In the midst of winter,
By the spring pools,
Where flowers bloom,
And snow melts,
Let me sing to you,
My only known love song
That fills your heart to the core!
SRINIDHI.R
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
POVERTY
At the end of the slum- street,
By the dustbins and the dirty tent,
Am left to starve,
In the hailstorms
With no food and no light,
And no bed and no clothes
I shiver in the cold
And wait to die
THE BOX FULL OF FEATHERS
An old man living by the sea,
Sent me a box full of feathers
On my wedding day!
They were so smooth and light,
And so beautiful!
But when the box fell down,
They all flew out
Flying and flying,
Flying and flying,
Till the room was filled with
Those lovely soft things of delight!
SRINIDHI.RThe Wonderful World Of Fairy Tales
On the darkest nights beside the fireplace
When the moon is high and the sky is gray,
We read the fairy tales with joy and delight,
For we ought to finish it by midday!
They are the most delightful reads,
With Cinderella and Snow White!
We let our imagination run wild,
And once again we turn into a lovely child!
We slowly enter the land of fairy tales,
Where peace and love always prevails!
With happiness having no bounds
And we attain the glorious state!
We wake up in a wonderful place
In the heart of fairy tales,
And meet the angel of love and grace
And the light shines upon her beautiful face!
She grants our wishes and bestows happiness
And we return home in a blissful state!
Fairy tales has just united us,
In a magical world,
In a magical place!
SRINIDHI.R
Friday, December 11, 2009
MY PIECE OF WRITING FOR THE MONTH-- FAIRY TALES AND HOW THEY PLAY AN IMPORTANT PART
I love to read fairy tales a lot. They are fantastic stories, full of symbolism and depth and they all convey a special message and are very much entertaining. I especially like Disney fairy tale movies-- Cinderella, Snow White and the Lion-king and the fairy tale picture books like Rapunzel, Puss in boots and Snow-White.
SRINIDHI.R
Monday, December 7, 2009
The Wave
I sat down in the hot sand and looked high up the sky. I could see a small girl next to me, with rosy cheeks busy building a sand castle. She was shouting at her mommy, saying that she had almost finished building it. I turned to my other side and watched some teenage girls in bikinis walking to the shore. God! I never get beach sick! In fact I love everything around here—the mangroves, the salt scented air and the pretty women who surf all the time. It doesn’t get much beautiful, except at night—it’s so tranquil then and brings me so much of peace and joy which would mesmerize me
Slowly when I got up and turned to leave, a small wave crashed to the sand and came up to my feet. Then I noticed the little girl crying and turned to see the sand castle, destroyed by the wave. I suddenly felt terrible to see the girl’s plight. She would have worked hard to build it. Then, I saw a small toy store by the beach. I ran and bought the girl, a toy castle and gave it to her saying,” Good girl! Keep this one safe!” The girl’s face brightened up a bit. She smiled and thanked me. I made my way out. I knew that I had begun such a lovely day! God –it’s perfect!
SRINIDHI.R
Sunday, November 22, 2009
The Thief
Anil opened the little parcel he had taken from the store. I use ‘taken’ instead of ‘stolen’ because I mean to. His small town had not seen much turbulence but the recent ruling party had encroached on their land for benefits. As a result, protests, police, lathi charges had become common. This was the time when parents asked their children to stay inside from imminent danger. To venture out only when town would be calm again.
For Anil, the world was different, and without parents. He would definitely not miss the violent hours of the day. The lesser privileged had started indulging in looting and destroying shops also. Anil would quietly stand behind the shops and pick up something from here and there. Learning to live on his own his collection of items had grown systematically.
He looked around with sparkling eyes. On his left was a toaster, which was brand new. He had trouble lifting the big square box to his shelter. He did not know why it had a window. But the pictures on it seemed like food. He had many flower vases, crockery, glasses. It would appear to be a shop, his shelter.
Today’s prize was peculiar though. It was small but the wrapping is what caught his eyes. He did not want to open it or spoil the beauty, he just stared at it.
Just then his door blew open.
“You thief you steal from us! That gift you hold now was for my daughter”
“I am not a thief, I am small and I collect from what is already plundered.”
“You maybe small but you are a devil, look at this place, Oh my God even I don’t own a microwave oven”
He slapped him but the boy didn’t shake.
“You don’t have micro because you don’t have the brains to get one. ”
He grew red. “You little rascal I do not steal like you do”
He slapped him again.
The boy sat upright, his hands in tension.
“Even a dozen other people who actually loot the place, do you have the balls to hit them? And I know why you have come here. To take the stuff I took from the market. And all this drama you are doing is to subdue your own conscience. You are more lowly than a thief because you steal from the small and the weak. You don’t even have the guts to steal first hand. You are a parasite”
He returned to his normal colour. He had not expected such a rebuttal from this small kid.
Suddenly a small girl came running. “Papa thanks for the gift”
The man stared shocked. He was accusing the small boy of something which he had not done.
The time had come and the boy had gone
What remained was nothing much
Little fragments of memory
Battered childhood territory
For Anil, the world was different, and without parents. He would definitely not miss the violent hours of the day. The lesser privileged had started indulging in looting and destroying shops also. Anil would quietly stand behind the shops and pick up something from here and there. Learning to live on his own his collection of items had grown systematically.
He looked around with sparkling eyes. On his left was a toaster, which was brand new. He had trouble lifting the big square box to his shelter. He did not know why it had a window. But the pictures on it seemed like food. He had many flower vases, crockery, glasses. It would appear to be a shop, his shelter.
Today’s prize was peculiar though. It was small but the wrapping is what caught his eyes. He did not want to open it or spoil the beauty, he just stared at it.
Just then his door blew open.
“You thief you steal from us! That gift you hold now was for my daughter”
“I am not a thief, I am small and I collect from what is already plundered.”
“You maybe small but you are a devil, look at this place, Oh my God even I don’t own a microwave oven”
He slapped him but the boy didn’t shake.
“You don’t have micro because you don’t have the brains to get one. ”
He grew red. “You little rascal I do not steal like you do”
He slapped him again.
The boy sat upright, his hands in tension.
“Even a dozen other people who actually loot the place, do you have the balls to hit them? And I know why you have come here. To take the stuff I took from the market. And all this drama you are doing is to subdue your own conscience. You are more lowly than a thief because you steal from the small and the weak. You don’t even have the guts to steal first hand. You are a parasite”
He returned to his normal colour. He had not expected such a rebuttal from this small kid.
Suddenly a small girl came running. “Papa thanks for the gift”
The man stared shocked. He was accusing the small boy of something which he had not done.
The time had come and the boy had gone
What remained was nothing much
Little fragments of memory
Battered childhood territory
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
God Played Game with Me- A NOVEL
I am writing this novel, need comments on how to improve writing or the way i write seems fine??? Need suggestions for the same from all.I have quoted the beginning. Please help me out improving my skills... Plz mail personal comments on brutesin@gmail.com
Thanks in Advance
Door bell rings, the same old hard rock music which scares those who are unknown of it. I am Raj, I live in here.
‘Hey Raj anything urgent, you called me in so hurry?’ said Tanya as she entered in his apartment.
‘Yeah something like that, where are the other two, our twin friends, I2 Inesh and Ipsa?’
Both I2 are on way Raj, I came on time today and you are counting on them instead?’
‘Sorry Tanya, I have very exciting thing to tell’.
‘Raj again you are wearing Cap at home?’
‘It’s trendy’ said Raj.
Tanya made surprised face as Raj never liked to wear a cap.
Raj is a lucky guy who got a place to live in posh Mumbai, i.e. because of his uncle who is an NRI. Raj got a place and his uncle got someone known to take care of his things.
Bell rung, it was Inesh and Ipsa. Inesh is somewhat slim, looks more like a girl but his sister Ipsa looks extremely beautiful. Both are twins but seem they have no energy.
Tanya on other side is a bit plump; she often starts her diet plan of fruits for a week, which increased her weight in first week. Later she lost a lot weight too. Now she eats all junk food and do diet plan in every three months.
‘No time, gotta go soon to work Raj. What’s so urgent?’
‘Listen guys, I have a story to tell. Where is Sunny, the funny?’
‘Raj you called him too?’ said Tanya who was once in love with Sunny but now hates him due to his careless nature.
Bell rung and Sunny was at the door.
‘Hey Sunny, come in’ I said and got him in.
Tanya had a bad impression on her face.
I took everyone in my room and started.
‘Listen Raj its two right now, I need to be back at work by three thirty’ said Tanya.
‘Me too, I need to get back to gym dude’ said Sunny showing his importance of time felt to Tanya.
I smiled and asked them to get comfortable. The twins were still jobless and it was Republic day today.
‘I need to tell a story’.
‘Are you mad? On Republic day, you called up to tell a story?’
‘Listen Tanya, I need to tell the story. You people are close to me so I called you people. Today is a holiday, I can understand Gym but Tanya all offices are closed today’.
Tanya a bit sort of foolish girl says things and later search for valid reason. She said ‘Start story soon, else I will leave’.
‘But before starting I want to tell you all one thing’.
‘What?’
‘It’s a real story, and no one will interrupt me in between’.
