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..
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...
Saturday, July 18, 2009
THE PORTRAIT..!
I know you color my world,
with softer hues.
Color me red.
Color me white.
Color me days.
and color me nights.
I would be glad,
If u colored my world bright.
All i need is,
your honest strokes,
your gentle brushs,
your blend of magic
and touch of sensitivity.
But do remember I am pure.
THE UNKNOWN THRILLOGY PART-- 1
CURSON THE UNKNOWN-THE BEGINNING
There lived a sorcerer by the name of Iglian, who was well-known and was very skilled in the mysterious and the hidden art of magic. He knew unique magical secrets and the people found it very shocking. For example- He could make a big mountain disappear for a few minutes and make it reappear soon after. People were stunned by this. The sorcerer lived in a cave and often came down to the village. One fine day, the sorcerer was conducting some magic in a grave and he accidently unlocked a magical passage. He was first thrilled by that. But when he went in, he got the first biggest shock of his life. He knew that he had entered Hell, a place of torments. Full of snakes and demons and creatures, the sorcerer was killed that instant, but little did he know that he had done the most worst thing he could do to mankind---discovering that passage into the next dimension of Hell—THE LAND OF CURSON—THE LAND OF NIGHTMARES
THE UNKNOWN-ENCOUNTER WITH DEMONS-1
Sylvia got up from her bed in an instant, after experiencing a bad dream about spiders. “Gosh! That dream was like a nightmare”, she said and went into the kitchen. “Good morning Sylvia” her mom continued,” Quickly, brush your teeth, have a shower and get some flowers from the woods. It’s your aunt’s birthday. We have to go to her house this afternoon”. Sylvia was excited and spoke,” I had quite forgotten about her birthday. Anyways her house is not far from here”. She went in for a bath. Wearing a white frock, she set out for an adventure to pick flowers. There were 2 bad things that happened, then. One was that she lost her way and the other was that it became late. She tried to pick roses but was pricked by the thorns. Then tired, she slept under a tree. When she got up it was already night. “Oh dear! It’s night and I have lost my way!” she grumbled and walked on. It began to rain. As she kept on walking she came to a graveyard and saw a figure in the distance. It never looked like a human being. “Hello!” she cried and suddenly the creature sprang at her and bit her. Sylvia started to run and soon lost sight of the creature.
She wandered deep into the woods, hearing the chilling cries of the birds. She was fully wet now and she trembled with fear, swallowing a groan of pain. She touched her face and gasped for breath. It was something which had hit her. Maybe it was a monster? She began to recall what her mother said about monsters in the woods. Her mother had warned her not to hang out deep in the woods. It was too close. She might have lost her life. She must get back home now. She had certainly lost her way. Then, she came to a small pond and began to drink water. It tasted very bad! All of a sudden she felt something grasping her in the darkness. She turned around to see and she shrieked in horror! That horrible, ugly thing that got her was here! Without wasting a second, she turned around and ran for her life. But the monster caught her and dragged her and kept on dragging till it reached a grave and it plunged her in. The girl was unconscious and thought it was over, but little did she know that her body had carved her way into the unknown--INTO THE LAND OF NIGHTMARES--INTO THE LAND OF CURSON!
TO BE CONTINUED IN
THE UNKNOWN- SYLVIA’S HORRIBLE EXPERIENCES-2
i will post the next continuation soon next week
KEEP BEING SCARED,
SRINIDHI.R
The empty cup
This empty cup
I had filled over and over
All through the darkness of the night
Yet ended up with this empty cup
V K Rajan
I had filled over and over
All through the darkness of the night
Yet ended up with this empty cup
V K Rajan
Friday, July 17, 2009
A COMPLICATED PLOT BUT WITH A SERIOUS INTENTION
Me writing a novel? That too a fantasy one with a lot of work to do? Come on! It's too dull or boring! That's what I thought one day sitting on the computer seeing the window outside on a gloomy day in Bangalore. But then I got thought of a great plot which could really sore to the skies, OH MAN! Atleast it could sore to the nearby tree! A fantasy land of nightmares! WOW! A perfect original horror Novel..But now, it would take a long time..so what if I made it into a set of sequels and prequels..good idea! So thats how it started..Me taking on the eternal road..to a quest, to the place where demons and monsters lurk---IN the creative precipice of my MIND!
