The woman I loved

The woman I loved
Was soft and sweet
Like milk
She smiled like cream
That forms on milk
And boiled over
And turned sour overnight
Like milk

V K Rajan

Journey to God

At last I sprang up from the couch of indolence
Shattered my cup of distrust on the floor
And casting aside the burdening cape of doubt
Set into the unknown
My little lamp of faith
With a spark of passion lit

Book after book and seer after seer
I met on the way
Led me to the same path
The single one for every seeker
Unlit where no mile stone dares stand
That I trod alone
With steadfast strides

While an unholy presence
A shade darker and colder than the night
Stalked me a step behind
Droning a specious scripture
And whispering vaguely
A promise of paradise
Until a gale swept it away
When I let not my flame flicker

Many a shadow hurried by
The retreating seekers
Some driven into the citadels
That quivered in the winds
Some to the sheen of gold and glory
Some to the sirens waiting
In the obscure by lanes
Their gaudy wares to hawk

Along the way I strew
The treasures I had piled
And to the winds I flung
My silken robes of honor and rank
And perhaps somewhere near the temple gates
I lost my self


Yet I found reason again
This time a sentinel sleeping by the open gates
Instead of guarding it
His baton of logic crushed under my feet
Two steps ahead in the dark sanctum stood
An unlit lamp with a burnt out wick
That I fed with the flame that I held

And there I saw in a gushing stream of time
A tiny transient bubble
That for a moment held
Eons of dreams
Ages of pain and travails
And the Creator
Prostrate before His creation
From there I turned back
Having seen both God and Man

V K Rajan

The Fairies Arrive

My first Quatrain(A 4 Lines poem)

The Fairies Arrive

Fairies stood by the door,
In the breaking dawn
With loving arms,
The day I was born…

SRINIDHI.R

The Masterpiece

He was almost limping, leaving off a trail of blood. He trudged forward moving first his left foot and dragging the right one. His face was shrouded with the darkness of the unforgiving night. Ajeeho could smell sweat clinging to his scrawny beard.He had come to the crossing.The busy crossing was bare at this time and no street dog dare cross his path.Just a few steps across the road and he would find home.Mother would forgive him and bandage his torn leg, give him love and make him warm.His mother had warned him that his eccentricity would cost him.She was forgiving unlike the city that did not care.This day was a lifetime of achievement summed up in a package for Ajeeho. Ajeeho was a cleaning boy. He cleaned all filth with graceful strokes of his equipments.His hands moved swiftly to clean ugly stains off cursed toilets, but his mother warned him of his eccentricity.Ajeeho liked shapes and his brain was flooded with artistic ingenuity.It all happened a year back when he was cleaning a public toilet in 5th avenue.He was sweeping the floor with brash strokes of his long wooden broom to whose end was the wet cloth clinging.The public toilet floors made eerie shapes with halogen effects filtered through the dingy window sills.He started making colours in the darkness. His colours being aided by nauseating stench which he would clean eventually once work was finished.Work had to be finished first.He had to see his painting first.It was then that he had the urge for red.Red mixed with light from the streets and the tinge of mossy green brought his paintings to life. And this red was his own.This night he reached the zenith of his expertise.He got a magnificent shadow perking as a human face looking skywards.And his canvas was exquisite red yellow and halogen washed with the odour of poverty.He was doing himself, rising from filth to fame.He was painting his future.But it lacked something.He was weak with loss of blood so he lashed at his thigh and brought his leg to action.Every time he let go it inflicted terror and anguish in him.The pain made him alive and he had two brushes now, the leg and his broom, and he painted like fiery heaven.Who would have seen the glint of bone in the darkness."Ajeeho my boy!!! what have you done??""Mom I lived life today , I did my work well""Are you mad? You will die you son of a bitch.Who is there left for me, I shall now perish too""Mom I love to paint and my stinky job gave me allowance for this. I painted to keep my soul alive. I painted with the filth of people, and i achieved glory in my own sweet way mom. Be proud of me Mom"He look a painful lingering step forward and his Mom shrieked death as loud as a blistering hurricane.In the moonlight from the corner of his eyes Ajeeho could make out the shimmering glint of bone from thigh down.

A ROMANTIC EVENNING

I saw this girl, in the bus stop waiting for a bus. I was standing at the other end of the road opposite to the bus stop.

I observed the girl.

She was wearing a salwar-kameez, pink colour with ribbon like decorations at the edge of her salwar. Her eyes were small with thin and long eyebrows. She had a elongated nose. Her lips were a bit thin and she had put lipstick. I could not figure out which colour. She wore a decorated sandal with all those silver colour attachments to it. In short- she was pretty.

It had just rained and the fragrance of the rainy aroma was filling the atmosphere. Behind the bus stop there is a building and top of it I could see the outline of a beautiful rainbow. Nearby, there was a bouquet shop with various colors of flower. I could observe the red colour roses where striking a lot with drops of rainy water dipping on it from the roof top.

The whole ambiance made it very romantic and everything just at place.

I have met the most beautiful girls in my life but after seeing her it was altogether a different..., I do not know what to say. May be I like her. May be I am in love. I wished that the bus would never come. I stood there looking at her.

Every now and then, she kept looking at her wristwatch. She is in hurry, I guess. However, I never wanted her bus to come.

I observed her long dark hair. She has combed it and pinned towards her side. I thought if she had not tied it up then it might keep falling from above her head to her eyes and she would have pushed it back turning her head or by her hand- like most of the girls. However, in her case she would have looked prettier.

I thought of crossing the road and talking to her. But she would not entertain a stranger. She was not at all a stranger for me. It was as if I have known her from ages. What if I try to talk? Just talk. There is no harm in it. I decided to go ahead. I lifted my leg to step on the road and cross it, but a bus came by. The girl stood up. I did not know there was a smile on my face, which I observed when it suddenly dropped on the arrival of the bus.

I could not see her now as the bus was standing. May be she has climbed the bus. I tried to look into it. I did not find her. The bus left. My body shivered. Nevertheless, there she was still sitting. I guess that was not her bus. I thought of resuming my talk. By now, she was looking at me. I looked at her. She smiled. Mt heart melted. Oh god! Thank you. Now that has made thing easy. I could talk to her now. I lifted my leg to put it on the road and cross over.

Another bus came. Then the bus left. The bus stop was empty. She has left in that bus.

I stood there watching the rainbow and the bouquet of flowers.

BY SREEKUMAR NAIR

There are two kinds of lovers inside me..

There are two kinds of lovers inside me...the rustic, roughened guy who has a 'straight' way and the modern guy who deals her girl in overt ways. The first guy is a plain chap; he doesn’t know of fine ways to keep her girl hooked. His love however is unrelenting, singular and large in absolute terms. The modern guy is refined and his love is playful, even tricky, and has more colours. The love itself is however not exactly enormous or crash-proof.

I don’t know which of these faces of mine to show when I come across women.

I don’t know between the ‘GOOD MAN’ and the ‘artful lover’, who wins?

Asked differently, say..... between a good husband and a foxy companion, who wins ?

And are combinations available? (and before that, possible?)

Asked differently, is there a GOOD MAN ?? ;)

(Is the answer too easy?)

 

Paintings

Many writers also try out other arts. For instance, painting, music, or acting. Apart from writing, I like painting; especially painting landscapes and rural life scenes. I wish to share a few of my paintings here. I will presently be uploading all my paintings on a different blog as this one is primarily intended for writing.




V K Rajan

Let me be

Listen to me
Do you hear me?
Do you really understand what I am saying?
Do you even want to know?

