...wail i want them all now...boo hoo.

Leia's thoughts on Rover

today is probably the last time I'll see you in i don't know how long. years? maybe decades? sigh. i can't believe that we're having to part on this rather incomplete note. you'll never know how i felt during those several intense days, which now seem so distant. but that was when i associated you with my imaginary construction of you. when i found out what you were really like I didn't like you in the same way anymore. maybe i still liked you, but differently, somehow. we never really talked that much, barring the odd occasion or two. and now we hardly even acknowledge each other's presence. that's alright, really. perhaps someday i will get to meet that person whom i imagined you were.

oouchh!!

well, so i'm going through this immensely painful dental treatment!! gosh, why on earth was i endowed with unecessary wisdom? wisdom inevitably equals pain. nothing more. at least when it comes to teeth.

it is so inpossibly, so unbearably hot. i want to fly off to london. why london? i think it's four years of english. and i desperately wish to visit the Lake District, in an attempt to justify my incessant readings of Wordsworth over the past few days.
erm.
i'm a leetel bit tired of UNI...sometimes i wonder if my Department is more "conformist" than it would like to admit...there's this mainstream crowd, of which i'm hardly a part. but then again, who all comprise this crowd, which seems to keep changing, people slipping in and out. or maybe i don't make enough of an effort. i really don't want to be labelled cliquish though. i like making lotsa friends, despite being closer to a few. and there are many with whom i wish i shared a friendship.

and for the last time, why do people still go on about WHY i'm still single? to set the record straight, i'm still rather, well, old-fashioned and anachronistic. i just can't believe in experimental dating. well, yeah, any form of dating is always a sorta experiment, but i jusr don't think i've met Mr. Right-o yet. or maybe i don't know if i have. whatever. but rest assured, hopefully i won't celebrate eternal single-hood. hmm. i just need to meet someone who is worth sharing the perils of a relationship with. lol.

i seriously need to start thinking of what i want to do with/in life. academic? I.R.? author(i want!) sponsored globe -trekker{yes}...not sure...help!

draft

i wait for the sunset, search for the horizon,
Looking for unanswered questions.
why can't i find them when i need to?
around me the roses stir,
aroused by an amorous breeze.
around me the lone fly buzzes,
for once it doesn't irk me.
i'm too ready with answers.
but i can't find those questions,
which had piled up, in
dis-organised stacks.
perhaps,
I'd left them alone too long.
or maybe they were impatient,
and
unwilling to wait a while,
like most people i see around me.
or maybe i'm just lazy.
yes.
that's more like it.
i'm untouched by the beauty of the evening.
dusk descends too soon, obscuring my vision.
ending my search,
while Morpheus casts
an early spell over my eyes.

..!

and also these awesome short stories by agatha christie!!
oohhh, and lotsa beatrix potter!!!

rambling

i read a few books recently:
the kite runner---hosseini
be nice-donald
herland-gilman
the red badge of courage-crane
and two stories by mary liz braddon

grumble grumble:_)

i wish i didn't have to encounter superficial people more often than not. but such is my luck. :-(
i wish certain people wouldn't keep asking me if i was "really" single...geez!
i wish i could write more often. and write readable stuff.
i wish i didn't have to encounter people who like being weird, just for the sake of grabbing attention and making some sorta statement.
i wish some people would actually respect differences and not use them to put others down.

none of the above is to be taken seriously!

khelna--dotara..!

i love anjan dutta's "shunte ki chao..." it's a song i could listen to a million times over! the lyrics and the tune(leonard cohen's "sisters of mercy,"} seems to stir some remote nostalgia lurking in an undetected corner of my soul(?)...

i love joan baez and leonard cohen! :-D...
and the beatles!
and the doors(this isn't an after-thought;)

....

i stare blankly at the moon,
which holds no meaning for me now.
not that it ever did,
coming to think of it.
i imagined, or rather hoped that
a poet in me would emerge, if i
could read strange things into it.
it could help embellish my poems,
like a pretty chain around one's neck.
a dangling ornament.
But it was too haughty, too evasive
and my metaphors too weak
and hackneyed.
other poets have tampered with you enough.
and used you as a handy tool,
for supplying ready-made romance.
maybe it's your soft-pearl glow
against night's impenetrable sky,
that touched many a sensitive soul,
whose quills, pens, key-boards,
reverberate with your name.
I'll turn to the stars instead,
and let you be for a while,
until i'm tempted
to use your alluring charm
one more time.
just this once.

hey there

gosh!! i can't believe i've not written in so long...inertia had cast an unwilling spell on my fingers and mind...i've thought about my blog every day but neglected it all the same...i feel somewhat like an irresponsible parent..lol
in the meanwhile i discovered leonard cohen, who is so absolutely, so indescribably fabulous. WINTER LADY remains my favourite song.
and i've learned that working in groups can be a real challenge, but is also fulfilling.
i quite liked slumdog millionaire...the editing was awesome and though the story was exaggerated, a bit sensational and rather over the top, i found it entertaining...sometimes poignant, sometimes funny, usually both. it was a compelling watch, or so i felt. i didn't think danny boyle was "selling" poverty to the west...it is an inescapable, entirely undeniable truth, which a scattering of designer stores and over-priced cafes can't cover up...india can shine thru' each of its citizens, and learning doesn't stay restricted to the confines of a class-room.
and we've finished three productions of our departmental production...in the course of which i've re-discovered my love for theatre and have fallen in love with "six characters..." this was really one of my most memorable experiences in JUDE so far..maybe i can continue acting!!
oh, and i have a new purple and pink quilt:-)