I usually think Of Poe and Stephen King--I am great fan of them. They are so good in writing Horror masterpieces. Atleast let this have the slightest 1% bit of creeps in 'em compared to that..
And one more thing to say before I leave, One thing for sure is that Its not just I love writing and creating beauitful stunning images and describing them to all the people, but it's that writing spirit which keeps me going on. Thats because I just love writing. And a simple warning---please watch out for the dragons in the stories..They'll burn you!
IF YOU THINK THIS IS A PERSONAL POST THE OWNERS OF THE BLOG CAN DELETE IT!
SRINIDHI.R
CURSON--THE UNKNOWN--THE FANTASY WORLD OF NIGHTMARES--MY INVENTION
A FANTASY WORLD OF NIGHTMARES! A GREAT IDEA TO PLOT BUT A TOUGH JOB WHEN IT COMES TO DRAWING MAPS AND SETTING THE CHARACTERS. THIS IDEA WAS INSPIRED BY THE MAP OF HELL. THE PLOT HOWEVER EVOLVES THE HIGHER DIMENSION OF HELL--THE NEXT DIMENSION..
THE BOOK I AM PLANNING TO WRITE IS A SET OF SHORT HORROR STORIES SET IN A FANTASY WORLD! HERES A QUICK PREVIEW OF CURSON...
THE WHOLE WORLD OF CURSON IS COMPRISED OF DUNGEONS AND TORTURE CHAMBERS. A FEW PLACES HAVE NO LIGHT AND THE SUN NEVER SHOWS UP THERE. A LOT OF MYTHICAL CREATURES LIKE THE DEMONS, DRAGONS, WOLVES, VAMPIRES AND DRAGONS LIVE THERE. THE ONLY ENTRANCE TO CURSON FROM THE REAL WORLD IS FROM A GRAVE DISCOVERED BY A GREAT SORCERER, WHO GOT TO THE LAND HIMSELF AND HE HAD DISCOVERED THE GREATEST SECRET AND HAD PERISHED AFTERWARDS. BUT WHEN THE DEMONS FIND OUT THE DOOR THEY COME TO EARTH TO DESTROY THE WORLD..THATS THE PLOT..THIS IS BASED ON A SET OF SERIES OF STORIES THAT I WILL WRITE. SO I NEED ALL YOUR COMMENTS. THANK YOU..
SRINIDHI.R
The Unknown--A NEW DARK HORROR SERIES OF THRILLOGY SHORT STORIES THAT I WILL POST SOON
HI I AM WRITING An EXCITING SERIES OF SHORT STORIES BASED ON CHILLING HORROR EXPERIENCES SET IN A FANTASY WORLD CALLED THE CURSON AND HERE'S AN EXCERPT OF THE FIRST SHORT STORY IN THE SERIES WHICH I WILL POST SOON
She wandered deep into the woods, on that full moon day, clad in a white frock, hearing the chilling cries of the birds. She was fully wet and she trembled with fear, swallowing a groan of pain. She touched her face and gasped for breath. It was something which had hit her. Maybe it was a monster? She began to recall what her mother said about monsters in the woods. Her mother had warned her not to hang out deep in the woods. It was too close. She might have lost her life. She must get back home now. She had certainly lost her way. Then, she came to a small pond and began to drink water. It tasted very bad! All of a sudden she felt something grasping her in the darkness. She turned around to see and she shrieked in horror! That horrible, ugly thing that got her was here! Without wasting a second, she turned around and ran for her life. But the monster caught her and dragged her and kept on dragging till it reached a grave and it plunged her in. The girl was unconcious and thought it was over, but little did she know that her body had carved her way into the unknown--INTO THE LAND OF NIGHTMARES--INTO THE LAND OF CURSON!
EXCERPTS FROM THE SHORT STORY --
THE UNKNOWN-ENCOUNTER WITH DEMONS-1
SRINIDHI.R
Thank you all!