‘Get me some coffee first’ said Ipsa. She had a flunked a lot many times in exam. Both twins hated each other because they looked alike. They liked each other long back but when they grew everyone started to compare each other for every reason. Obviously one would be superior to other.
Raj got coffee and gave to Ipsa.
‘So fast Raj, great’ said Tanya.
Destiny- As in my way
Is it the fact or myth when people say “It happened because it was supposed to happen?” Relations are by god’s grace, is it destiny or something else? It’s been hard for me to believe few things, but later felt all was supposed to happen.
I read in newspaper about a guy who jumped in front of train to test God power, people say he was jerk. Right now he has his limb cut and a visitor said “Its destiny, it was supposed to happen and it did”.
I thought if he would have not jumped it won’t have happened???
Though hard but fact is still the same, we say whatever happened was destined. We live in a very conservative world and can’t change past but can live in reality and plan for future. Only thing in our hand is to plan things as we like, whether it happens accordingly is all hardship mixed with luck. People call it destiny when things are over and it becomes history.
If I talk about marriage, people say pairs are made in heaven. People meet talk and marry, all called destiny, but still I feel a lot thoughtful on it. People marry and many divorces too, were they married to wrong person and wrongly destined?
All given names of fate and destiny by us only. If death is called nature so is destiny? We all believe in God, never seen only heard by ancestors. Is God myth or truth, right now I don’t want to argue over the issue but I believe in God as I get inner power and support whenever I am low and alone.
An atheist says that it’s our brain who instructs us to pursue things, whether right or wrong.
While god’s disciple says that it’s the supreme power who guides us through to do things, whether right or wrong. Sometimes I feel a lot disheartened when things are not going in my favor, that also after my best efforts. When I discussed with a friend he told that’s destiny dear. It was supposed to happen. I think and say to all that if things were supposed to happen then why we all put our efforts to change the things in our favor. We can sit quietly and let things happen.
Finally I disagreed to destiny by luck and believe in destiny by efforts and whatever fails to happen in favor I will think nothing.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Pabulum
I see a water tanker or a tractor full of soil moving from one place to another. We transfer oil by pipes, trains etc. and generate monetary. We are earning profit on things whose cost price is null. Soon a time is going to come when we will start buying/selling air too. Presently, we need air for breathing and also for communication at least from receiver to ear. We are talking about 3G or 4G communication. We are progressing in technology but, at the same time tearing our nature apart.
Is this the progress in technology or only a work around?
Our scientists are busy in finding the inception of universe or developing a high end mobile phone.
Did we really made any advancement in technology? If so, why are we not having any thing parallel to water, soil or oil?
In fact we are too lazy to put off any unused electrical appliances.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
"Where is the love?"
"I don't miss friendship.I miss love though."
I loved this line I picked up from a random blog ( The Grey confessions by Dev)
Its so true..and this line just made me realise my morals that have gone with the wind..I mean, literally..!
I could honestly relate myself to this. I remember a time when I was a people person. I used to find my fix in people, loved being around with them.
But in time I realised that I trusted people but not the devil inside them. They came as such disappointment to me.The more surprising fact is, you cant really blame them, coz someone right now maybe saying this same thing in reference to us.
So does that mean people are unintentionally selfish and downtrodden without even realising it, just like us at the end of the day..?!
Monday, September 14, 2009
when a man becomes a man
lit cigarrete high brows curls in his hair
slimy nose sweaty face and a look forlorn
can't get up can't sit down, his ass hurts
not for reasons you think yay it's coz he fell from a tree
what was young jim doing on a tree
didn't every thrill kill a man before he was a man
and when does a man become a man
is it age or just sanctuary
is it wisdom or mere selfishness
a man becomes a man says jim
when he falls down from a tree and hurts his ass
a man becomes a man jim says
when his heart breaks no more
when he sits beside the woman on bed
and quietly puffs his marijuana cigarrette
a man becomes a man jim says
when his fingers move caressing ova
never too deep and never to dip
and his smile is as nonchalant as it comes
a man becomes a man jim says
when his days are outnumbered you see
when he is lost you see
down can't get up and can't sit down
a man becomes a man jim says
when he hurts his ass dumb you see
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa: the old movie
I am writing here, or anywhere (but for my diary & my facebook status updates) after an aeon (have been thinking more and writing less for the past couple of months) Not that I have a lot to say now. Anyway, sharing the video link of one of SRK's earliest movies "Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa", when he was fresh from theatre and had an undiluted method to his work (my thoughts purely)
<1:40:00 to 1:44:00 in this link> http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-579915694811968072
The following scene is made special by...you know who... Considering that the whole movie was otherwise a good but spoof-like comedy, srk pulls off a gem here...Notice the nonsense going around his role in this scene <1:40:00 to 1:44:00 in the link> ...can't imagine anybody else doing this part... and I like it better than any of the other more popular srk sob scenes...
Because I could never really know what I liked so much about the movie, it remains one of my most favourite movies. (that's how all my attachments (and detatchments) in life have been: unexplainable)
see if u want to :)
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A FLOWER
Flower I am,
Blossomed today morning
With all my cousins’
A priest came,
Plucked me and placed me on the temple of,
GOD.
I couldn’t be more happy then this
I am the luckiest flower in the world.
As I shone in the tiara of deity
My cousins’ tone is jealously.
Then dusk arrived,
Then dawn arrived.
The priest came,
Lifted me up and fling me in the bin.
I lay there and slowly thaw out.
I am the luckiest flower in the world.
***
Blossomed today morning
With all my cousins’
A priest came,
Plucked me and placed me on the temple of,
GOD.
I couldn’t be more happy then this
I am the luckiest flower in the world.
As I shone in the tiara of deity
My cousins’ tone is jealously.
Then dusk arrived,
Then dawn arrived.
The priest came,
Lifted me up and fling me in the bin.
I lay there and slowly thaw out.
I am the luckiest flower in the world.
***
The Mediterranean Blues
Blue skys
Bluer waters
Spotless landscapes
Simplified lives
All needs met
Recession
hurts
…just, mildly
larger pleasures
opt out
for smaller ones
They hear about
but feel not
the tribulations
of the third world
A world where
Every effort is
a struggle
bringing with it
despair & dejection
Making every triumph
a much worthier
achievement!
Nevertheless
It is my familiar
ground
My world
Where sorrows reap
bounty harvests
& existence
becomes therefore
more meaningful
So I ask myself
What am I doing here,
In this foreign land
-Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Nimo N. Menon
Bluer waters
Spotless landscapes
Simplified lives
All needs met
Recession
hurts
…just, mildly
larger pleasures
opt out
for smaller ones
They hear about
but feel not
the tribulations
of the third world
A world where
Every effort is
a struggle
bringing with it
despair & dejection
Making every triumph
a much worthier
achievement!
Nevertheless
It is my familiar
ground
My world
Where sorrows reap
bounty harvests
& existence
becomes therefore
more meaningful
So I ask myself
What am I doing here,
In this foreign land
-Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Nimo N. Menon
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Thank you MWC! - My book is getting published.
Dear all,
I just signed a contract with a Delhi based publisher for my book. This publisher was referred to me by MWC. Cedar books at New Delhi are the imprint of Pustak Mahal. They were looking for a fiction subject post Independence. My book is based on the events of 1971 Indo-Pak war. We hope to bring it out by this year end.
MWC is a great forum and it is definitely doing its job on getting our work recognized. I feel proud to be a part of this.
Eagerly waiting to bring my book out and thanks a ton moacha!
I just signed a contract with a Delhi based publisher for my book. This publisher was referred to me by MWC. Cedar books at New Delhi are the imprint of Pustak Mahal. They were looking for a fiction subject post Independence. My book is based on the events of 1971 Indo-Pak war. We hope to bring it out by this year end.
MWC is a great forum and it is definitely doing its job on getting our work recognized. I feel proud to be a part of this.
Eagerly waiting to bring my book out and thanks a ton moacha!
Monday, September 7, 2009
Minutes of the Last Meeting and a meesage in response to my tag of "Dress Designer"
Dear ALL,
The Mocha Writers' Meeting we had on Sunday was a great success despite the fact that there was six of us. Despite the low turnout (do we expect any less!) we managed to sit for 2 1/2 hours discussing many things on the topic and off the topic but I'm proud to say it wasn't another waste of hours sorting out peoples admin issues like "how to use the blog" or "whats the password" etc.
We turned the chairs around and had a round table discussion about three topics:
1. Writing - why do we write?
2. Inspiration - what inspires us individually to write?
3. Writing in India - does our geographical position make a difference about the topics we choose to write about? Or do we stick to the tried and tested?
I had picked these three topics because A. I felt it was appropriate to bring this basic discussion back into the foray after some much needed impetus had been lost and B. a child recently asked me "why do you write Ravin?" and i didn't know what to say to him.
We had some great insight about how anything positive seen by Srinidhi can make him want to write forever, but what about negative aspects, others asked?
We had a guest from the States who said she writes into newspapers all the time complaining about certain civic matters she sees on the streets of India, hence her writing is inspired by negative aspects.
The conversation changed to India once water was served (after asking numerous times for it!) and we discussed Indian writing and how the lack of open-mindedness in the nation can sometimes mean the writing is subject to this problem too. Some great views and insights were added and I feel all members, who didn't turn up, missed the opinions about where India is today as a nation and how that projection as a nation is as much to do with the writing (newspapers, books etc) as it is to do with the person.