this was written in a such a rush

Tuesday, October 02, 2007
the colour exercise...chocolate
It had been raining ever since she could remember. Leslie leaned over the sill of the curtainless window and watched the dismal drops drench the narrow alley she would eternally reign over. The ground was covered with the tantalisingly brown, gooey allure of mud--it looked so tempting, just like the molten chocolate which would be sold in that shop with those alarmingly large windows. She remembered the stinging coldness of the glass as she would press her snub little nose against the pane, staring inside with an eager earnestness which made her eyes and mouth water. How very cruel of them to pour a divine delight like that into such narrow, harsh glasses---did not the chocolate feel as numb as her nose felt? How she longed to warm it, to let it trickle through her lips, to tingle her tongue. Once she was caught licking the painfully clean glass windows, and the shop-owner made sure he put an end to her daily, (rather hourly) pilgrimages. Well, she said to herself-she wouldn't have to witness the restriction of her beloved chocolate anymore. Here her own alley was inundated with a munificent deluge of the stuff...oh, she pined to go out and taste it! But would it suit the dignity of a stately queen of the alley to do so? Not in HER dreams.
Posted by dryad at 9:32 AM 0 comments
Wednesday, September 26, 2007

meaningless ranting

i just don't know, and i won't even bother to try. don't ask me why...my mind is a riot of confused colours at the moment...each trying to edge the other out. i really DON'T know what it is that's bothering me.

""""""""

And then he said...
"Let's follow the map of stars and go,
To that lone place only you and I know."

And so we ran...
To watch the soul-thrilling meeting of Sea and Sun,
Merging their bodies till they were one.

and soon we sat,
Beneath the un-intrusive Moon
On the soft, yielding sand---
While all the while did he croon
Magical Melodies as he clasped my hand.

And soon we lay
Our eyes searching the sky for a poem.
While the snow-capped waves bathed our feet,
Gently washing away our heat........

I knew this wouldn't, it couldn't last...
But little did I know that
The spell would break so fast...

And then he went on saying...
"Help me choose a gift for my girl-friend."

well,

i've realised that most of the poems on my blog are results of idle typing exercises...and i should seriously post the stuff i invest so much more of my energy into. anyway, i had a youthforDI meeting today and i thoroughly enjoyed myself...we're making plans for visiting a senior citizens' home soooon. and we might put up a goofy dance show...
i had a macaroon tart after ages today, and gosh it felt good.
i want to resume learning bharatnatiyam again...lesseee

this is something i wrote at 15!

in retrospect, i shall call it "An exercise in exaggertion."

My love is like a shooting star,
Sent down by the pale moon:
Gleaming like a heap of fine gold,
Upom a silver spoon!

I shall never stop loving "thee"
Let the moon in Seas' drown:
My heart's bonded to yours for-ever,
If the world goes up-side down.

If silver souls meet together,
To form a Golden Heart,
ours will merge with one another,
Till from this world we part.

In Eternity, my fondest love,
Search not for my soul:
For i'll be within YOU, my love,
We'l exist as one whole.

tee-hee...:::::-----------PPPPPP

" "

the evening slithered into the fountain,
Like a surreptitious serpent.
why didn't you cry out then?
it is too late to exorcise your waters,
they are coloured by streaks of twilight,
which make you so opaque.
so unreadable. so confused.
you weren't like this before.
but it isn't as late as you think.

uh-oh!!

i think i might be beginning to lose some of that idiosyncratic Idealism and my "childhood's faith."
"I've tried the world, it wears no more, the colouring of Romance it wore."
And like a certain Miss Shirley, i'm immediately comforted by the romance in the IDEA of a world devoid of romance.
yes, i'm incurable and you shan't disillusion me.

some of my favourite poems...

LA FILGLIA CHE PIANGE
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE
KUBLA KHAN
THE EMPEROR OF ICE-CREAM
THE GARDEN---POUND
TO HIS COY MISTRESS
SHAKESPEARE'S 73RD
ULYSSES
PRUFROCK
MY LAST DUCHESS
MEETING AT NIGHT
" HOW DO I LOVE THEE?"...E.B.B.
SO WE'LL GO NO MORE -A-ROVING
OZYMANDIAS
THE OLD VICARAGE....
AND MANY, MANY, MANY MORE

crazystuff

The shop was old, its wares unsold,
The old man bent over the counter.
A fly buzzed in, and perched on a tin
Which would trap the milk-powder for-ever,
Till it was powder no more,
but lumps of time-hardened strangeness.

i'm confused, but mostly happy.

i wonder and ponder if...

...an Idealist never be a Pragmatist? Will Helen Schlegel always remain in opposition to the likes of Mr. Wilcox?

erm, excuse the bad poetry, but i'm tired and confused, yet determined to let out my muddled thoughts.

The sky is blushing, the birds are rushing,
Night's curtain will soon unravel,
the sun to another land will travel:
the purple cloud shrugs and sighs,
And hurriedly says a few good-byes,
as it won't be there when the sun returns,
so it cries and cries and cries...
though it has no eyes...

The sky is blushing, the birds are rushing,
Night's curtain will soon unravel,
the sun to another land will travel:
The purple cloud shrugs and sighs,
And hurriedly says a few good-byes
it won't be there when the sun returns...
so it cries and cries and cries,
though it has no eyes....
and before its time it dies.

A murmur of bees breaks my thoughts,
Their incessant buzzing murders my ideals,
The butterfly flaps its wings on my eye-lids, and
brushes away the drops.

Tonight i'll let you go, though YOU know,
we never belonged to one another,
My imagined memories of our togetherness
scatter across the leaf strewn walk
of life.

I can only hope that one leaf
won't Fall...like most of the others will.