The number of articles I have posted on this blog crosses 50. This includes 44 poems. I am extremely thankful to all the writers whose presence I feel right beside me when I read their writings on this blog, which has been a great source of inspiration. Your comments keep me going and I will be glad to have more from you. My special thanks to Runa for starting this endeavour and keeping it going.
V K Rajan
V K Rajan
Monsoon clouds
This is the article I circulated among the internal group formed during the last meeting. I welcome your feedback on this.
I believe that these clouds live somewhere beyond those distant hills in the east. For they always rise from beyond those hills. They are big, black, and unsightly; yet there is something lovable about them. Every time they meet me, they talk to me the same way they had, when they met me for the first time—as far as I can remember, when I was hardly six years old.
Like always, when they are about to arrive, the winds rage through the fields in ecstatic frenzy, the skies shine with an unearthly glimmer, the trees sway as if possessed by the evil spirits in the tales the old maid used to tell me on dark nights as I would sit beside her in the dank, smoky kitchen. They were so real and scary that even the sudden crumbling of the firewood in the hearth or the flutter of the shadows on the wall would make me start as I sat listening to her tales. It makes me guilty that I no longer believe that those spirits exist…have I grown up so much that I now doubt the veracity of that old story teller? Do I remember which the last story was that she told me? I never remember having bidden her any goodbye. Yet, she has left my horizon quietly, unannounced and vanished beyond some hills like these clouds do, at the end of the monsoon. Perhaps, she dwells even today somewhere beyond these very hills? Here, my mind suddenly breaks off and runs across the fields. I just let it. I know it never had enough of her tales told in that dark, smoky kitchen.
The streaks of lightning still have the splendid sheen of yesteryears. The thunders still roar as loudly and suddenly as ever. Yet, I wish they could make me shudder like they used to; that I hadn’t become as hardened to shocks as I have.
I do not remember when was the last time I sat on the steps of my childhood home apprehensively staring at the darkening sky….and praying that it would not rain until grandpa was back home. Those gates had closed behind me for the last time long ago. They might have closed so casually that I never even though it would be the last time. Yet, my mind just needs to draw a magic curtain for me to be there again. Sitting on the steps of those gates again…and staring at the dark skies… a lonely, worried little boy waiting for his grandpa to return from the market. Today, as I wait, I know that grandpa will never return. He has left. He has gone to a place from where no one returns…no God has been kind enough to have granted anyone a return from there. Yet it feels good to fantasize…that he will return, walking through the fields, and that I will recognize him from afar, and that then, an abrupt wave of relief will wash away all my fears. There is a strange feeling of happiness in waiting for someone you know will never return.
Whatever shape they might assume, I know these clouds—each one of them. And that is why I let them rain on me. Let them cleanse me of all the dust and the dirt that has gathered on me over the months…cleanse me of all the guilt, of all the sorrows, of all the frustrations, of all the doubts, of all the fears, of all the thirst, of all the hunger, of all the want, of all the desires,…that burden me. They drench me, they thrill me, they pour all over me—yet they never wake me up from my own treasured dreams or break my solitary penance.
V K Rajan
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Drinkers
What hopeless drinkers all our souls are
Life after life drunk in this tavern
And returning home only to wake up
On the doorsteps of this tavern
V K Rajan
Life after life drunk in this tavern
And returning home only to wake up
On the doorsteps of this tavern
V K Rajan
I must sing
Now that it is well past midnight
I must sing a few more songs
To put to sleep
This cup of wine
V K Rajan
I must sing a few more songs
To put to sleep
This cup of wine
V K Rajan
A Lost Pair
It seems we have lost our way
And because you are with me
I wish we never found
Our way back
V K Rajan
And because you are with me
I wish we never found
Our way back
V K Rajan
Moonlight and shadows
The moonlight
Straining through the aspens
Spreads a net of shadows on the ground
And ensnares wandering minds like mine
V K Rajan
Straining through the aspens
Spreads a net of shadows on the ground
And ensnares wandering minds like mine
V K Rajan
DEW DROPS...!
Oh! you magnificent dew drops,
On my fragile petals.
Disperse your love on me
From the warm illuminating morning sun,
till the light of the tender wanning moon.
On my fragile petals.
Disperse your love on me
From the warm illuminating morning sun,
till the light of the tender wanning moon.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
THE TANGENT..!