One fantastic conversation was the background behind regionalism in India, and how languages of regions and the proud labels associated with those languages and the eloquent nature of these phonetic sounds when spoken are effected when the English translation is later manifested for this (i.e poem, song etc from say Tamil to English). We asked ourselves, does the text lose its purpose and meaning?
All our shared experiences meant something and I'm proud to say that the meeting was a fantastic insight into thoughts about issues we would prefer discussing with our cats instead otherwise we'd be probably sound loopy in some way... :)
Finally I would like to add that i recently saw this (below) posted on the blog and only felt it right that i responded:
posted by Rajan at mochawritersclub - 2 days ago
The Mocha Writers' Meeting we had on Sunday was a great success despite the fact that there was six of us. Despite the low turnout (do we expect any less!) we managed to sit for 2 1/2 hours discussing many things on the topic and off the topic but I'm proud to say it wasn't another waste of hours sorting out peoples admin issues like "how to use the blog" or "whats the password" etc.
We turned the chairs around and had a round table discussion about three topics:
1. Writing - why do we write?
2. Inspiration - what inspires us individually to write?
3. Writing in India - does our geographical position make a difference about the topics we choose to write about? Or do we stick to the tried and tested?
I had picked these three topics because A. I felt it was appropriate to bring this basic discussion back into the foray after some much needed impetus had been lost and B. a child recently asked me "why do you write Ravin?" and i didn't know what to say to him.
We had some great insight about how anything positive seen by Srinidhi can make him want to write forever, but what about negative aspects, others asked?
We had a guest from the States who said she writes into newspapers all the time complaining about certain civic matters she sees on the streets of India, hence her writing is inspired by negative aspects.
The conversation changed to India once water was served (after asking numerous times for it!) and we discussed Indian writing and how the lack of open-mindedness in the nation can sometimes mean the writing is subject to this problem too. Some great views and insights were added and I feel all members, who didn't turn up, missed the opinions about where India is today as a nation and how that projection as a nation is as much to do with the writing (newspapers, books etc) as it is to do with the person.
One fantastic conversation was the background behind regionalism in India, and how languages of regions and the proud labels associated with those languages and the eloquent nature of these phonetic sounds when spoken are effected when the English translation is later manifested for this (i.e poem, song etc from say Tamil to English). We asked ourselves, does the text lose its purpose and meaning?
All our shared experiences meant something and I'm proud to say that the meeting was a fantastic insight into thoughts about issues we would prefer discussing with our cats instead otherwise we'd be probably sound loopy in some way... :)
Finally I would like to add that i recently saw this (below) posted on the blog and only felt it right that i responded:
I read in Runa's mail that this month's meeting will be chaired by Ravin. Is Ravin a writer or is he a dress designer? I ask this question because I have not yet seen a single posting of this person on t...
In my opinion, i feel something of a real shame here. Firstly i would like to clarify that claiming you know something about somebody and writing it on a public forum is a risky scenario. Whoever thought i was a dress designer is certainly on planet Mars and not the Earth i currently live on. Secondly, my magazine background for a "Lifestyle" magazine, i REPEAT, "Lifestyle" magazine, doesn't autmotically mean someone is a dress designer. Thats like saying the great Arun Purie of India Today group is a make-up artist because he puts himself as Editor-In-Chief of Cosmopolitan India. Unfortunately, for one to think that way only makes one have a rather small mind in my opinion.
Secondly, for all of you that know me (and quite clearly judging by this now deleted blog post i refer to above, some of you bloody well don't! :)) i have said from the outset that neither will i contribute nor will i write on the blog of Mocha Writers' Club or add any of my writings because a. i dont have the time (honestly) b. i have my own blog with 3,000 viewers in India and 10,000 NRI's worldwide and c. my blog is my take on life - what i write there is the the only writing i will do publicly as i am committed to other things.
Thirdly, to make the judgement that by someones frequency in blog postings on the MWC blog is directly related to their abilties as a chairperson is possibly the most backward and ignorant way of thinking. I have said before that me in person is my contribution to MWC and not some half-hearted crap about something or other on the blog. This works for me and i guess thats why everybody remembers my name everytime i turn up - impressions count you see.
Let me add that myself and Runa (and i would like to say Nemo Menon too) put in the greatest work ethic we can to chair meetings. Are we scared to chair them? No. Are we scared to talk? No. The thing is we are good at what we do which is to try our best to lead the masses. The MWC has its faults, no doubt, and we have ours (hell just ask my Girlfriend she'll tell you!) but i would like to say who else has even taken a initiative to chair a meeting? Chairing a meeting isn't a given, and it shouldn't be taken for granted that someone will always chair. I find people expect it - why not give it a try yourselfs? You get only that for which you give. So for me, writing about stars in the night on the MWC is hardly a contribution when you cant even have the decency to turn up to meetings or offer to chair them.
Finally, I wouldn't go into my writing abilties to prove to anybody whether im a worthy chairman or not, thats not like me. But i will say this.
The same person (and many many share this persons view) wrote on the blog this nice poem:
Perhaps
It's the mightiest stars
That shine the faintest
So that it takes
The sharpest eyes to espy them
I would like to say that may be it is me who shines so faintly on the MWC blog, and it is thee who doesn't have the sharpest eyes to espy them.
Thank You and Goodnight.
http://travellingsampat.blogspot.com
sampat.ravin@gmail.com
In my opinion, i feel something of a real shame here. Firstly i would like to clarify that claiming you know something about somebody and writing it on a public forum is a risky scenario. Whoever thought i was a dress designer is certainly on planet Mars and not the Earth i currently live on. Secondly, my magazine background for a "Lifestyle" magazine, i REPEAT, "Lifestyle" magazine, doesn't autmotically mean someone is a dress designer. Thats like saying the great Arun Purie of India Today group is a make-up artist because he puts himself as Editor-In-Chief of Cosmopolitan India. Unfortunately, for one to think that way only makes one have a rather small mind in my opinion.
Secondly, for all of you that know me (and quite clearly judging by this now deleted blog post i refer to above, some of you bloody well don't! :)) i have said from the outset that neither will i contribute nor will i write on the blog of Mocha Writers' Club or add any of my writings because a. i dont have the time (honestly) b. i have my own blog with 3,000 viewers in India and 10,000 NRI's worldwide and c. my blog is my take on life - what i write there is the the only writing i will do publicly as i am committed to other things.
Thirdly, to make the judgement that by someones frequency in blog postings on the MWC blog is directly related to their abilties as a chairperson is possibly the most backward and ignorant way of thinking. I have said before that me in person is my contribution to MWC and not some half-hearted crap about something or other on the blog. This works for me and i guess thats why everybody remembers my name everytime i turn up - impressions count you see.
Let me add that myself and Runa (and i would like to say Nemo Menon too) put in the greatest work ethic we can to chair meetings. Are we scared to chair them? No. Are we scared to talk? No. The thing is we are good at what we do which is to try our best to lead the masses. The MWC has its faults, no doubt, and we have ours (hell just ask my Girlfriend she'll tell you!) but i would like to say who else has even taken a initiative to chair a meeting? Chairing a meeting isn't a given, and it shouldn't be taken for granted that someone will always chair. I find people expect it - why not give it a try yourselfs? You get only that for which you give. So for me, writing about stars in the night on the MWC is hardly a contribution when you cant even have the decency to turn up to meetings or offer to chair them.
Finally, I wouldn't go into my writing abilties to prove to anybody whether im a worthy chairman or not, thats not like me. But i will say this.
The same person (and many many share this persons view) wrote on the blog this nice poem:
Perhaps
It's the mightiest stars
That shine the faintest
So that it takes
The sharpest eyes to espy them
I would like to say that may be it is me who shines so faintly on the MWC blog, and it is thee who doesn't have the sharpest eyes to espy them.
Thank You and Goodnight.
http://travellingsampat.blogspot.com
sampat.ravin@gmail.com
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Figuratively Speaking
Figuratively speaking,
We have evolved into
an era
Where we are nothing
but abstract
objects de art
Mummified and embalmed
fatalistic and bizarre
We have
but have not
As we are not.
Merely transmundane
figures
from a world beyond
Enigmatic
Sceptical
Mozzled
The unfortunate survivors
in a tentative land.
3rd January 2007, Monaco
TNHL, Nimo Menon
We have evolved into
an era
Where we are nothing
but abstract
objects de art
Mummified and embalmed
fatalistic and bizarre
We have
but have not
As we are not.
Merely transmundane
figures
from a world beyond
Enigmatic
Sceptical
Mozzled
The unfortunate survivors
in a tentative land.
3rd January 2007, Monaco
TNHL, Nimo Menon
Sense and Sensitivity
Callous lifestyles
Brutal interactions
Impenetrable carapaces
Lachrymose existences
Bringing to mind
a time when the realms
of gentleness,
love and compassion
never ceased to be
A time when beauty
and generosity
were unrelenting
and there for the taking
A time when life did
not seem such a
tiresome race.
A time when there was
melody and harmony
and the plural will
to live
A time when the sense
of passion
did not override
the sense of being
humane.