Can I just be unrational for a while?
Can I ask to just be pampered?
Can I not be right?

Dont tell me I ain't right cos I know I am not
I dont enjoy this pain
I dont want to feel what I am feeling now
I am as helpless as you are

Yes I have caused my own problems
And no one else is to blame for it
But I dont want to deal with it alone
Can you just see me through this?
And not just tell me what a fool I have been
Because its not like I dont know
It only hurts more when you tell me too

Its easy for this world to give gyan to another
Its easy to tell me get out of my shoes cos they hurt
But its not like you can cushion the ground I walk in
If my mind is messed and cant see reason
Why would your reasoning make sense?
I aint feeling normal today
I will be ok tomorrow
Can you just be with me today?
Just by my side so I know I dont have to be normal or rational
Because you just care for me
Not because I am a rational being

I know that all I need is that bit of care
To feel loved and wanted
To know that nothing else matters but me
And I will see it through today
And be normal tomorrow.

MWC meeting - 17th May - an update

I apologize for the delay in sending the updates on the last meeting of MWC on May 17th. 17 members participated and we had an interesting group exercise in short story writing based on "Animal farm" by George Orwell. For those who have not read the book, here is the link: http://www.george-orwell.org/Animal_Farm/index.html.

There were no specific guidelines so each team took their own path. One team based their tale on the animals in politics with some humor, another with a trace of love, and the story that got the most votes was one on "Cows who dreamed to be in Mootopia".

Exercise to be done before the next meeting: Complete the story in 600 words. The beginning and the end is provided. Use your creativity, be the animal you want to be and define your farm or just take your own wild/tame path. Enjoy the experience :). I like happy endings but those who wish to change the ending, please feel free to do so. Post your story on the blog. We will probably have a vote system to judge the best story. Those of you who are new to writing, please do not feel shy. The only way to gain experience is to write but please do a spell check and a grammar check before you post.

Outline of the story:

Once upon a time, in a land beyond the river Moo was a farm...............

.......and the journey continues but "To be milked or not to milked?" is our choice and that gives us the freedom to live the life we want and I love my farm. Do you?

For writers who have starting trouble :), here are some guidelines:

• Prepare your draft to edit later
• Close your eyes and visualize a plot
• Start with a scene of high drama - action/tension/emotional
• From this drama, identify the characters
• Ask questions about the characters or missing characters and write all the answers
• Build on the drama/conflict - this could take a happy/humorous twist based on your imagination - do not stop your flow of thoughts, you can remove what does not fit in later
• Get to the end of the story
• Now you can write the beginning

MWC is a joint effort to conduct fruitful meetings with a volunteer or an expert leading the session to stir our creativity, improve our language and style, and educate the wanna-be writers. The success of this club depends on participation and involvement. If we look for what we can give then we will receive a lot too so do not expect the administrators to do all the work. Support the club in any way you can.

My beloved father

Whenever
I tread an errant path
My feet falter
For I fancy I hear father
His gruff grating voice
I love I fear
Calling me from behind
By my name

Whenever
I knock on a wrong door
My knuckles freeze
For I fancy I hurt father
His rough weathered heart
I love I fear
The spring board
I leapt from

Sometimes
On the way
When they hound me
Or hurt me
Beyond I can bear
I warn the unkind Gods
Like I used to the bullies
I will tell my father

Sometimes
When I look into his
Tired distant gray eyes
I feel guilty I haven’t loved
Father enough
...I feel safe and small
I haven’t grown
Beyond being his son


V K Rajan

Midnight wind

I wonder what

The midnight wind

Whispered to me

After hiding the moon under a cloud

V K Rajan

POLITICS OF EDUCATION – QUALITY VERSUS QUANTITY

The number of students passing out of educational institutions in India every year is, no doubt, in their millions. We as a country are slowly but surely succeeding as far as ‘quantity’ in the field of education is concerned; it is now time to reflect on the ‘quality’ of education that is being offered. It is only reflection with action that will lead to praxis.

My reflections on the quality of education in India started a couple of years ago after I retired and returned from South Africa to settle down in Namma Bengaluru for good. I have been ruminating on the times of my own schooling as well as on certain incidences in the recent past related to academic life. Some thought provoking articles in The Times of India on education added gist to my reflections. The immediate provocation for an in depth reflection has been the famous educationist Paulo Freire becoming the villain of the piece in a standoff last year between Christian Churches in Kerala and the Marxist led government over the content of a social studies text book for standard VII. The controversy centred around parts of the content critically questioning religious belief systems and introducing the idea of atheism.

All of us remember our school days as the most carefree of our lives. In fact, it is the happenings – good and bad – of this period that we love to reminisce with our schoolmates even in our old age. In those days all teachers taught with liberal doses of the cane. Education consisted of the teachers giving us information - formulae in math, capitals of countries in geography, Emperor Asoka’s reforms in history and so on. We silently listened and memorized. We did not dare to ask questions on the subject matter out of fear of our teachers; besides, there were no doubts as all we had to do was memorize. 

Even at University level, memorization was the way to go. Just one example as illustration. Fr. Racine, a retired French Jesuit and a brilliant mathematician taught us Abstract Algebra during my M.Sc. course at Loyola College, Madras. Other than saying Mass, eating his frugal meals and teaching us a couple of times a week, he spent the entire day developing new Mathematics theories. The only problem with his teaching was that he would solve a problem in three sentences, whereas it required at least ten for the mathematically challenged. Only one out of a class of 16 barely understood what was going on. The rest of us ‘mugged’.

It was only when I started teaching that I began to think about mathematical concepts. A good grasp to the subject is a must for any teacher to make himself understood. Even then, both my students and I hovered around the ‘knowledge’ and ‘recall’ levels of Bloom’s taxonomy with infrequent forays into the next level, that of understanding. The examination system also remained at the ‘reproduction’ levels, testing students on their ability to ‘recall’ information. These days private coaching and tuitions do a roaring business reinforcing memorization of facts and mechanical application of theory. In this system, most students score in the nineties; however, John Kurien, Director, Centre for Learning, Pune, rightly says that ‘Marks Mask Incompetence’ in an article of the same title appearing in The Times of India dated July 27, 2008. The net result according to him is that “… a large proportion of our engineering and business management graduates, and a far greater percentage of general graduates, are unemployable.” My son, who was at one time in charge of interviewing and selecting candidates for the post of software engineers for his company, told me that, based purely on their potential to apply computer knowledge in implementing projects, two out of twenty would barely fit the bill. A close relative who graduated with distinction in electronics engineering could hardly identify the problem with a non-functioning T.V. set. On investigation, I found that the best student is one with the sharpest memory and that there are professionals who can do the final year project, which involves applying the theory, for you for a consideration.

This type of learning is aptly named ‘the banking concept’ of education by Paulo Freire. Just as we deposit money in a bank and withdraw the same later, bits and pieces of information are ‘deposited’ in the minds of students to be ‘withdrawn’ at the time of tests and examinations. Against this, Freire advocated ‘problem-posing’ education.

So, who is this Paulo Freire?

Paulo Freire (1921-1997) is a Brazilian educationist whose theories and praxis of education have contributed enormously in liberating oppressed masses all over the world. I have been a fan of Paulo Freire for more than a decade. It all started when I became involved in a teacher training program in Apartheid South Africa in early-nineties. The black majority was systematically being oppressed by the white minority. This was going on for a long time. A similar oppressive system prevailed in Brazil in the last century. Paulo Freire, who was born and brought up in that country, expounded his theories on liberating the oppressed masses in the book “Pedagogy of the Oppressed” which became a runaway success. Realizing that his ideas were most apt and relevant for the liberation of the South African black masses, I prescribed two chapters from this book as compulsory reading for my third year B.A.Education students. If the process of liberation is through Education, then the ideal person to start on this path of liberation is the teacher who must first free himself from the oppressor’s yoke before he can liberate his students.