The tangent of your love touches me deep,
Cris crossing along my shadow,
I ran all the way up to you,
yet somehow i don't seem to have moved.
Monday, July 13, 2009
A moment...
It was a drizzly Monday afternoon. I was on my way to pick up the kids from school. We stopped at the red light just beneath the flyover and predictably a young girl runs up and bangs the car window begging for money. It is an everyday incident. I wait till she leaves and look out the window again. Thick dark clouds line the sky and the afternoon is gloomy.
It was then that I saw the three men. They were walking fast and purposefully dodging cars, rickshaws, two-wheelers and the city buses. The man in the middle carried a white bundle. The bundle had a single marigold garland wrapped around it. That’s when I figured out it was the body of a child. A four year old I guessed. The head was not fully wrapped. The father was carrying him in his arms. He was expressionless and walked fast cradling the child close to his chest.
I felt my throat choking up. My eyes blurred with tears – not more than a few feet away a father was carrying his son for the last time. He was taking him to the electric crematorium nearby to be incinerated in minutes. How many times had this same father carried that little one in his arms? How many times would he have hoisted him on his shoulders while they both watched the spectacle of a festival? How many times would he have come home in the nights to have his son hurtling into his arms saying “Appa, carry me!!”? How could he carry him on that last journey and again how could he not?
A solemn moment in the chaos of everyday life. A moment to remember the sacred nature of parenthood and the joys a child alone can bring. A moment to curse the Gods above for taking away a small life so meaninglessly. A moment to also selfishly thank God for sparing your own family the misery you just witnessed. A moment to be afraid of all the dangers in this world that could cause such a happening. A moment to hold close your own little ones and not let go…
It was then that I saw the three men. They were walking fast and purposefully dodging cars, rickshaws, two-wheelers and the city buses. The man in the middle carried a white bundle. The bundle had a single marigold garland wrapped around it. That’s when I figured out it was the body of a child. A four year old I guessed. The head was not fully wrapped. The father was carrying him in his arms. He was expressionless and walked fast cradling the child close to his chest.
I felt my throat choking up. My eyes blurred with tears – not more than a few feet away a father was carrying his son for the last time. He was taking him to the electric crematorium nearby to be incinerated in minutes. How many times had this same father carried that little one in his arms? How many times would he have hoisted him on his shoulders while they both watched the spectacle of a festival? How many times would he have come home in the nights to have his son hurtling into his arms saying “Appa, carry me!!”? How could he carry him on that last journey and again how could he not?
A solemn moment in the chaos of everyday life. A moment to remember the sacred nature of parenthood and the joys a child alone can bring. A moment to curse the Gods above for taking away a small life so meaninglessly. A moment to also selfishly thank God for sparing your own family the misery you just witnessed. A moment to be afraid of all the dangers in this world that could cause such a happening. A moment to hold close your own little ones and not let go…
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Who am I?
I am no unholy distance
That separates man from God
I am no garb of transience
Some wandering soul
Discards at a whim
I am the unknown
A stranger
In a land where there are no natives
V K Rajan
That separates man from God
I am no garb of transience
Some wandering soul
Discards at a whim
I am the unknown
A stranger
In a land where there are no natives
V K Rajan
Won't You?
Won't you fill my cup
With all your thirst,
Obscure this world for me
With the darkness of your eyes?
V K Rajan
With all your thirst,
Obscure this world for me
With the darkness of your eyes?
V K Rajan
Languid Leaves
Languid leaves
Stirring in their siesta
Their rustling wakes up
The silence of the woods
V K Rajan
Stirring in their siesta
Their rustling wakes up
The silence of the woods
V K Rajan
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Openings for writers/editors
These are some openings that have been advertised on some other groups and blogs that I have compiled here. Whoever is interested may directly get in touch on the contacts provided in each of the openings.
1.From Shobit Arya, Publisher, Wisdom Books <http://www.wisdomtreeindia.com/> We are looking for primarily : 1. A replacement of our outgoing Deputy Publishing Manager who handles media, events and specific project coordination etc. 2. Copy Editors -- Experience of two years in book editing. 3. Manager Corporate Sales -- To sell Wisdom Tree books to corporates. Fresh MBAs welcome too. 4. Actually also a Chief Editor
This info may be out of date. We got this email a month-and-a-half ago. We advise dropping Shobit Arya a polite email asking if these jobs are still open: shobit.arya@gmail.com.