A time when we
were responsible
for our every action.
When time stood still
and there were takers
But Alas, our desperation
for success
in this rat race
Has left us starved
of the very sensitivity
we need
to build a better
world today.
2nd January 2007, Monaco
TNHL, Nimo Menon
Brutal interactions
Impenetrable carapaces
Lachrymose existences
Bringing to mind
a time when the realms
of gentleness,
love and compassion
never ceased to be
A time when beauty
and generosity
were unrelenting
and there for the taking
A time when life did
not seem such a
tiresome race.
A time when there was
melody and harmony
and the plural will
to live
A time when the sense
of passion
did not override
the sense of being
humane.
A time when we
were responsible
for our every action.
When time stood still
and there were takers
But Alas, our desperation
for success
in this rat race
Has left us starved
of the very sensitivity
we need
to build a better
world today.
2nd January 2007, Monaco
TNHL, Nimo Menon
Towards a New Harmony with Life
What a glorious world it was then
when I was little
with never a care whether or not
one was right
or one was wrong.
Waking up each morning
to birds chirping
Oh! For that carefree feeling!
The sound of dribbling balls
and trickling waters
Of open blue skies
with white cotton tufts
Like candy floss
ready to sink my teeth into
Beckoning me to head outdoors
And then, after a long days play
running back to a place called home.
To Mother’s cuddlesome warmth
and her delicious bakes
The sound of her softly humming
tender refrains
reflecting her truly gentle spirit
I wonder today
Were all my friends so lucky?
The memory of early teenage years
with its long walks, ice cream in hand
discussing the latest Grecian tales read
or merely indulging in light hearted banter
huddling around bonfires
or watching cricket matches
giggling from high verandas
at just how awkward boys could be.
Life today, with its heartbreaks and
miseries
Can hardly compare with those times
When happiness came in cupfuls-
unending and seemingly forever!
Today, we must make a bid
To take each day gracefully
…as now is the time for placid refrains
and calm, contained overtures
…for a peace within ourselves
amongst ourselves
towards a new harmony with life.
20th May 2003, Monte Carlo
From'Towards a new harmony with life'
by Nimo N.Menon
when I was little
with never a care whether or not
one was right
or one was wrong.
Waking up each morning
to birds chirping
Oh! For that carefree feeling!
The sound of dribbling balls
and trickling waters
Of open blue skies
with white cotton tufts
Like candy floss
ready to sink my teeth into
Beckoning me to head outdoors
And then, after a long days play
running back to a place called home.
To Mother’s cuddlesome warmth
and her delicious bakes
The sound of her softly humming
tender refrains
reflecting her truly gentle spirit
I wonder today
Were all my friends so lucky?
The memory of early teenage years
with its long walks, ice cream in hand
discussing the latest Grecian tales read
or merely indulging in light hearted banter
huddling around bonfires
or watching cricket matches
giggling from high verandas
at just how awkward boys could be.
Life today, with its heartbreaks and
miseries
Can hardly compare with those times
When happiness came in cupfuls-
unending and seemingly forever!
Today, we must make a bid
To take each day gracefully
…as now is the time for placid refrains
and calm, contained overtures
…for a peace within ourselves
amongst ourselves
towards a new harmony with life.
20th May 2003, Monte Carlo
From'Towards a new harmony with life'
by Nimo N.Menon
Thursday, August 13, 2009
The strangers
Like all opium addicts, I really wish to quit, but am unable to.
I usually decide to quit when some money comes my way. Then I would buy a good amount of the best opium pedaled in our city, tell myself that this is the last trip you had, and eat the whole of it. I usually indulge in these ‘last trips’ all alone in deserted places like the litter zones or graveyards. Graveyards, I like the most. They are the strongest reminders of the transience of life, the permanence of death, and the unreasonable tyranny of fate over man. I enjoy my trips the most in the somber solemnity of a graveyard.
This time, I had enough opium to stone a horse. Never before, have I ever had enough money to buy this much of the dope; and of this good quality. I chose to sit on a tombstone that stood a bit apart from the others. A soul lonely in death too, as it might have been in life!
My deft hands quickly flew over the sachet, undoing it in the flash of a moment. The dope was strong and it hit hard—instantly. I finished the whole of it in two shots and was, before long, lost in a mysterious magic world of fantastic dreams and bizarre flights of imagination. I don’t remember when I fell asleep.
When I woke up, it was dark in the graveyard.
Now there was not even a grain of opium left with me and the withdrawals had started. The withdrawals of opium are veritable hell... so painful that an addict would stick at nothing for the next dose. Yet, a graveyard is the last place where you can find opium; that too in the night. So there was nothing I could do, but lie on the cold tombstone writhing and sighing in pain.
Suddenly, I saw a man approaching me, walking quite fast through the labyrinth of tombstones. He, in fact, came straight to me. He was a powerfully built middle-aged man of good height and a serious, no-nonsense demeanor. I sat up and greeted the stranger. He grinned—a sudden, spontaneous, boyish grin.
“Turking?” he asked cheerfully, “Well, I too am. I am hunting for a pinch of paste. Want to join me?”
I sprang up—relieved that I had met someone in my own plight and was, soon, walking beside the stranger in silence. The man seemed to be quite familiar with the place. We jumped over a wall and then walked down the road, which was dimly-lit and deserted. Before long, we saw another man coming against us.
Seeing this, the stranger exclaimed “Hey, look who is coming! John, of all! We are saved, thank God.”
When he reached us, the stranger greeted him loudly while John smiled back…a quaint, wistful smile.
“Come on, Johnny dear…give us a grain. We need it like hell! My friend over here and I.”
John smiled at me coyly and I smiled back.
“Thank you Johnny!” the stranger remarked as John handed him over what looked like a fairly big sachet of the narcotic. John nodded his head and left quietly.
“Now, let’s hit this at once”, said the stranger.
We sat on a culvert by the road and the stranger started opening the sachet, humming to himself. I though it was time I broke the ice.
‘This John,” I ventured to ask, “Is he your friend? He seems to be a good man.”
The stranger gave me a puzzled look.
“Friend he is,” he replied guardedly, kneading the dope, “But good man…well, I don’t know. For, the scoundrel was hanged for murdering me.”
“Hanged? Murdered?” I almost shouted back in shock.
This made the stranger grin… his sudden boyish grin.
“Everyone has this confusion in the beginning,” he said heartily. “Do you know who you are? You had croaked yesterday, lying on that tombstone—probably from an overdose of opium.”
V K Rajan
I usually decide to quit when some money comes my way. Then I would buy a good amount of the best opium pedaled in our city, tell myself that this is the last trip you had, and eat the whole of it. I usually indulge in these ‘last trips’ all alone in deserted places like the litter zones or graveyards. Graveyards, I like the most. They are the strongest reminders of the transience of life, the permanence of death, and the unreasonable tyranny of fate over man. I enjoy my trips the most in the somber solemnity of a graveyard.
This time, I had enough opium to stone a horse. Never before, have I ever had enough money to buy this much of the dope; and of this good quality. I chose to sit on a tombstone that stood a bit apart from the others. A soul lonely in death too, as it might have been in life!
My deft hands quickly flew over the sachet, undoing it in the flash of a moment. The dope was strong and it hit hard—instantly. I finished the whole of it in two shots and was, before long, lost in a mysterious magic world of fantastic dreams and bizarre flights of imagination. I don’t remember when I fell asleep.
When I woke up, it was dark in the graveyard.
Now there was not even a grain of opium left with me and the withdrawals had started. The withdrawals of opium are veritable hell... so painful that an addict would stick at nothing for the next dose. Yet, a graveyard is the last place where you can find opium; that too in the night. So there was nothing I could do, but lie on the cold tombstone writhing and sighing in pain.
Suddenly, I saw a man approaching me, walking quite fast through the labyrinth of tombstones. He, in fact, came straight to me. He was a powerfully built middle-aged man of good height and a serious, no-nonsense demeanor. I sat up and greeted the stranger. He grinned—a sudden, spontaneous, boyish grin.
“Turking?” he asked cheerfully, “Well, I too am. I am hunting for a pinch of paste. Want to join me?”
I sprang up—relieved that I had met someone in my own plight and was, soon, walking beside the stranger in silence. The man seemed to be quite familiar with the place. We jumped over a wall and then walked down the road, which was dimly-lit and deserted. Before long, we saw another man coming against us.
Seeing this, the stranger exclaimed “Hey, look who is coming! John, of all! We are saved, thank God.”
When he reached us, the stranger greeted him loudly while John smiled back…a quaint, wistful smile.
“Come on, Johnny dear…give us a grain. We need it like hell! My friend over here and I.”
John smiled at me coyly and I smiled back.
“Thank you Johnny!” the stranger remarked as John handed him over what looked like a fairly big sachet of the narcotic. John nodded his head and left quietly.
“Now, let’s hit this at once”, said the stranger.
We sat on a culvert by the road and the stranger started opening the sachet, humming to himself. I though it was time I broke the ice.
‘This John,” I ventured to ask, “Is he your friend? He seems to be a good man.”
The stranger gave me a puzzled look.
“Friend he is,” he replied guardedly, kneading the dope, “But good man…well, I don’t know. For, the scoundrel was hanged for murdering me.”