What is the core of his educational philosophy?

Freire starts with the premise that man’s ontological vocation is ‘humanization’ – becoming more fully human. This is thwarted by acts of dehumanization – injustice, exploitation, oppression and the violence of the oppressors. When a person is brought up in an environment of oppression, he internalizes the methods of the oppressors and in turn becomes an oppressor. He is unable to express love and compassion since he himself has not been shown love and compassion.

To surmount oppression, man must first critically recognize its causes, so that through transforming action, he can create a new situation in the pursuit of a fuller humanity. The oppressed should engage in reflection of their situation leading to action – praxis.

Banking education is one very effective method employed by the oppressors to continue the consciousness of oppression in the oppressed. The more students work at storing information, the less time they have to develop the critical consciousness needed to transform the world around them. The more passive they are made, the more easily they tend to accept their state of oppression. The oppressors use banking education to change the consciousness of the oppressed and not the situation which oppresses them. The educator’s role is to regulate the way the world ‘enters into’ the student. Education becomes an act of domination and domestication, indoctrinating them to adapt to the world of oppression.

Against this, Freire proposes ‘problem-posing’ education. It is based on creativity and stimulates true reflection and action upon reality, thus helping man to achieve his ontological vocation of becoming more fully human. The students become critical co-investigators in dialogue with the teacher. They come face to face with real problems in the real world and develop the power to perceive critically the way they exist in the world.

The Indian context.

After more than six decades of ‘freedom’ and ‘democracy’, the Indian mindset is still feudalistic. Geriatric dynastic rule is still the norm. Men and women of dubious character and criminal bend are foisted as leaders riding the crest of the cast and creed bandwagon. Corruption is endemic. The sheepish mentality developed through indoctrination using banking methods of education is the root cause of religious fundamentalism leading to suicide bombings and terror attacks. Religion, unable to withstand the scrutiny of the critical mind, relies on blind faith. What better technique than ‘banking education’ is there to keep the sheep in the fold! When students are insulated from engaging in problems of the social reality around them, many take the suicide route when confronted with easily solvable situations

Why is Freire’s name dragged into the recent Class VII Social Science text-book controversy in Kerala?

The main allegations against the Social Studies text-book of Class VII are that it

“... is trying to teach children atheism, materialism, anti-religious sentiments and wrong perspectives on the Indian history.” and that “… the book’s effort was to finish off religious beliefs and to propagate atheism.”

Members of the text-book reform panel countered saying:

“… the effort was to enliven the academic curriculum through critical interaction of the students with society.”

Added a member of the panel:

“The book is asking the students to understand social reality themselves and to approach it critically, which is the only way to develop their intellect, thinking faculty and sense of social responsibility.”

He said the model was based on the theories of Brazilian pedagogue Paulo Freire, who had shown

“… the right path to right education in the social model like ours.”

I believe it is high time for us to transform ourselves from our feudalistic and paternalistic mode to a democratic, participatory and critical mode of thinking and acting. Old habits die hard; but bad habits must surely die.

A critical and transformatory mindset is essential for us to become more fully human and to help others in this vocation of humanization. For this to happen, the next best place after home is the school. That is why it is imperative that we as a nation impart to our children an education of quality. This calls for a change from the traditional ‘banking method’ of education to the ‘problem solving’ model leading to awareness and critical engagement in the student with personal and social reality.

[Note: Action with reflection leads to praxis; action without reflection is activism; reflection without action is verbalism.]

THE BANANA

A hilarious theme combined with a funny mishap to give you pure banana delights!---Srinidhi.R

A fat banana

Got stuck to my throat,

I cried hard

It never came out!

Oh my God!

I croaked

It’s blocked!

From the throat to the stomach!

Is there no way out?

Help!

I cried again

And opened my mouth!

Thank God!

It just popped out!

Srinidhi.R

oh taliban !- a ten year old girl's cry

oh taliban!

you burnt my school,
demolition - that maimed our igniting zeal
debris left of our unexplored life

oh taliban!

you made us matriach : empire of ignorance
in this blistering world,
you trapped our feet ; clogged our steps to success

oh taliban!

we have heart ;but blood clotted by you brutality
spirit of freedom - on the brisk of mortality

breaking news: all girls are safe in the swat valley
i say: no one survived

DREADFUL- A GOTHIC POEM --RATED PG

Srinidhi's Dark Horror poem...

Comments - Graphics - Layouts - Photobucket

I myself do not like writing gothic poetry as it portrays a dark horror behind the lines. I love children's and spiritual poetry only. But people say that I write horror well rathar than funny poems and stuff.

Some of you also may not like gothic poetry....But let me give it a try. I wrote this.

Dreadful

It is a night of ghostly pain
A song of evil desire,
Dark shadows rise up
It’s the time of terror!
Werewolves vent their solitude.
Demons are paralyzed
Ghosts are lamenting
But,
The baby girl
wakens.

Sin shrouds her stalking form,
a lurking wanting.

Her raven hair cascades over
pale shoulders, and her
Crimson lips part slightly, to taste the
red tears streaming from the pale flesh lying beneath her.
This is her first kill!
I close my eyes,
And curse myself
For becoming the victim of her own thirst!

Now a night of darkness,
I weep!

SRINIDHI.R

Dawn

Dawn the milkmaid descends
From yonder hills
Her pitcher brimming with
Fresh frothing daylight

I hear the jingling
Of her bangles and her anklets
The birds in the arbor
Some in my garden

She stops by my doorstep
And measures and pours out
A pure new day into the waiting bowl
Of my time on this earth

V K Rajan

a black and white love story

black's proposal

we look great as a pair,
though i am dark ; you so fair.

love affair

hope embraces the lost,
love blossoms,
tranquil dove.

marriage

darkness and light complements ,
assembles a endless day.

Prostitute’s four lines – the only four lines that she ever wrote in her life

Bound in shackles; in a gloomy sealed coop
Fulfills someone’s desire
Day and night
A lifeless soul; worthless fight.

DRIVING IN BENGALURU AND THE RULE OF LAW

Once upon a time (long ago) Bangalore used to be known as pensioners' paradise. When I first arrived in Bangalore in the early 70s it was a city of tree-lined roads, leisurely drives, clean air and inexpensive restaurants. Flyovers, one-way streets and underpasses were unknown. These days the former pensioners' paradise has changed its name to Bengaluru. With a concentration of information technology companies it is known world over as 'the Silicon Valley of India' . Along with information technology came a host of problems: congestion, pollution and chaotic traffic, to name a few.

Infrastructure development never kept pace with Bengaluru's rapid IT development. Endemic corruption acts as the perennial spoke in the wheels of progress. This is particularly evident on the roads. Driving in Bengaluru has become a nightmare so much so people are socializing less and less. What I do to amuse myself, sitting in never-ending traffic jams, is to observe and smile at the strange behaviors unique to India. Here is a sample.

· Arrival/Departure of a so-called VIP (Very Injurious Parasite, according to Jug Suraiya) forces all motorists to be stranded in the middle of nowhere until 'his majesty's' motorcade passes. No one is bothered about the man-hours lost or the sick that need urgent medical care. (We may be a democracy in name, but in practice we are still feudalistic in our attitude!)