2. Platform magazine wants Trainee Feature Writers*
From Shahnaz Siganporia, Features Editor, Platform Magazine
Platform_ is finally hiring again! A Delhi based full time job, we're looking for spunky, talented and enthusiastic writers to join us initially as a Trainee Features Writer followed by a permanent post with platform if all goes well. All applicants must mail in updated CV's and writing samples to info@platform-mag.com / platformag@gmail.com (please do not mail the editorial team on our personal ids) with subject title Trainee Features Writer.
3. Routledge, Taylor and Francis wants an assistant editor*
I need to hire an Assistant Editor, Journals in Routledge, Taylor and Francis. The job is based in Delhi. A candidate who has work experience, preferably a minimum of 2-3 years and a background in publishing is not imperative, but the candidate * Has an excellent command of the written and spoken English language. * Willing to learn and evolve with the job. * Co-ordinate, multi-task, responsible and is aware of time management. * To be able to work under pressure and meet deadlines. * Punctual. * Is able to manage relationships, foster, nurture and develop them. * Able to give constructive and written feedback. * Outstanding attention to detail. * Work with a team. Interested candidates, please write to jaya.bhattacharji@tandfindia.com and jaya.bhattacharji.gmail.com
4. Wordsetc wants financial writers*
From Ruchika Chanana
looking for writers who can work on explaining financial concepts to the layman. The work involves mainly paraphrasing content from the web, and also small amount of writing original articles based on a very precise brief. We'll be happy to go into the remuneration once we get a response from interested writers. the volumes are large so it works out pretty well in terms of money. anyone interested please email ruchika@wordsetc.in wordsetc is a copy/content/ideas resource. we work on communication, branding, naming, features, scripts- anything to do with words. check out words-etc.blogspot.com for more on our work.
5. Cedar Books wants authors
I introduce myself as Neha Gupta, Commissioning Editor, Cedar Books, Delhi. We are a fiction imprint of one of the oldest and most reputed publishers of India, Pustak Mahal. As many of you may recall, two months back we had invited submissions from writers all across the country through Caferati. The response was overwhelming and we signed novels with five budding and unpublished authors just within a span of two months. Talks regarding the terms and conditions are in progress with a few writers too. Exploring new talent and providing them a platform to showcase their expertise has been the aim of Cedar Books, and we are happy that we are progressing steadily in this direction. We are now again looking for some good manuscripts (only novels, no short stories please). Though we are not looking at any particular genre, preference will be given to those set against the backdrop of some major political event, especially post independence. But this is no rule as such. Other genres are also more than welcome. Please write to me at writerneha.mac@gmail.com with a brief synopsis of the novel, chapter outline, 3-5 sample chapters and a brief author’s profile. Neha Gupta Commissioning Editor, Pustak Mahal Ph: 011-23272783/84 (Ext. 129)
6.Sarai Reader 8 - Fear - Call for contributions*
Sarai is going to bring out its 8th Reader soon with Fear as its central theme. We invite you to contribute essays, dialogues, arguments, interviews, photographs, image-text combinations, comics, art-works, diary entries, research reports, commentaries, manifestos etc. For concrete details go to http://www.sarai.net/publications/readers/sarai-reader-08-fear
7. Spenta needs sub-editors
There are 4 vacancies for the post of a sub-editor. Following are the details. * Full time position in Mumbai. * The salary will depend entirely on experience and competence of the candidate. We aren't looking at hiring people who are senior. A year or two of industry exposure is good. * Strong language, grammar and editing skills. * Freshers are welcome, too. Candidates are requested to mail their resumes to ho@spentamultimedia.com For more information on the company, they can log on to www.spentamultimedia.com
8. If there is anyone who can write or edit regular English on the lines of reporting, please let me know. I need good people and fast. We can work out full-time in-house, full-time telecommuting or freelance arrangements. We are particularly looking for people with some reporting experience, so this might be a good opportunity to make a good amount of extra cash per month. Its a US project, so the pay-per-word is very high (close to Rs 2 per word) FYI, 365 Media <http://www.365media.com/> is a US incorporated content development firm. The project we are currently on involves writing business-specific how-to articles for a major US portal/business site. It is a client prerequisite that we use people with media exposure. So please get in touch if you are interested and pass on the information if there is anyone you know who will suit the profile and be willing to work with us. Paul A. Samji Manager - Content Stream 365 Media India Cell: +91 9488 188 601, email: paulasamji@365media.in
1.From Shobit Arya, Publisher, Wisdom Books <http://www.wisdomtreeindia.com/> We are looking for primarily : 1. A replacement of our outgoing Deputy Publishing Manager who handles media, events and specific project coordination etc. 2. Copy Editors -- Experience of two years in book editing. 3. Manager Corporate Sales -- To sell Wisdom Tree books to corporates. Fresh MBAs welcome too. 4. Actually also a Chief Editor
This info may be out of date. We got this email a month-and-a-half ago. We advise dropping Shobit Arya a polite email asking if these jobs are still open: shobit.arya@gmail.com.