“Hanged? Murdered?” I almost shouted back in shock.
This made the stranger grin… his sudden boyish grin.
“Everyone has this confusion in the beginning,” he said heartily. “Do you know who you are? You had croaked yesterday, lying on that tombstone—probably from an overdose of opium.”
V K Rajan
Lost long ago
Towards the end of the journey, the landscape becomes sketchy…distinguishing things from their shadows becomes difficult. The horizon seems to have come within your reach. Inside you, there is complete silence…as if someone has, at last, resigned to something imminent.
The letters on this newspaper appear to me as a thick continuous line with corrugated contours. To read them, I need to wear my glasses. But the photographs are somewhat vaguely visible, even without glasses. I amuse myself by looking at them. Some of the faces remind me of persons whom I have known, loved, and lost somewhere on the way. Sometimes they take you to the bygone shores...and you see their smiles again; hear their voices.
For instance, this little photograph in today’s newspaper takes me somewhere in the distant past.
It is a university campus. The corridors are strident with the laughter and merriment of young women and men. They are the students. I see a dark young man with a sad face. Painfully thin in appearance, extremely withdrawn in his disposition. He was, I remember, mostly lonely. And I see her. Shobha a vibrant, lively little girl, always animated, always talking…who laughed like the jingling of anklets…cried like the skies of June. They liked each other a lot.
On three or four occasions perhaps, they had shared some moments of togetherness under the trees in the campus. Moments that had made the world feel like paradise.
“What will be your…I mean our son’s name?” She asked, nudging him playfully.
“He must become a poet…” He remarked meditatively.
“So let’s name him Rabindranath?” She retorted.
“Great!” He said, “And if it is a girl?”
“Mrinalini…or Meenakumari…she must become a famous dancer or actress!”
But the days of enchantment ended rather suddenly.
“I guess I am no one special to you.” There was anger in the young man’s voice, pain on his face, and desperation in his eyes. The girl stared back, obviously hurt, anguished, and upset. Youth has its own ways with men and women. Not he. Not she. Neither compromised. And they parted.
Then there were those days of guilt, dejection, and distress. She used to visit him often in difficult dreams.
She held a suitcase in her hands. Here eyes were swollen and red with crying.
“I am going” she sobbed “Why did you hurt me?”
“No!” he pleaded, “Don’t leave me!”
She wore a beautiful skirt of a strange kind. “Look, I have become a butterfly! You love this butterfly, don’t you?” She smiled mischievously. He ran after the butterfly. But the dream vanished. The butterfly disappeared.
Gradually the dreams became less frequent. Timereplaced those wounds with deeper and more severe ones. A great healer indeed, time is! And soon after, Shobha stopped visiting me altogether.
Yet, strangely enough, I dreamt her the night before, after fifty long years.
I was taking an examination. My seat was by a window. There was pin-drop silence in the hall. The paper was difficult and I was feeling uneasy. Suddenly Shobha appeared at the window, she was standing outside. “My exam is over”, she whispered, “There are certain things I did not understand. You might know the answers. I am waiting for you…at the gates.”
The dream ended abruptly and when I woke up, only a gust of cold wind swept past me, escaping into the eternal freedom outside the window.
When I wear my glasses, I can clearly see the photograph in this newspaper. The face of a vibrant, lively little girl…she laughed like the jingling of anklets and cried like the skies of June. And I read the small note under the photograph:
Obituary:
Second day of demise. Shobha Ranganathan. Sorrowing family.
Daughters: Mrinalini, Meenakumari. Grandson: Rabindranath.
V K Rajan
The letters on this newspaper appear to me as a thick continuous line with corrugated contours. To read them, I need to wear my glasses. But the photographs are somewhat vaguely visible, even without glasses. I amuse myself by looking at them. Some of the faces remind me of persons whom I have known, loved, and lost somewhere on the way. Sometimes they take you to the bygone shores...and you see their smiles again; hear their voices.
For instance, this little photograph in today’s newspaper takes me somewhere in the distant past.
It is a university campus. The corridors are strident with the laughter and merriment of young women and men. They are the students. I see a dark young man with a sad face. Painfully thin in appearance, extremely withdrawn in his disposition. He was, I remember, mostly lonely. And I see her. Shobha a vibrant, lively little girl, always animated, always talking…who laughed like the jingling of anklets…cried like the skies of June. They liked each other a lot.
On three or four occasions perhaps, they had shared some moments of togetherness under the trees in the campus. Moments that had made the world feel like paradise.
“What will be your…I mean our son’s name?” She asked, nudging him playfully.
“He must become a poet…” He remarked meditatively.
“So let’s name him Rabindranath?” She retorted.
“Great!” He said, “And if it is a girl?”
“Mrinalini…or Meenakumari…she must become a famous dancer or actress!”
But the days of enchantment ended rather suddenly.
“I guess I am no one special to you.” There was anger in the young man’s voice, pain on his face, and desperation in his eyes. The girl stared back, obviously hurt, anguished, and upset. Youth has its own ways with men and women. Not he. Not she. Neither compromised. And they parted.
Then there were those days of guilt, dejection, and distress. She used to visit him often in difficult dreams.
She held a suitcase in her hands. Here eyes were swollen and red with crying.
“I am going” she sobbed “Why did you hurt me?”
“No!” he pleaded, “Don’t leave me!”
She wore a beautiful skirt of a strange kind. “Look, I have become a butterfly! You love this butterfly, don’t you?” She smiled mischievously. He ran after the butterfly. But the dream vanished. The butterfly disappeared.
Gradually the dreams became less frequent. Timereplaced those wounds with deeper and more severe ones. A great healer indeed, time is! And soon after, Shobha stopped visiting me altogether.
Yet, strangely enough, I dreamt her the night before, after fifty long years.
I was taking an examination. My seat was by a window. There was pin-drop silence in the hall. The paper was difficult and I was feeling uneasy. Suddenly Shobha appeared at the window, she was standing outside. “My exam is over”, she whispered, “There are certain things I did not understand. You might know the answers. I am waiting for you…at the gates.”
The dream ended abruptly and when I woke up, only a gust of cold wind swept past me, escaping into the eternal freedom outside the window.
When I wear my glasses, I can clearly see the photograph in this newspaper. The face of a vibrant, lively little girl…she laughed like the jingling of anklets and cried like the skies of June. And I read the small note under the photograph:
Obituary:
Second day of demise. Shobha Ranganathan. Sorrowing family.
Daughters: Mrinalini, Meenakumari. Grandson: Rabindranath.
V K Rajan
Dream
When I tried living my dream, I had no dream to follow.
Either broken or out of reach, disturbed and lost.
Viewed past, smiled on myself, felt it could have been better,
Sat for few minutes, smiled again as I didn’t want to loose again.
Started dreaming again, only to believe, a day it could be true.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
THE JOURNEY
When i am all alone in this world of infinity,
I may find someone who is not accompanied.
Then the journey begins
To find that one destination
We sole heartedly seek
To the podium of triumph.
I am here, where are you?
Let us put our hands mutually, and
Bond for the immense skirmish called life.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
epic poetry contest 2009
epic literary council is organising a poetry competition.the The contest is open to people of all ages, regardless of prior experience or any publishing record. Authors are encouraged to restrict poems to 26 lines or less. You may enter as many poems as you like – each poem will be judged separately on its own merits. There are no fees, no costs, no subsidy payments, and no purchase obligations of any kind required to participate and win the contest.
Entries must be submitted via email [ poetry@epicliterarycouncil.com or post to reach Epic Literary Council no later than October 31, 2009.
First Prize: Rs. 1,00,000 [or US$ 2,000 or equivalent]
Second Prize: Rs. 50,000 [or US$ 1,000 or equivalent]
Third Prize: Rs. 25,000 [or US$ 500 or equivalent]
Runner-up: 50 Certificates of Commendation.
for more details contact epicliterarycouncil.com
Entries must be submitted via email [ poetry@epicliterarycouncil.com or post to reach Epic Literary Council no later than October 31, 2009.
First Prize: Rs. 1,00,000 [or US$ 2,000 or equivalent]
Second Prize: Rs. 50,000 [or US$ 1,000 or equivalent]
Third Prize: Rs. 25,000 [or US$ 500 or equivalent]
Runner-up: 50 Certificates of Commendation.
for more details contact epicliterarycouncil.com
Monday, August 10, 2009
Those Golden Memories
I just imagined myself as an old writer writing out his experiences in the form of a poem..the last para is just for the sake of a good poem...
All the mountains and fields
Where my life was spent
How those golden hours passed?
I never still could figure out!
They were the most wonderful days!
Those precious heavenly nights
Filled with green and blossoming things!
Where life flowed brilliantly around!
But now I see the world
As a blind man!
There is no awe, there is no light!
I sit still unmindful of the varying time!
SRINIDHI.R
All the mountains and fields
Where my life was spent
How those golden hours passed?
I never still could figure out!
They were the most wonderful days!
Those precious heavenly nights
Filled with green and blossoming things!
Where life flowed brilliantly around!
But now I see the world
As a blind man!
There is no awe, there is no light!
I sit still unmindful of the varying time!
SRINIDHI.R
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Solpa Adjust Maadi...