· Motor-cyclists overtaking on the left in defiance of your left indicator flashing. When he is knocked down, you are the guilty party!

· Autos cruising looking for passengers. Imagine you are stuck behind with a running tummy!

· Those driving straight keeping to the extreme left at a traffic junction blocking traffic from using the free left.

· Vehicles (autos in particular) keeping to the extreme left and then trying to make a U-turn at a junction while the traffic is moving forward.

· Parking almost in the center of the road and going about your business, as though this person has inherited the road.

· Cyclist on the extreme right in the fast lane (as understood internationally). He needs almost the entire lane as he swings his hips from side to side.

· Ditto for bullock/horse carts minus the swagger.

· Ditto for fruit vendors; in addition they are always crossing the road as though the fruits are sold faster on the other side.

· Drivers on a two-way street, while turning to the right onto a one-way street, cutting corners preventing the smooth flow of oncoming traffic.

· Vehicles, particularly autos and motor-cyclists, coming and stopping more and more to the right of a narrow two-way street at a traffic light to a main road, blocking those from the main road from turning left.

· Government vehicle parking smack below the 'no parking' sign on the right of narrow one way street (parting is allowed on the left) and the madam/sir coolly going about his business, while ordinary mortals have to go round this VIP car.

· Cows/buffalos helping to create traffic circles.

· Jumping traffic lights.

There was an interesting article titled "Short Arm Of The Law" by Ronojoy Sen in The Times Of India dated February28, 2008. In it the question 'Why do Indians jump traffic lights?' is asked. The answer according to Sen is that there is no rule of law in India. The citizen easily flouts the law because the enforcing agencies are ineffective. Endemic corruption, lack of equipment and insufficient personnel are flaunted as the usual culprits. But what should worry one more is the attitude of the common man towards law. One reason for breaking the law with impunity is the low cost of doing so. Sen goes on to say that many law-abiding people wish for another dose of Indira Gandhi's emergency rule or some kind of dictatorship so that the stick can be wielded ruthlessly and force people to fall in line.

This means that the average Indian only responds to 'fear' - fear of punishment whether human or divine. He will not urinate against the compound wall if the picture of a god/goddess is painted thereon; not because his action will cause health problems. He will not follow traffic rules out of civic duty.  The same is true in most areas of life. A minister can steal crores but nothing will happen to him if his party is needed to prop up the government. Add to this the feudalistic mentality of the Indian. The spectacle of senior IAS offices feeding cake to CM Mayawathi and MLAs prostrating before Jayalalitha come to mind. The question to ask is: are we Indians truly free? Are our minds free of oppression? What kind of education are we are imparting to our children in India, if at the end of the day when they become IAS officials and MLAs they are so servile and act so slavishly? [Do you think I am in Utopia?]

The Silver Star--a children's poem

I saw a silver star high up in the sky,

This was so bright shining with glow!

I guessed that I had my company for the day

And began to talk to it as I started with a slight "HELLO"!

It told me that it could see everything from above

It also saw two lovebirds proposing their love.

It could see greenery over the hills

Also an old grandmother swallowing some pills!

It could see the penguins in the snow

And also two men involved in a row!

It could see the bright moon and the blue sea

Also a little baby drinking tea!

And finally at midnight the cute little Silver Star began to snore

And I suddenly realized that it was four.

I went in to my room and slept

Forgetting the Silver Star as dawn slowly crept...

As published in 'Open Sesame' Deccan Herald; written by SRINIDHI.R

Sleeplessness

An autumn night
Tosses and turns on my bed
On which shores sleep sits
Scripting her dreams?

V K Rajan

Twilight

Whose unseen hands have lit
The wick of twilight’s lamp
So that night finds his way
To his beloved earth

V K Rajan

Song to a mistress

And if it is guilt
That knocks on this door
After I have left
Make a gift, dear, to him, of
The cup of darkness that we shared
And the bed of wrongs we reveled on
Why bear them all the way to our graves
When they add no honor or wealth
To the mounds of dust you and I are to be
Nor burden them that the winds won’t toss them around!


V K Rajan

The darkness of your eyes

The darkness of your eyes
Are the shadows of things
God deems not
Man to see

V K Rajan

The Window

This window across my garden
Used to open
And to close

Whenever it opened
There was fear
That it would close back

Whenever it closed
There was hope
That it would open back

There was fear
And there was hope
Until this window closed once
Once and for all

V K Rajan

The mannequin and the opium eater

Beauty is something that appeals to the beholder’s sense of appreciation. Thus, the concept of beauty depends on the perceiver’s judgment. Also, there cannot be any standards to measure beauty. What might be beauty to one need not be so to another. So also, different people see beauty in different things. The beauty of a tree, for instance, appears to me as imposing and impressive as that of a woman. It is only the way each one strikes me that differs.

I saw her for the first time while I was wandering on the city streets. She stood in a glass cubicle in front of what would be at best be called, a second rate apparel shop. The mannequin. I was simply struck by her beauty. There was something mysterious and incomprehensible about her that made me stop short and stare at her. She wore a smile that was at once both sorrowful and merry. Her painted eyes, I felt held all the passions a pair of live eyes was capable of containing. Beyond the tell-tale look in them, I actually saw a few drops of tear. The pain, the distress that had perpetuated on her wooden face, I felt, made her all the more endearing. I do not know how long I stood and stared at her.

The very same day, I saw her a second time—this time, in a dream. I could not recollect the dream fully. Yet I remember that she had let me kiss her lips in the dream. Why, I woke up with the saltiness of her lips still on mine. The first thing that I wanted to do on waking up was to rush to that apparel shop…and look at her. And just keep on looking at her. Yes, I had fallen in love with a mannequin. There was no doubt about it and there was nothing surprising in it. For I have never fallen in love with any real woman in my life.

From then onwards, I would sit on the road, on a concrete slab that lay across the road against that apparel shop. If I sit there I could see the mannequin quite well and nobody would easily notice me too. I would sit there and after ensuring that no one was looking at me, I would stealthily fish out a lump of opium from my pocket, roll out a pinch and surreptitiously stick it on to my palate. And the next moment, the machinery of my thoughts would change gears to another world…a forlorn, melancholy world of meaningless dreams and incoherent thoughts…a macabre miasma of purposelessness and endless nothingness. There I would be alone with the mannequin. She would come alive and haunt the corridors of my bewildered mind; the abandoned interiors of my heart would resound with her laughter and wails, she would scare me with her bizarre unpredictability, or amuse me with her unearthly charms. Sometimes she would bury her hard head in my lap and cry inconsolably.

Before long, I became so attached to and intimate with her that I would tell her the story of my life…a long miserable story of misfortunes, misdeeds, mistakes, failures, and futility. I told her every bit of it because she would listen intently to every word that I spoke. And sometimes I felt that she empathized with me so much that her painted eyes would brim with sorrow as she listened to me or that she was telling me that if hers were not a lifeless face molded to smile perpetually, she would have cried with me. At times, to console me, she would tell me that her own fate of having to stand in a glass cubicle for all of her life in spite of being lovely and loving was worse than mine. This would, in turn, bring tears to my eyes.

It might have been a fortnight after I had started this routine of sitting across the road and conversing with the mannequin when one day, I suddenly got a strange feeling that I was being watched. I fancied that a pair of unseen eyes was watching me closely. It was an unfounded suspicion; yet fairly strong. When I looked around, I found nothing disquieting; no one in particular was looking at me. The city just slithered on before me like an endless reptile.