2. Platform magazine wants Trainee Feature Writers*
From Shahnaz Siganporia, Features Editor, Platform Magazine
Platform_ is finally hiring again! A Delhi based full time job, we're looking for spunky, talented and enthusiastic writers to join us initially as a Trainee Features Writer followed by a permanent post with platform if all goes well. All applicants must mail in updated CV's and writing samples to info@platform-mag.com / platformag@gmail.com (please do not mail the editorial team on our personal ids) with subject title Trainee Features Writer.
3. Routledge, Taylor and Francis wants an assistant editor*
I need to hire an Assistant Editor, Journals in Routledge, Taylor and Francis. The job is based in Delhi. A candidate who has work experience, preferably a minimum of 2-3 years and a background in publishing is not imperative, but the candidate * Has an excellent command of the written and spoken English language. * Willing to learn and evolve with the job. * Co-ordinate, multi-task, responsible and is aware of time management. * To be able to work under pressure and meet deadlines. * Punctual. * Is able to manage relationships, foster, nurture and develop them. * Able to give constructive and written feedback. * Outstanding attention to detail. * Work with a team. Interested candidates, please write to jaya.bhattacharji@tandfindia.com and jaya.bhattacharji.gmail.com
4. Wordsetc wants financial writers*
From Ruchika Chanana
looking for writers who can work on explaining financial concepts to the layman. The work involves mainly paraphrasing content from the web, and also small amount of writing original articles based on a very precise brief. We'll be happy to go into the remuneration once we get a response from interested writers. the volumes are large so it works out pretty well in terms of money. anyone interested please email ruchika@wordsetc.in wordsetc is a copy/content/ideas resource. we work on communication, branding, naming, features, scripts- anything to do with words. check out words-etc.blogspot.com for more on our work.
5. Cedar Books wants authors
I introduce myself as Neha Gupta, Commissioning Editor, Cedar Books, Delhi. We are a fiction imprint of one of the oldest and most reputed publishers of India, Pustak Mahal. As many of you may recall, two months back we had invited submissions from writers all across the country through Caferati. The response was overwhelming and we signed novels with five budding and unpublished authors just within a span of two months. Talks regarding the terms and conditions are in progress with a few writers too. Exploring new talent and providing them a platform to showcase their expertise has been the aim of Cedar Books, and we are happy that we are progressing steadily in this direction. We are now again looking for some good manuscripts (only novels, no short stories please). Though we are not looking at any particular genre, preference will be given to those set against the backdrop of some major political event, especially post independence. But this is no rule as such. Other genres are also more than welcome. Please write to me at writerneha.mac@gmail.com with a brief synopsis of the novel, chapter outline, 3-5 sample chapters and a brief author’s profile. Neha Gupta Commissioning Editor, Pustak Mahal Ph: 011-23272783/84 (Ext. 129)
6.Sarai Reader 8 - Fear - Call for contributions*
Sarai is going to bring out its 8th Reader soon with Fear as its central theme. We invite you to contribute essays, dialogues, arguments, interviews, photographs, image-text combinations, comics, art-works, diary entries, research reports, commentaries, manifestos etc. For concrete details go to http://www.sarai.net/publications/readers/sarai-reader-08-fear
7. Spenta needs sub-editors
There are 4 vacancies for the post of a sub-editor. Following are the details. * Full time position in Mumbai. * The salary will depend entirely on experience and competence of the candidate. We aren't looking at hiring people who are senior. A year or two of industry exposure is good. * Strong language, grammar and editing skills. * Freshers are welcome, too. Candidates are requested to mail their resumes to ho@spentamultimedia.com For more information on the company, they can log on to www.spentamultimedia.com