The guiding principle of life in urban India is probably best summed up by the favorite Bangalore slogan “Solpa adjust maadi” which translates to “Please adjust a bit”. This philosophy permeates every part of the daily life here in Bangalore and one is constantly surprised by the extent of adjustments required in even the simplest aspects of living here.
You travel on three lane roads to find that there are actually six vehicles abreast instead of three. In the middle of the confusion, a two-wheeler overtakes from the left and causes more misery – usually in the form of a scrape on the side of the car and zooms away without apology. If you do manage to catch the nincompoop, he merely shrugs and says “solpa adjust maadi” – yeah right!
You order 2 liters of milk from the milkman who gets his supply from the cooperative run dairy. Some of the time he says he doesn’t have the required amount of milk and gives you at least a half liter less and the rest of the time there is a good chance that the half liter packet contains only 350 ml as I found to my chagrin when I measured out a suspiciously slim looking packet (no there was no leak). The bad thing is that it happened more than once. The good thing is that after considerable argument that guy has agreed that it will never happen again and gave me some extra milk to compensate.
I got my house repainted by Berger. Why Berger? Because Asian Paints didn’t bother to even keep the appointment to come see the house. Well the Berger contractor seemed all gung ho – after all it was a very pricey deal for him. We knew the rates were inflated but hoped that there would be enough professionalism to balance it out. What happened was rather nightmarish – they splashed so much paint everywhere that even the lizards fleeing the paint fumes became spotted. There was paint all over – doors, floors, staircase - in spite of my repeated pleas to cover the surfaces. I literally broke my back cleaning up (since my maid left after taking one good look at the house) everyday and had to resort to physiotherapy after painful spasms racked me for days. But I did not make a big deal out of it till the fiasco of my bedroom happened.
After they had scraped off the old paint and applied some kind of crack filling putty on one of my bedroom walls, I asked them why it looked so lumpy – they assured me they would sand it thinner and then apply paint. At the end of the paint job, the wall looked like boiled potatoes were lurking everywhere and all the cracks reappeared with some new offspring to add to the number. I told them it was unacceptable. They redid it. The same thing happened. Then they left promising to come back and finish my room. Two months later after dire threats, they came back and this time covered my furniture and windows in dust and paint since they didn’t bother to paper over them. Also they removed three quarters of the offending wall and then redid it – the end result looked like the relief map of South America with black lines highlighting the raised edges. I broke down and told the supervisor that I would seriously hurt him physically if he couldn’t think of a solution that didn’t involve messing up but did result in a normal wall. He was stumped. So I told him to try texture painting to draw the eye away from the mess. He agreed and then went missing for three weeks. I called up the Berger customer care center and complained vociferously that there would be no more “adjust maadi” for me! He came the next day and finished it off in two hours– it looks better and I told him that I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t ever have to see him again!
I learn from reading the papers and talking to people that adjusting is the only way to live here. But I don’t agree. Unless you assert that everyone deserves value for their money, that you have a right to expect good service or good roads or adulteration-free goods, you are not doing your bit in society. Why do we accept mediocrity in all its forms in all walks of life instead of asking for, nay demanding perfection? If excellence was the norm instead of the exception, we would not have to needlessly adjust. I understand flexibility is important but bending over backwards to conform is ridiculous.
You travel on three lane roads to find that there are actually six vehicles abreast instead of three. In the middle of the confusion, a two-wheeler overtakes from the left and causes more misery – usually in the form of a scrape on the side of the car and zooms away without apology. If you do manage to catch the nincompoop, he merely shrugs and says “solpa adjust maadi” – yeah right!
You order 2 liters of milk from the milkman who gets his supply from the cooperative run dairy. Some of the time he says he doesn’t have the required amount of milk and gives you at least a half liter less and the rest of the time there is a good chance that the half liter packet contains only 350 ml as I found to my chagrin when I measured out a suspiciously slim looking packet (no there was no leak). The bad thing is that it happened more than once. The good thing is that after considerable argument that guy has agreed that it will never happen again and gave me some extra milk to compensate.
I got my house repainted by Berger. Why Berger? Because Asian Paints didn’t bother to even keep the appointment to come see the house. Well the Berger contractor seemed all gung ho – after all it was a very pricey deal for him. We knew the rates were inflated but hoped that there would be enough professionalism to balance it out. What happened was rather nightmarish – they splashed so much paint everywhere that even the lizards fleeing the paint fumes became spotted. There was paint all over – doors, floors, staircase - in spite of my repeated pleas to cover the surfaces. I literally broke my back cleaning up (since my maid left after taking one good look at the house) everyday and had to resort to physiotherapy after painful spasms racked me for days. But I did not make a big deal out of it till the fiasco of my bedroom happened.
After they had scraped off the old paint and applied some kind of crack filling putty on one of my bedroom walls, I asked them why it looked so lumpy – they assured me they would sand it thinner and then apply paint. At the end of the paint job, the wall looked like boiled potatoes were lurking everywhere and all the cracks reappeared with some new offspring to add to the number. I told them it was unacceptable. They redid it. The same thing happened. Then they left promising to come back and finish my room. Two months later after dire threats, they came back and this time covered my furniture and windows in dust and paint since they didn’t bother to paper over them. Also they removed three quarters of the offending wall and then redid it – the end result looked like the relief map of South America with black lines highlighting the raised edges. I broke down and told the supervisor that I would seriously hurt him physically if he couldn’t think of a solution that didn’t involve messing up but did result in a normal wall. He was stumped. So I told him to try texture painting to draw the eye away from the mess. He agreed and then went missing for three weeks. I called up the Berger customer care center and complained vociferously that there would be no more “adjust maadi” for me! He came the next day and finished it off in two hours– it looks better and I told him that I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t ever have to see him again!
I learn from reading the papers and talking to people that adjusting is the only way to live here. But I don’t agree. Unless you assert that everyone deserves value for their money, that you have a right to expect good service or good roads or adulteration-free goods, you are not doing your bit in society. Why do we accept mediocrity in all its forms in all walks of life instead of asking for, nay demanding perfection? If excellence was the norm instead of the exception, we would not have to needlessly adjust. I understand flexibility is important but bending over backwards to conform is ridiculous.
Monday, August 3, 2009
It isn't
It isn't
A speck of I
Reaching for a speck of you
For a moment
But an infinite I
Reaching for an infinite you
Eternally
V K Rajan
A speck of I
Reaching for a speck of you
For a moment
But an infinite I
Reaching for an infinite you
Eternally
V K Rajan
I am a river
I am a river
And I must flow
I never built my home
On these starlit shores
Nor ever slept or dreamt
On these shimmering sands
For I am a river
And I just flow
I cannot stand by your window dear
To listen to your song
And savor its scent
So set your song free
And let it flow with me
I promise I will take it with me
To eternity
And beyond
But I must flow on
For I am a river
I never stopped
Where some believe they buried me
So shed not your roses
Or your precious tears
On a tombstone
Where I am not
Fling them to the flow
And let them go
I will find them I avow
I am a river
With shores and shores to go
So just let me flow
To where I belong
Like the wind like a dream like a song
Like a thought let me flow
But a bit of your grace on me do bestow
V K Rajan
And I must flow
I never built my home
On these starlit shores
Nor ever slept or dreamt
On these shimmering sands
For I am a river
And I just flow
I cannot stand by your window dear
To listen to your song
And savor its scent
So set your song free
And let it flow with me
I promise I will take it with me
To eternity
And beyond
But I must flow on
For I am a river
I never stopped
Where some believe they buried me
So shed not your roses
Or your precious tears
On a tombstone
Where I am not
Fling them to the flow
And let them go
I will find them I avow
I am a river
With shores and shores to go
So just let me flow
To where I belong
Like the wind like a dream like a song
Like a thought let me flow
But a bit of your grace on me do bestow
V K Rajan
Sunday, August 2, 2009
The mightiest stars
Perhaps
It's the mightiest stars
That shine the faintest
So that it takes
The sharpest eyes to espy them
V K Rajan
It's the mightiest stars
That shine the faintest
So that it takes
The sharpest eyes to espy them
V K Rajan
Thursday, July 30, 2009
"BLUE STAR"
Am I sweet pink?
Am I flaming red?
Am I serene green?
Am I all u ever wanted?
I guess not.
But I now for sure,
I am definitely blue tonight..
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
IMAGINE
Imagine
All my days have passed,
All my dreams have been lost.
A long time has passed,
A long journey has been made.
Imagine you returning back to me,
Like a bolt from the blue
We would then sail to heaven
My wish then would come true.
Fascinated by your charms,
I would bow to you!
And cry,
“O my love, my dream has come true!”
Then,
With your love as my guide,
You by my side,
Our souls would unite,
And we would be in Angel’s Paradise
SRINIDHI.R
The house...
The house was lonely. It wasn’t built for being alone. It had been waiting for seven years to be filled with laughter and noise again. But there was none of that. Once in a while, someone who was but a pitiful remnant of her former self would come in and clear the debris of dead leaves surrounding it. She would also clean up some portion inside and sleep exhaustedly in the bed she had shared with the master of the house who was now, no more.