The first day, I had dismissed the disturbing fancy as an evil manufacture of opium. However, the next day, I was almost certain that I was under the intense scrutiny of a pair of vigilant invisible eyes. Every moment of mine was watched. The mannequin, who sensed my fear convinced me that no one had an inkling of our affair and even went on to tease me for being so unreasonably cautious. But that did not alleviate my apprehensions. Among the crowd, I found an old man idly leaning against a wall and smoking a cigarette. Although his face was turned the other way, some intuition told me that this was the person who was watching me and that he had been, in fact watching me till the moment I had seen him, when he had suddenly turned his head away. Yet I tried to dismiss the thought by telling myself that an old man of his standing would have better things to do than spying on others wasting their time gazing at mannequins.

But the next day, my doubt was confirmed, for I actually found the old man staring at me. An intense, incisive stare and seeing it, I was immediately confirmed beyond all doubts that he has been doing it regularly…ever since the day I had felt that I was being watched. My first guess was that he could be an informer for the government department that catches holds of drug abusers and punishes them. But the next moment the old man proved me wrong. He smiled at me—a broad frank smile that bore the shame of having got caught doing something dishonorable. Still retaining that smile, he walked straight to me. I stood up almost in a reflex action and greeted him even before he greeted me. The old man gestured to me to sit down and as I did, he sat beside me.

“You eat opium?” he confronted me with the question that I hated the most.
“I am not an addict” I negated an allegation he had never made.
“Don’t worry”, said the old man cheerfully, “I like you and I will try to help you. I feel sad when I see youth being wasted.”
“Oh,” I said indifferently “There is nothing to worry about me. It’s just an occasional trip. I do not drink, you see. It upsets my stomach.”
“I am at the fag end of my life, my dear boy,” the old man said patting me on my shoulder. “I go about this city looking for young men, who I feel need help of some kind or the other. It is not much that I can do, yet I talk to young man like you, Sometimes, you see, just talking can help. I have been watching you for the past few days and I just presumed that there is some way I can help you…”
“Oh, thanks”, I tried to remain aloof, “In fact, I do not need any help at this time. But it is really kind of you to have enquired.”
“Good,” said the old man “Do not misunderstand my intentions…but let me warn you…narcotics have ruined the lives of many a youth, it has driven many a young persons to untimely graves.”
“I know,” I laughed, “And that is why I use it just for an occasional high.”
The old man smiled, nodding his head slightly as if he fully understood my embarrassment.
“I am sorry,” he said, “But my intentions are good…I am speaking for your good. Don’t ever ruin your life, my dear boy!”
“That’s nice of you!” I said. “I promise you…I will take care of myself.”
As he picked himself up, the old asked me. “Now let me ask you, it’s just out of curiosity…I have been observing that you spent most of your time sitting here, on this concrete slab. Is there any particular reason that you prefer this place?” Although the old man sounded casual, something told me that it was just to ask me this question that he had approached me. In fact, I could sense that he was suppressing an intense apprehension as he waited for my reply.
“No,” I lied, for I wanted no one to know about my affair with the mannequin. “This is a comfortable place to relax…that’s all.”
“Well,” said the old man a surge of relief sweeping across his face. “I am leaving. And don’t feel bad about my intruding into your private affairs. I just go about meeting people. I keep meeting a lot of people. Why, I might not even recognize you if I met you somewhere else!”
“Oh, you won’t find me anywhere else!” I said without thinking.
This had a sudden unexpected effect on the man. He stared at me sharply, almost angrily. A dark shroud of fiendish indignation clearly swept passed across his face for a moment, which however, he disguised in a glowering grimace that soon transformed a cold smile.
“Not at any other place?” he asked. By then, he had completely succeeded in sounding casual. “But let me ask me why? Why not at any other place?”
Though I had first thought of not telling the old man about my affair with the mannequin, eventually I did. I did for two reasons; one I felt that my involvement with the mannequin had become so serious that I felt that I must tell it all to a third person, and secondly, the old man had by then completely won my trust and I saw a father figure in him. I told the old man that I was completely, hopelessly, and irretrievably in love with her; that she was what I lived for; my breath, my sin, the purpose of my life, and the destination of my spirit.

I felt that the old man was listening to every word that I spoke; completely absorbed in my narrative…and also that he was suppressing some sort of an extreme urge as he listened. In fact, his face had become drawn and tense with whatever he was trying to contain. Yet, I paid little attention to him and just went on with my tale. As I spoke on, I became so agitated that at one stage I found myself standing up and declaring with a frenzied fervor, “That mannequin….she is mine! Yes, mine. Right now, I am going down to that apparel shop and ask them how much money they want for her. And yes, even if it is a fortune, I will make her mine… Right now, I do not have enough money for a packet of cigarettes, but whatever money they want for her, I will make it in no time and get her. Mark my words for that!”

“But how?” the old man seemed almost frightened and as agitated as I was. “How will you make money?”

“Somehow,” I snarled “Even if I must do something wrong, well, I just don’t care! I want her and that’s all I know!”

As I lunged forward to cross the road, the old man caught hold of my sleeves and whispered into my ears.

“No, don’t do anything of that sort! Right now, you are going with me. Yes, You are going with me to the seashore…and there,” his voice suddenly dropped but I heard him clearly for he spoke right into my ears, “I will give you opium…”

“Opium?” I asked, surprised, but suddenly lulled by the very mention of the word. But by then, the old man had already waved for a cab.

It was a short, swift drive during which none of us spoke.

Once we reached the beach, the old man pointed to a stone bench under a tall shady tree.
“This is a great place to relax,” the old man said, “have you been here before?”
“Many times,” I replied impatiently, “You said you will give me…”
“Ah, yes!” Said the old man and digging his hands into his trouser pocket, produced what I readily recognized as being the largest sachet of the purest opium pedaled in our city. I almost grabbed the sachet from him. My practiced fingers undid the sachet in the flash of a moment. I smelt the stuff. It was incredibly strong.
“Great!” I remarked joyfully “So you too eat opium?”
“Never,” said the old man “I bought this one especially for you.”
“For me?” I asked a bit surprised.
“Yes,” said the old man “But I want this to be the last time you ate opium…the last time. Promise me that it will be.”
“Oh, I promise you!” I said disinterestedly as I emptied the content onto my palm and started kneading it.
“Would you eat it whole?” The old man’s question sounded more like a suggestion.
“Of course!” I replied, “It’s quite some time since I had a good helping. And also this one…as I promised you is my last trip!”
“You might fall sick…or?” He asked guardedly.
“Die?” I laughed, “Twenty times this much of opium cannot kill me.” I reassured him.

The old man looked on with a curious look on his face as I rolled the drug into a lump and stuck the whole of it onto my palate. Within a moment, the mellow started spreading all over me. It is like a journey in a dream. It is like the embrace of an inebriated maiden.

Although I had wanted to discuss my affair with the mannequin in further detail with the old man, somewhere my mind crossed over the boundary and slid into the world of fantastic dreams.

When I woke up, I found myself lying all alone on the hard bench by the beach. It was dark. The hangover was gripping me. The withdrawal of opium is veritable hell. Every inch of your body aches. You feel that your skull would explode; that your eyes would fly off the sockets tearing off the nerves; that acid instead of blood flows in your veins. My hands dug into my pockets. There was a small lump of it in my pockets. The moment it hit me, the seashore came alive…so did the old man, and the mannequin. Yes, the mannequin, she was beckoning me…with the perpetual pain on her lovely lifeless face; with the unfathomable sorrow in her still, painted eyes; with the wistful smile that had frozen on her dainty lips…she was beckoning me to a forlorn magic world of illusions…a lost melancholy world of meaningless dreams, incoherent thoughts, and futile passions; perhaps the only world that exists for mannequins and for unfortunate men like me who have been trapped in the ruthless stranglehold of narcotic drugs. My immediate urge was to go to the apparel shop and take a look at the mannequin.