8. If there is anyone who can write or edit regular English on the lines of reporting, please let me know. I need good people and fast. We can work out full-time in-house, full-time telecommuting or freelance arrangements. We are particularly looking for people with some reporting experience, so this might be a good opportunity to make a good amount of extra cash per month. Its a US project, so the pay-per-word is very high (close to Rs 2 per word) FYI, 365 Media <http://www.365media.com/> is a US incorporated content development firm. The project we are currently on involves writing business-specific how-to articles for a major US portal/business site. It is a client prerequisite that we use people with media exposure. So please get in touch if you are interested and pass on the information if there is anyone you know who will suit the profile and be willing to work with us. Paul A. Samji Manager - Content Stream 365 Media India Cell: +91 9488 188 601, email: paulasamji@365media.in
Announcing Contests for Writers
Loads of contests for all type of writers!! Should keep us all busy for the next month or so!
1.The Manchester Fiction Prize 2009*
The basics
First prize: £10,000 Deadline for entries: 7th August 2009 Entry fee: £15 Under the direction of Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy, the Writing School at Manchester Metropolitan University is launching The Manchester Fiction Prize - a new literary competition celebrating excellence in creative writing. The Manchester Fiction Prize is open internationally and will award a cash prize of £10,000* to the writer of the best short story submitted. The competition is open to entrants aged 16 or over; there is no upper age limit. All entrants are asked to submit a complete short story of up to 5,000 words in length. The story can be on any subject, and written in any style, but must be new work, not published or submitted for consideration elsewhere. You can enter online by going to: http://www.manchesterwritingcompetition.co.uk
James Draper Project Manager: Writing School Manchester Metropolitan University
E-mail: j.draper@mmu.ac.uk
2.The India Today Travel Plus Contest @ Chillifreeze*
From the Chillifreeze website:
India Today Travel Plus, in association with Chillifreeze, the website for Indian writers, invites all travel writing enthusiasts to submit an article on a “Weekend” holiday that they have personally been on. This should be a destination within India, which is doable within 3 days from any of the 6 metros. The length of the article must be between 1000 and 1200 words, and the tone must be that of a first-hand experience. Tell the reader about your journey & experience, bringing the place alive for him. The article can be light/ humorous or evocative, depending upon the experience and writing style of the individual.
More info here:http://www.chillifreeze.com/ittptravelcontestform.aspx Hat-tip: Aparna Singh <http://apusworld.com/blog>
3.Virgin - Indianhatkeleague online contest series*
From Monisha Mansukhani of Virginmobile
Hey, we at virgin have created www.indianhatkeleague.com - something we are completely in love with . To spread the message we had thought of engaging with bloggers in India and we are holding a series of online contests for the same. The blogger would be promoting the contest, giving out prizes provided by us in a contest designed by themselves, while we in return would get (free ?? ) publicity. The entire contest would be designed and run by the blogger with no interference on our part except to enforce some basic guidelines to ensure transparency and fair contests. What we require from you as soon as is possible are the following details. 1. Your contact address/number 2. The contest details (of how the contest is to be conducted) 3. Your approximate readership/viewership per day Depending on your contest pattern and your number of readers we would be allocating a number of merchandise for a trial run and if the contest on your site/blog is successful we would try and help make it bigger. In case of any queries please feel free to contact me at monisha.mansukhani@virginmobile.in
4.WiFTy (Wine Food Travel) Scholarship Contest for 2009*
An excerpt from the press release (full content here<http://www.food4media.com/asia/pressrelease.php?id=23126> ):
This will be awarded to a writer who aspires to enter the field of food, wine and/or travel writing, but who is not already a writer in any of those fields where they have received payment for their work. The scholarship for the winner will consist of: Complimentary attendance at the 2010 IFWTWA's 7-day Conference at Sea aboard Holland America's ms Eurodam (including taxes and port charges) with full access to all Professional Development Sessions and two mentoring sessions with a senior IFWTWA member. A one-year membership in IFWTWA; A one-year subscription to Press Pass, IFWTWA's member newsletter, which contains industry news, leads on markets, story Ideas and press trips; The opportunity to publish at least one article in Global Writes, IFWTWA's online magazine.