They had built the house two decades ago. The house was their first one. They had three children and had returned to the land they had left years before. So they decided to build the house they had always wanted. From the beginning the woman had yearned for a house and her husband had finally and reluctantly agreed. He wasn’t sure that even after years of working like a drudge in the searing hot deserts of other lands, he would have enough for a house. But this was one thing his lady was adamant about and he gave in, though not gracefully.
It was only the idea of the house that was hers. Once he got into the swing of things, her husband took over and drew a plan of a house that was as bright and large-hearted and as impossibly impractical as himself. She wanted a two-storied house that would take up less ground area and leave enough space for a tiny garden but he wanted a single storey that would take up ninety-five percent of the available plot of land. She was furious with the rest of the plan as well. There was a huge hall – enough to cater to fifty guests and three bedrooms and a kitchen. There was no study. Two of the three bedrooms were small and there were two corridors taking up much-needed space. There was a rear veranda running the length of the house and having two entrances – there were too many windows – the hall had five huge ones in a row. She felt that securing the house would be difficult while he simply wanted lots of light and at least one room huge enough that he could have people over whenever he wanted.
The daughters were made to share one small bedroom while the youngest son got the other one – guests would probably have to sleep in the hall. But in Kerala that was fine. Relatives didn’t mind bedding down anywhere and more sophisticated guests were not in their league anyway. So despite her protests and innumerable glitches, the house took form and grew into a home filled with the bustle and every day noises of a family of five living quietly in a little non-entity of a town. The house was dedicated with pujas and love – with expectations and promises. It was given a name as well and was much loved especially by the children. The girls, in particular put in a lot of effort to clean and polish their beloved house. The boy merely slept but his heart too was full with love for the house.
The years passed and the girls grew up. Their prospective husbands saw them there and their marriages were agreed upon there. There were lovely nights of a houseful of guests laughing and sharing memories of the girls when they were young and talking of how lovely they looked in the simple ornaments and sparkling saris. The excitement and the promise of new lives embarked upon on mere faith in parents’ judgement warred with the fear of leaving everything known and loved and following strangers to their homes or lands of residence. The heady fragrance of shy new love and the intoxication of the early nights in the new marriages also left their imprint on the house.
The house swelled with joy at its daughters’ growth and happiness. Soon grandchildren came along enlivening the air with their imperious demands and unrestrained laughter. The house felt content. It was then that tragedy hit– the master of the house passed away after months of agony lying paralysed in some other house far away from his soul. The house was racked with the grief that was thrown at it. The family came together to put up a united front and share their agony. Only the house knew how much the elder daughter repented of not being there more for her father. Only the house knew how the confident-looking second one, who had taken care of her father at her house far away, shut herself in the bathroom and collapsed in a weeping heap in between tending to guests during the interminably long ceremonies that followed. Only the house knew that the lazy boy had grown up to be a man when he put his arm around his mother’s shoulder to console her after having consigned his father to the flames that last day.
It was never the same again. How could a widow live on her own as much as she wanted to? She, therefore was shuttled between her children’s houses with a few days a year to visit her beloved home and try to take care of it. As time passed, no one seemed to care for the old house anymore. “Sell it off”, they said or “rent it out”. They felt it was time to be practical. They had houses of their own and memories of the old house and a happier time to keep them going. Who could take on one more house and tend it the way it needed to be taken care of? Routine maintenance was done but it seemed that no sooner had one problem been fixed than up popped another to replace it. A list of never-ending issues and a litany of complaints became the norm. The children could not afford to be a part of the old house either emotionally or monetarily. So the lady could visit only rarely and her heart was heavy whenever she had to sleep away from her only home.
The house felt their indifference. It had been built for the children and couldn’t bear their rejection. So it began to break down – slowly but surely. One pipe here, one electrical line there. Rats began invading it. The cupboards either rusted or were attacked by termites. Memories in albums piled up dust. Old clothes became moth eaten. The house could no longer protect what was inside. It no longer cared to exist. To this day, it stands proudly on the side of the road as you go east into the verdant hills in one tiny town in North Kerala but if you look closely you will see the damages wrought by grief and time. It cannot hold on for much longer but before total oblivion, it hopes to see one more gathering of its loved ones within that bright, beautiful and impossibly impractical hall that was its pride and glory.
They had built the house two decades ago. The house was their first one. They had three children and had returned to the land they had left years before. So they decided to build the house they had always wanted. From the beginning the woman had yearned for a house and her husband had finally and reluctantly agreed. He wasn’t sure that even after years of working like a drudge in the searing hot deserts of other lands, he would have enough for a house. But this was one thing his lady was adamant about and he gave in, though not gracefully.
It was only the idea of the house that was hers. Once he got into the swing of things, her husband took over and drew a plan of a house that was as bright and large-hearted and as impossibly impractical as himself. She wanted a two-storied house that would take up less ground area and leave enough space for a tiny garden but he wanted a single storey that would take up ninety-five percent of the available plot of land. She was furious with the rest of the plan as well. There was a huge hall – enough to cater to fifty guests and three bedrooms and a kitchen. There was no study. Two of the three bedrooms were small and there were two corridors taking up much-needed space. There was a rear veranda running the length of the house and having two entrances – there were too many windows – the hall had five huge ones in a row. She felt that securing the house would be difficult while he simply wanted lots of light and at least one room huge enough that he could have people over whenever he wanted.
The daughters were made to share one small bedroom while the youngest son got the other one – guests would probably have to sleep in the hall. But in Kerala that was fine. Relatives didn’t mind bedding down anywhere and more sophisticated guests were not in their league anyway. So despite her protests and innumerable glitches, the house took form and grew into a home filled with the bustle and every day noises of a family of five living quietly in a little non-entity of a town. The house was dedicated with pujas and love – with expectations and promises. It was given a name as well and was much loved especially by the children. The girls, in particular put in a lot of effort to clean and polish their beloved house. The boy merely slept but his heart too was full with love for the house.
The years passed and the girls grew up. Their prospective husbands saw them there and their marriages were agreed upon there. There were lovely nights of a houseful of guests laughing and sharing memories of the girls when they were young and talking of how lovely they looked in the simple ornaments and sparkling saris. The excitement and the promise of new lives embarked upon on mere faith in parents’ judgement warred with the fear of leaving everything known and loved and following strangers to their homes or lands of residence. The heady fragrance of shy new love and the intoxication of the early nights in the new marriages also left their imprint on the house.
The house swelled with joy at its daughters’ growth and happiness. Soon grandchildren came along enlivening the air with their imperious demands and unrestrained laughter. The house felt content. It was then that tragedy hit– the master of the house passed away after months of agony lying paralysed in some other house far away from his soul. The house was racked with the grief that was thrown at it. The family came together to put up a united front and share their agony. Only the house knew how much the elder daughter repented of not being there more for her father. Only the house knew how the confident-looking second one, who had taken care of her father at her house far away, shut herself in the bathroom and collapsed in a weeping heap in between tending to guests during the interminably long ceremonies that followed. Only the house knew that the lazy boy had grown up to be a man when he put his arm around his mother’s shoulder to console her after having consigned his father to the flames that last day.
It was never the same again. How could a widow live on her own as much as she wanted to? She, therefore was shuttled between her children’s houses with a few days a year to visit her beloved home and try to take care of it. As time passed, no one seemed to care for the old house anymore. “Sell it off”, they said or “rent it out”. They felt it was time to be practical. They had houses of their own and memories of the old house and a happier time to keep them going. Who could take on one more house and tend it the way it needed to be taken care of? Routine maintenance was done but it seemed that no sooner had one problem been fixed than up popped another to replace it. A list of never-ending issues and a litany of complaints became the norm. The children could not afford to be a part of the old house either emotionally or monetarily. So the lady could visit only rarely and her heart was heavy whenever she had to sleep away from her only home.
The house felt their indifference. It had been built for the children and couldn’t bear their rejection. So it began to break down – slowly but surely. One pipe here, one electrical line there. Rats began invading it. The cupboards either rusted or were attacked by termites. Memories in albums piled up dust. Old clothes became moth eaten. The house could no longer protect what was inside. It no longer cared to exist. To this day, it stands proudly on the side of the road as you go east into the verdant hills in one tiny town in North Kerala but if you look closely you will see the damages wrought by grief and time. It cannot hold on for much longer but before total oblivion, it hopes to see one more gathering of its loved ones within that bright, beautiful and impossibly impractical hall that was its pride and glory.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Publish your writings
I came to know of a website that helps writers publish their own works. please check www.pothi.com
V K Rajan
V K Rajan
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Little by little
Little by little
My love for you grows
Like a mountain
Out of the earth's bosom
V K Rajan
The End Of The Rainbow
THE END OF THE RAINBOW
At the end of the road,
There’s a tree
Near the tree there’s a brook!
Cross the Brook,
You’ll find a rock.
It’s a place,
Where colorful birds flock!
Then halt to a stop!
You’ll find the end of the rainbow
That will brighten your life
This special spectacle
That would end all life’s strife!
SRINIDHI.R
In praise of a poem
One by one the words fall apart
And the beauty you captured
In the web of your poem
Escapes into the endless freedom of my thoughts
Forever...
V K Rajan
And the beauty you captured
In the web of your poem
Escapes into the endless freedom of my thoughts
Forever...
V K Rajan
Friday, July 24, 2009
...You say it best...when you say nothing at all..!