I learnt from a passer-by that the time was a quarter to nine. That meant that I had enough time to see her, if I hurried. I took the local bus and was soon standing before the apparel shop…in the greatest shock of my life.

The glass cubicle in which the mannequin had stood was empty. The mannequin was not there. She was gone!

I rushed over to the apparel shop in a frenzied state. A man sat at the counter, leisurely turning through the pages of what looked like a bill book.

“Excuse me please!” I said trying my best to contain my feelings.
“Yes?” The man looked me straight in the eyes.
“I just wanted to know about the mannequin…the mannequin that was here in that cubicle.”
“Let us know why and what you want to know?” The insolence of the man was intimidating. I smiled at him stupidly as if that would make him friendly to me. But the man was relentless in his intransigence. He only assumed a graver look.
“I…I wanted to buy that mannequin, you see.” I said in a small, defeated voice. “She, you see, she resembles my fiancée…I mean the girl I am engaged to…you know. She has gone to the US and will be back; well, only after a year….you see. But, don’t you bother about all that. I will pay for the mannequin. You tell me the price. Any price…”

My lie was bare by itself and the diffident manner in which I presented it might have rendered it even more obvious. The man appeared not to have believed it at all and I found myself embarrassed; speaking eyes with him. Something like sympathy or pity crossed past his eyes before he took his eyes off me and went back to the bill book.

Turning its pages over deliberately, he said slowly and clearly.

“We are not interested in money... And tell me why we would not have given a mannequin away…if an old man comes here and tells us that he wants it very badly because it exactly resembles his young daughter who died a year ago…from narcotic poisoning.”

V K Rajan

memoirs - this poem is a fiction of inspector ashok kamte's life - mumbai martyr

There was an aura of grief ,
Crowd drenched in tears.
But not a single drop of tear in her eye,
Unlamented , never said goodbye.

Years back
Unbounded promises, their love would last next seven generation,
She never knew,that came only after serving his nation

No air of glee left in their home,
Nostalgic, her life becomes a gloomy dome.

He ventured out last night ,
Courage in his arsenal.
Nation made an urgent call
Ferocity in his eyes ,never cared for his fall

Destiny betrayed their eternal love,
The raven replaces their serene dove.

Unknown children, he sheltered them.
Never cared,
How his little doll could prevail in this turbulent world without him?.


Stranger’s cry touched him,
His own son’s scream does not awake him from his deep slumber.

“why should I cry for him whose soul revolved only around his nation,
Should I show grief and sorrow for him who has made my life a lonely destination ?”

O My Love! I Will Never Forget you......

Concept of this poem—

A man who has recently lost his wife remembers and recollects certain nostalgic thoughts about his wife. Though I am still a student and not married, something in me wanted to imagine a situation like this and I poured out my feelings and thoughts…

O MY LOVE! I WILL NEVER FORGET YOU......

I will never forget,
The enchanting smile on your lips
And your tender touch 
Freezing my heart
When you bid goodbye…
On your deathbed!
Embracing me closer and tighter
Never wanting to let me go!

I will never forget,
The undying spark of passion you possessed 
Missing me with every breath
And the longing you had to see me
In the deepest corner of your heart!

I will never forget,
How sincere, trustworthy and lovable you were
And the unconditional love you had, 
In your heart, with no bounds!

I will never forget,
The precious sensuous moments we shared together!
The greatest feeling we experienced when we made love!
Forgetting all pains and sorrows, we had in life.

After all, 
I will never forget
That special you!
The flame of my love!
The angel of my mind!
The light and dream of my life!
The joy of my soul!
The rainbow of my heart!
My dearest wife!
My sweet rose!
I will now leave you like a friend!
Farewell my love!
I will never forget you!

SRINIDHI.R

HISTORY OF GOD (Contd from where I left off on Friday, 22 May 2009)

Let us now briefly examine the God/gods of the different religions.

Judaism ‘evolved’ the idea of a monotheistic God, Yahweh. This happened after long periods of worshipping three types of gods: worship of the family gods (teraphim), worship of the sacred stones and worship of the great gods, some native, others foreign (Baal, Molech etc).

Zoroastrianism introduced gods as abstract concepts. Zarathustra taught a challenging view of the world as a struggle between good and evil. He is said to have received a direct revelation from the one true god Ahura Mazda. Soul, life after death, resurrection, judgment, paradise, hell, and devil were all Zoroastrian ideas first, later borrowed by Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

Buddhism may be thought more as way of life than as a religion in its narrow sense. It developed as a reaction to the greed and materialism of the newly emerging merchant class at the time of Siddhartha Gauthama who left the comforts of a life of luxury as well as his family and wandered the world as a mendicant in search of enlightenment. One night he put himself in a trance and when he awoke he became the Buddha, the enlightened one. He believed in the gods of the time but for him the ultimate reality was beyond the gods. All life, for him, was suffering; only dharma, the truth about right living brought one to nirvana (the ultimate reality, freedom from pain). The state of nirvana has nothing to do with the gods; in fact it is beyond them. By living a life of compassion for all living beings, speaking and behaving gently, kindly and correctly and by refraining from drugs and intoxicants that cloud the mind, one can attain nirvana. The same universal secular message is given by Jesus as response to the question by the Pharisees about the greatest commandment: love the Lord your God, and love your neighbor as yourself. (Mathew 22:34-40). Perhaps the rumor that Jesus traveled to India could be true, as he seemed to have imbibed some Buddhist principles.

Hinduism has many parallels to Greek religious practices. Both are steeped in myths with numerous gods and goddesses who have many human characteristics. However, traditional Hinduism is a way of living than a way of thinking.

Islam has borrowed heavily from both Judaism and Christianity. Mohammed, considered God’s prophet by the faithful, was resting in a cave outside Mecca, called Hira, in 620 C.E. when he heard voices which he wrote down and collected into the book Qur’an. The message was clear: God is one and there is no other. There is a Judgment day with eternal paradise for the good and everlasting hell for those who go against His will.

Christianity. Chapter 4 of Karen Armstrong’s book ‘A History of God’ is titled ‘Trinity: The Christian God’. There is a reason for this. Though Christians claim they believe in monotheism, their God is not exactly one; He is three in One or One in Three – Father, Son and Holy Spirit. 3=1. 1=3. For ordinary mortals, this is a mystery and that is how the Christian Church wants it to be regarded. Do not try to understand it, rather, just believe it! Jesus was a Jew and his initial followers were all Jews who believed in the one God Yahweh. How and why did the later followers of Christ change to a ‘kind’ of polytheist mode of thinking?

St. Paul, formerly known as Saul of Tarsus, who became a follower of Christ after he fell from his horse and who claimed to hear disembodied ‘voices’ that he identified as the words of Jesus, could come to our aid here. He was instrumental in spreading the gospel to the gentiles who were used to a variety of gods. It was he who realized that the good news of the gospel would have greater acceptance if Christ, the messiah, was projected as divine rather than human. Hence he claimed that Jesus was a preexistent ‘heavenly’ being; that he was created as the ‘first born’ of all creation; that he existed in the form of God and that he was equal to God.

A Happiness Of A Lifetime

Certainly this one requires editing. Recently I went to an orphanage and decided to write about it! I added a lot of fiction to it! This picture is a picture of a blind school..

It was one of those beautiful mornings, when my mother called me, when I was joyfully lazing my time laying in the grass on the mountain greenery. I had just turned 8 and my mother had promised me to take me to a beautiful place tomorrow. I was happily gazing at the clouds on a sunny day when I was suddenly disturbed and called by my mother. Eric, We are going to the most beautiful place tomorrow. As I told you, It is the most delightful place you ever dreamed of. It is atop the mountain, she said staring at me. I was tempted by this offer and I acquiesced. In the night I kept thinking of the place. It may be a place filled with fragrant daffodils and beautiful angels. The trees may be sculpted in gold and covered with snow. It may be a place where there is a waterfall. It may be a place filled with spectacular scenery where different kinds of flowers blossom. It may be a place filled with fresh mountain air. It may be a place filled with gardens and brooks. Then slowly after thinking a lot, I slept.

 In the morning with high expectations I proceeded with the journey with my mother. The mountain road was a little steep. We walked for some time and took rest and then we started again. I kept on asking her how long would it take to get there, when I was half way. Then suddenly after reaching some distance my mother stopped and I could well read the board, which said "WESTSIDE-HOME TO BLIND CHILDREN!" I was suddenly disappointed. I was wondering why we were coming here. I felt as though I have faltered. Then I went in and Lo and Behold! I could see children who were blind.  They looked awkward. Then I slowly observed them and I suddenly felt some feeling rushing through my mind. I never knew that this could bring me tears. I slowly saw my mother distributing food to the orphans. I felt that she was doing something wonderful and kind. I went to one of them and slowly fondled him. He became happy as soon as I touched him. I could see the joy radiating from his face. I myself then distributed food to all of them. I could sense the pleasure in charity at that time. I felt at the top of the universe at that time. This may not be a beautiful natural landscape but it is certainly a landscape built of love and affection. Then we thanked everyone and started our way home.

Today was the best day and this was the best moment of my life. Then my mother asked me Eric, what do you think about them?. Then, I had to reply fast, God may not have given them eyes like he gave me. But he has certainly given them a lovely home and a place to love and to prosper!

SRINIDHI.R

SLUMDOG POTHOS BECAME A MILLIONAIRE BUT WHAT ABOUT ATHOS AND ARAMIS BY VIKASH `VICKS`

this month saw the demolition of the slums of rubina(latika) and azharuddin( salim) of the slumdog fame.one minute glory and harsh reality slaps your face!.the country lauded them and fostered them in their arms . indian media went berserk and made us feel the children's victory was india's win.the international media showered praise of adoration for their exceptional performance.but as they say success has many fathers and failure is an orphan.they tasted success by putting india in the oscar map but failed without a shelter in their head.
false promises were made by the filmmakers that the child actors and their families would be nestled in brick and mortar homes.they seemed to be lost in the oscar glory and forgetten the efforts of the slum minors who made them reach the peak of the oscar mountain
this is india dear friends where the lines of stardom get erased easily and history of achievment gets shelved forever for them who made them in the first place
jai ho!

THY ETERNAL LIGHT OF HAPPINESS

Let me sail away, 

To the sandy shore

To the place where there is bliss!

Let me fly away,

To the sky

To the place where there is endless peace!

Let me run away,

To tranquility

To the place where there is love!

Let me walk away,

To eternity

To the place where there is beauty!


All with the Divine Lord 

Away from troubles and sorrows, 

With my mind and soul, 

Shedding Thy eternal light of happiness!

SRINIDHI.R

My humble request to the owners of our blog

We currently need to view the amount of traffic we get in our blog. The problem is we do not know how much traffic we get in our blog. So all I suggest is we have something called as FEEDJIT. http://feedjit.com/joinjs/ 

Please go there and copy the code..then go  "to add a gadjet" in customizing the blog. Then we will know the exact number of visitors to our blog and also the time they visit..

THANK YOU,

SRINIDHI.R

THE IDEA BEHIND THE IDEA-- A SUMMARY OF MY POSTS

Hello everyone! I have been doing a lot of posting today and its all put in bits and pieces and scattered everywhere. As I am poor in grammar, I make simple mistakes. Please don’t mind them. Here is the contents and summary of all my postings for our blog in order...

1. A children's poem I wrote-Please don't ring the doorbell-- 

A funny piece written for small children. I was inspired by the doorbell ring to write this. I got 3 comments on this. I want to publish this poem in Open Sesame, Deccan Herald. I will be submitting it next week to be precise...

2. A horror Chiller which is really creepy! MADNESS BY MOONLIGHT--RATING PG

This one terrified me to quite a bit! It’s not often you would see horror like this. I was inspired by the dark horror theme behind this story. I wrote about a vampire without using the word vampire in all of the words in this story. I wrote this dark tale, seeing the moonlight cast its shadows on the land. A mystical female vampire is the main character and she lives in an abandoned mansion. I loved the last 2 lines especially.” 
“When darkness falls and the moonrises her shadow will awaken her again. Together they will move into the night supping on vengeance and hungering to satisfy their yearning for mortal flesh and blood.”
 I submitted this one to commonwealth short story competition. I received some good comments on this in one of my personal website. Also a few comments said that I have to edit it thought the concept’s good. When I submitted this as my creative writing assignment I got a low score. I got a strong remark saying that this doesn't qualify as a proper horror tale at all. Then I edited this with the help of one of my online friends and I submitted it for "written in blood contest" in www.vamplit.com. Thus there are all the facts behind “Madness by moonlight”.

3. My first play which was edited by NIMO MENON...It is called "When the thunder roars"...

I tried to use American slang here in my first play. I have never written a play before. I thought this was too bad. I received a poor comment on this at first in a website. But I never lost hope. It was featured in a writing site at last and came out in the top 10 list. NIMO MENON MA'AM edited it and she corrected the word "thunders" many times as "thunder”. That was my simple error. She did a great job editing it in spite of her busy schedules. I also changed the age of the children. I turned them into teens... But at last it finally came out as a cozy tale with a few teens in a bungalow waiting for the rain to stop. 

4. My first Indian fan fiction which may touch your heart and soul...”KRISHNA'S LETTER"

This one brought a lot of tears into my eyes. I wrote it with a lot of feelings. I wanted this to be a touching spiritual tale. I made a simple tale out of a letter written by a dying Krishna(a farm boy) to his father. He writes this encouraging piece which serves as a solace to his father who is grieving on the death of his son. He speaks about his meeting with the Lord in his dream and how his soul unites with him forever and how he becomes enlightened. I loved every part of this writing.

5. Nid's nature dairy watch Journal-- Article 1--A garden of flowers

Fascinated by flowers, I worked on this short article... I made it too short because I wanted it to be short and sweet. Again this brought some joyful tears when I really touched a flower and talked to it, as I write this article. My favorite lines are 
“God must have been a genius and an artist of exceptional talent to make them and we human beings do not even notice the beauty in it”.

6. Henry's first Adventure-- a children's story by me

I always love Enid Blyton and Roald dahl..I was inspired by those children’s writers which made me pen a children’s short story with a bunny as a main character. I brought out conflict in the form of a wolf. Henry property is invaded by a stout bunny and Henry fights back to regain his property. It’s a funny children’s story. The last 4 lines of the poem were also written by me. 

7. Tea Time—NID’S KIDS JOURNAL-2

I loved this poem so much when I typed it for the first time. It’s good to have a family poem where all the members drink tea. I myself dream of a large family. The second paragraph is simply very good but I was not still satisfied with the last paragraph myself. The tea all spills out and the children have to go without tea that day. A sad ending to that but a few optimistic lines at the end which says ...”