Passion filled eyes,
the sweet scent of the flaming air,
the touch that lingers forever,
The shades of violet in the twilight skies,
and hope filled heart,
is that all i was looking for?
Thursday, July 23, 2009
LOVE UNNOTICED--A SHORT ROMANTIC STORY THAT I WILL POST SOON
Bringing this week’s romance back from the blue! Please find a few flowers to celebrate ur romantic week!
LOVE UNNOTICED
His name is Brijesh, a chubby, smart guy who loves almost everything in the world. But he is tired of going unnoticed by girls. When his Singapore friends, mocks at Brijesh, he plays a small trick on them, by hiring a girl who acts as his girlfriend in front of his friends. But will he achieve what he finally wants to? Will he make his friends believe that he has someone in the world who loves him? Or will he find love in the process? Find out! Get ready to meet love from the burning skies!
SRINIDHI.R
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The messiah
We had an exercise a while back to write a story to begin with "Once upon a time, in the land beyond the river Moo, was a farm". The ending too was specified but I could not fit my story into it - so I took a bit of liberty. We never had a chance to share the stories with each other so I thought I'd post mine :-)
Once upon a time, in the land beyond the river Moo, was a farm. The farm was quite unremarkable with the usual assortment of four and two legged animals. One winter day, the farm cat found a warm spot in the corner of the barn to relieve herself of her kittens. The cows looked on indulgently as the proud mother examined each of her babies and licked them thoroughly. They kept mewling softly for milk with their eyes yet closed. Three little balls of varying colours suckled while the fourth pure white kitten still lay curled to one side. The mother nudged the little one slowly towards her breast so he could suckle and he stumbled and reached there by feel. It slowly became evident that the white kitten with the sole black spot on the centre of his forehead was different. He was blind.
The farmer’s children were very fond of the kittens but they were fondest of the blind kitten that they named Ivan. Ivan was an unusual cat. He seemed perfectly happy the way he was and was the darling of every human and animal in the farm. He had a perpetual smiling face and radiated serenity. The farmer found himself spending some of his precious free time with Ivan every day. He felt very silly for doing so but deep in his heart he had the feeling that Ivan could read his mind and he ended up feeling very refreshed and could almost see the solutions he was seeking.
Slowly, every farmhand began feeling the same way. They were filled with a sense of peace in Ivan’s presence. They went to great lengths to make a comfortable little spot for Ivan with a great big basket lined with soft blankets for him to sleep in and enough food for four cats. The basket was placed to a side of the kitchen stove and was the warmest and cosiest spot in the farm.
Ivan sat at his spot day after day with his smile always on his face. He seemed to know instinctively when someone was in pain either of the mind or the body and would imperiously jump onto the person’s lap and snuggle quietly and soon the person would begin to feel better. Friends of the family were curious when they felt the changes in the personalities of those in the farm. There was always a positive flow of energy and anyone who came to the kitchen would feel it the most at Ivan’s spot.
Ivan continued to make people smile and touched hearts with his stoic and happy acceptance of affliction. He had never known the pleasures of a sunny day or of chasing butterflies or mice or squirrels. He would never see the change of seasons. He would never run his heart out. Yet, he fretted not and was never helpless. The family felt he was no ordinary cat but a true messiah come to teach them the real meaning of life. From him they learnt that life was to live to the tune of one’s heart – happiness was not to be had by milking others or by being milked oneself. Ivan’s journey continues and he is still there in his warm spot by the fire ready to share the joys of being one’s own self.
Once upon a time, in the land beyond the river Moo, was a farm. The farm was quite unremarkable with the usual assortment of four and two legged animals. One winter day, the farm cat found a warm spot in the corner of the barn to relieve herself of her kittens. The cows looked on indulgently as the proud mother examined each of her babies and licked them thoroughly. They kept mewling softly for milk with their eyes yet closed. Three little balls of varying colours suckled while the fourth pure white kitten still lay curled to one side. The mother nudged the little one slowly towards her breast so he could suckle and he stumbled and reached there by feel. It slowly became evident that the white kitten with the sole black spot on the centre of his forehead was different. He was blind.
The farmer’s children were very fond of the kittens but they were fondest of the blind kitten that they named Ivan. Ivan was an unusual cat. He seemed perfectly happy the way he was and was the darling of every human and animal in the farm. He had a perpetual smiling face and radiated serenity. The farmer found himself spending some of his precious free time with Ivan every day. He felt very silly for doing so but deep in his heart he had the feeling that Ivan could read his mind and he ended up feeling very refreshed and could almost see the solutions he was seeking.
Slowly, every farmhand began feeling the same way. They were filled with a sense of peace in Ivan’s presence. They went to great lengths to make a comfortable little spot for Ivan with a great big basket lined with soft blankets for him to sleep in and enough food for four cats. The basket was placed to a side of the kitchen stove and was the warmest and cosiest spot in the farm.
Ivan sat at his spot day after day with his smile always on his face. He seemed to know instinctively when someone was in pain either of the mind or the body and would imperiously jump onto the person’s lap and snuggle quietly and soon the person would begin to feel better. Friends of the family were curious when they felt the changes in the personalities of those in the farm. There was always a positive flow of energy and anyone who came to the kitchen would feel it the most at Ivan’s spot.
Ivan continued to make people smile and touched hearts with his stoic and happy acceptance of affliction. He had never known the pleasures of a sunny day or of chasing butterflies or mice or squirrels. He would never see the change of seasons. He would never run his heart out. Yet, he fretted not and was never helpless. The family felt he was no ordinary cat but a true messiah come to teach them the real meaning of life. From him they learnt that life was to live to the tune of one’s heart – happiness was not to be had by milking others or by being milked oneself. Ivan’s journey continues and he is still there in his warm spot by the fire ready to share the joys of being one’s own self.
THE UNKNOWN THRILLOGY PART 2 AND 3
THE UNKNOWN- SYLVIA’S HORRIBLE EXPERIENCES -2
A few hours later Sylvia woke up to find herself in a strange land. Leeches and insects surrounded her. She was surrounded by red smoke which she was inhaling. Then as she began to move her hand she realized that she was tied up. She began to shout in pain. Then she witnessed 100’s of creatures with swords, knives and hammers coming towards her, from a distance “NOOOOOOO!” She started screaming as they kept on moving towards her. “What do you want?” she shouted bravely. The creatures stopped. A vampire- like creature began to speak in Sylvia’s language. “You humans have awakened our deep slumber!” the vampire uttered.” You have the unlocked the passage to hell! We want to kill you all!”. “Mercy! Have mercy! I do not know anything”, Sylvia spoke frightened. “I just came to pick flowers”. “Then”, spoke the vampire,” Show us your village. We will leave you unharmed.” Sylvia knew that the monsters would kill every people in her village, but she had no other choice. So she agreed. They let her free but that was the biggest mistake of her life.
THE UNKNOWN ENCOUNTER WITH WERE-WOLVES-3
Migrel walked on the dusty path, the road to her home. She stared at the sky turning dark and she walked faster. As she kept on walking, she noticed something peculiar. Something popping out of the ground! What would that be, she thought and went near. Oh god! She became frightened! Paws! Paws of wolves! One by one, popping out of the ground! One popped and grabbed her leg. “Let me go!” she shrieked. Then suddenly, she saw a sight. Corpses hanging by the tree! The people that she usually met in the village were hanging. She couldn’t run now! A piercing noise stabbed her ears. The howling reached her ears. The wolves had hollow eyes and were very dry and pale. They surrounded her. Migrel struggled to go free. They grabbed her and bit her to pieces. In a few minutes she was dead. And the hands from the ground went down and out came the were-wolves from hiding. They had their first blood!
MEET THE VAMPIRES NEXT WEEK IN THE UNKNOWN THRILLOGY
ENCOUNTER WITH VAMPIRES-4
THE SERIES HAS BEEN POSTED INTO MANY BLOGS AND WEBSITES. THE SERIES WILL BE DISCONTINUED FROM THIS BLOG IF THE NUMBER OF COMMENTS DOES NOT REACH 4 BY THE WEEK...
THANK U
SRINIDHI.R
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Moonlight in my heart
I nurture a bit of the moonlight
In my heart
So that once in a while
I can listen to a lark
V K Rajan
Eclipse
Sometimes...
The moon comes between me and the night
A magic lamp that mystifies the mind
While the whole of night passes by
Unseen across the eclipse
V K Rajan
The moon comes between me and the night
A magic lamp that mystifies the mind
While the whole of night passes by
Unseen across the eclipse
V K Rajan
Monday, July 20, 2009
SHIFTED TO FANTASY
Actually you might be wondering why I am shifting to a fantasy horror novel instead of writing a childrens novel, i told earlier that i would write...well the plot of the fantasy horror novel inspired me and requires less work than the childrens novel..in fact i can even tell u the ending of the fantasy horror novel..if u still love childrens writings..i will post that soon..as for dino in the fridge..i will keep it aside for a few days..then start writing it....
SRINIDHI.R
THE UNKNOWN THRILLOGY
"My life has crept so long on a broken wing
Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear,
That I will come grateful at last for a little thing"
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)
THE UNKNOWN THRILLOGY UPDATES COMING SOON...
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