 Uh... No more tea pots!

Never mind!

We’ll all drink tea tomorrow

Well, there is much time we’ve got!

8. My Vision of the Future- A Creative Thought

I do not know astrology or any Predicting stuff. I just wanted to convey a universal message to all which would suit everyone and be applicable to all. I worked on this for 10 minutes and came out with it. I mention something about MOCHA WRITERS CLUB here saying that it would become the biggest and famous writers club in history. May sound childish!

9. Yellow Balloons- A Sweet Story

One of my online writing friends requested me to write a story with him. I didn’t know what to do. I just had an excerpt of a paragraph I wrote in my creative writing class and I gave him that. He wrote the next entire 7 paragraphs to complete the story. It’s about something special. I won’t reveal it here. You should read the story for it. It’s posted on our blog. I loved the ending, though...

10. An Enchanting Tale about a Beautiful Mermaid

Finally I got this published in Times school newspaper. It was selected. I was filled with joy when I went to collect it. It’s about a beautiful mermaid and her voice. I then edited the story and sought help from another online writer who worked on the ending. The Times of India people advised me to keep on writing. Now, I know that One day I’ll become a Writer and soar to the skies and publish my writings in GOLDEN INK….

11. Paradise Tears of Golden Joy

I just had a golden concept in mind and scribbled it till it became a golden poem raining gold and gold all around! I loved every line of it. I got the idea from a dream. That dream was just wonderful where the weather was very cool and it rained gold in a rainforest and I was drenched in golden drops watching the cloudy dark sky...

12. I Will Come For you—INSPIRATONAL POETRY

Well I think most of you would know this. I recited it in an introductory meeting of MOCHA WRITERS CLUB. This poem provides solace to all who are waiting for someone/something to say this to comfort them. It’s worth the wait to hear such poem…

12. My beautiful Christmas tree

I wrote this one last Christmas... I am always enthralled by the snow and Christmas trees and the lights and the gifts... So I wrote this…

13. Every Moment Is a Blessing

Personal Favorite! But on the other hand not much to write about…

14. The Messenger of Love

I want to submit this again to a newspaper. Love the cliché’s and the lines which say

“I am the white dove 

Who spreads messages of love”

15. NID’S NATURE DAIRY WATCH ISSUE 2—LOVE OF THE FORESTS

This is one of my dreams to live like a character in this tale. Living with nature and natural landscapes! Too GOOD to IMAGINE!

16. Hope at the End of the Tunnel


My first spiritual poem filled with hope. It was again featured in a site for many days. I received many comments. I wrote this after seeing the sunshine on a bright morning!

17. The Dino in the Fridge—A Funny Piece

A funny plot for a children’s book! A boy finds baby dinosaurs in a fridge and it begins to live with the boy. It makes friends with the boy and they go on an adventure which turns in to a disaster when the parents and the people find out what’s happening! Where did the Dino come from? Will it go back to the Zoo? How is it able to talk? U will find out in the book I am writing. I will post it in the blog soon...…

18. I LOVE MY RAINCOAT-CHILDRENS POEM

I got this published in OPEN SESAME. My first poem which got published was this. I was just delighted!

19. THE DAY AT THE POND-FUNNY POEM

I usually laugh reading this piece. I think you will too! It’s just hilarious!

20. Every Writer Is Superior

I wanted to express my thoughts and feelings in this one as I was discouraged. I wrote them as a moral article….

21. THY ETERNAL LIGHT OF HAPPINESS

Again a spiritual poem I wrote..as usual..with elements like nature and peace and God..please read it..

22. A Happiness Of A Lifetime

Again inspired by an orphanage I wrote this. The first and second paragraph in which Eric thinks that he is going to a place with waterfalls and stuff is pure fiction. He dreams of many beautiful things. But he doesn't know that there is beauty in charity. That is the ultimate Beauty.. Please read it!

SRINIDHI.R


 

PEACE

Peace
The thought which brings tear in our eyes,
For those millions of people,who showered their lives.
That great day hasn't occured yet at least.
When each and every person can live in peace.

This war is on from years,
Two World wars has already brought many tears.
Soldiers at border daily die,
Leaving their beloved to cry.

If i am not forced to tell lie,
We all are responsible for this cry.
Stop saying it's job of others.
Otherwise we all will die and nobody bothers.

Changing our way of thinking,
For saving our lifeship from sinking.
We can bring love and peace,
It will have to come crawling on it's knees.


Then at border no gun speaks,
Birds will start comming back on their trees.
The day for which we waited long,
Will be here if i am not wrong.

Vaibhav Nagar

A detailed summary of my writings will be provided

A detailed summary of my writings with the idea of the plot and inspiration will be provided soon..have a nice day...

EVERY WRITER IS SUPERIOR

STOP DISCOURAGING WRITERS! MOTIVATE THEM! THIS ARTICLE SPEAKS WONDERS! THIS ARTICLE WAS WRITTEN AN YEAR AGO BY ME!

There was just one thing that bothered me today that I wanted to write about it and express my thoughts. I heard a remark by one of my close relatives, that my writing would not be sold to a big commercial level because I am still an amateur. That remark also meant that I was not good at writing to certain professional standards. It also meant that I was not a well-known author to make easy money and fame through writing. The statement was too strong and was meant to discourage me in publishing my writing or writing itself! It could also happen to many people who get discouraged by comments and random opinions. So I want to say a few words which every writer should remember all his lifetime. Let me sum it up.
The first thing to remember is the statement “Every writer is Superior”. It means that every writer is superior or great in different aspects. Every writer has different levels of creativity and understanding. You cannot compare Shakespeare to a local writer saying that the local writer’s writing is a waste because he cannot reach the level of Shakespeare‘s publicity. Every writer is great! Marketing is different!
The second thing to remember is that every writer is filled with lot creativity. Hence the writer should write not because of publicity but because of writing’s sake!
Hence he should ignore the bad comments and keep the comments which will motivate him
Every writer is a dreamer! He dreams of many things! Different writers have different dreams! No dream or thought is said to be a waste of time!
Stop discouraging young writers! Motivate them!



Let us be in unity and not be differentiated! We write for fun and for improving ourselves and are engrossed in the land of creativity. So last thing to remember is---

Let us be of one religion-WRITING

SRINIDHI.R

THE DAY AT THE POND--FUNNY POEM

I went to the pond today,

To see the ducks and the fish.

It was such a beautiful day

It should certainly rain, I wish!

The fishes were swimming,

The ducks were quacking,

I was standing there smiling and laughing!

Soon I fell asleep among the bushes,

I never knew I would return home with stitches!

Because an alligator bit me and tore my clothes!

But then I saw that I had no toes!

OH DEAR! OH DEAR!

I started to scream!

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!

But that one my dear friends,

Has to be a weird little bad dream!

SRINIDHI.R

I LOVE MY RAINCOAT-CHILDREN'S POEM

THIS ONE GOT PUBLISHED IN OPEN SESAME, MONTHS AGO! I WILL SHARE IT WITH YOU ALL!

I always wear my raincoat 

Usually in the rain,

Sometimes in my bathroom,

Sometimes in a moving train.


The color of my raincoat is blue

And it has a big hole that,

Anyone can see through.

So I better fix it up with some glue!

Or I'll catch a deadly flu,

With all those dew!


Without my raincoat,

I cannot go out

I can never,

Or my mom would shout!


After all I just love my raincoat.

It's the best thing in the whole world

I quote!

I quote!


SRINIDHI.R