Among the various requirements, which you will find at the link:
7. Entrants will include a sample of their writing, either published or unpublished, on food, wine or travel or a combination of any of the three topics. Photographs with submission are allowed if available in jpeg format and web resolution The competition closes on August 15, 2009
Hat-tip: food writer and consultant Rushina Munshaw Ghildiyal<http://a-perfect-bite.blogspot.com/>
5.Bombadil's Short Story Competition: "A Smile"*
We are inviting entries in English, Spanish and Swedish. The Competition is open for Bombadilians as well as non Bombadilians aged 12 and over, regardless of nationality or country of residence.This is a FREE competition, meaning free to enter. Any one who loves reading and writing short story can participate and contribute their part. For guidelines, kindly visit the following link: http://bombadilpublishing.ning.com/group/Bombadilshortstory or send a mail to info@bombadilpublishing.co Regards, Bombadil Publishing, Sweden (A youth to youth publisher)<http://www.bombadilpublishing.com/>
6. Writing Contest for Science Fiction Writers*
Full details available here<http://www.mywriterscircle.com/index.php?topic=21321.0>. This is an excerpt:
We want short science fiction short (micro, flash or short stories) that tell us a science fiction story around the idea "what if." Where ever you take it, take it interesting! The word limit is 5,000 words. This contest will be judged by science fiction writer T.M. Hunter Schedule: Submission accepted between June 1, 2008 - August 31, 2009.
1.The Manchester Fiction Prize 2009*
The basics
First prize: £10,000 Deadline for entries: 7th August 2009 Entry fee: £15 Under the direction of Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy, the Writing School at Manchester Metropolitan University is launching The Manchester Fiction Prize - a new literary competition celebrating excellence in creative writing. The Manchester Fiction Prize is open internationally and will award a cash prize of £10,000* to the writer of the best short story submitted. The competition is open to entrants aged 16 or over; there is no upper age limit. All entrants are asked to submit a complete short story of up to 5,000 words in length. The story can be on any subject, and written in any style, but must be new work, not published or submitted for consideration elsewhere. You can enter online by going to: http://www.manchesterwritingcompetition.co.uk
James Draper Project Manager: Writing School Manchester Metropolitan University
E-mail: j.draper@mmu.ac.uk
2.The India Today Travel Plus Contest @ Chillifreeze*
From the Chillifreeze website:
India Today Travel Plus, in association with Chillifreeze, the website for Indian writers, invites all travel writing enthusiasts to submit an article on a “Weekend” holiday that they have personally been on. This should be a destination within India, which is doable within 3 days from any of the 6 metros. The length of the article must be between 1000 and 1200 words, and the tone must be that of a first-hand experience. Tell the reader about your journey & experience, bringing the place alive for him. The article can be light/ humorous or evocative, depending upon the experience and writing style of the individual.
More info here:http://www.chillifreeze.com/ittptravelcontestform.aspx Hat-tip: Aparna Singh <http://apusworld.com/blog>
3.Virgin - Indianhatkeleague online contest series*
From Monisha Mansukhani of Virginmobile
Hey, we at virgin have created www.indianhatkeleague.com - something we are completely in love with . To spread the message we had thought of engaging with bloggers in India and we are holding a series of online contests for the same. The blogger would be promoting the contest, giving out prizes provided by us in a contest designed by themselves, while we in return would get (free ?? ) publicity. The entire contest would be designed and run by the blogger with no interference on our part except to enforce some basic guidelines to ensure transparency and fair contests. What we require from you as soon as is possible are the following details. 1. Your contact address/number 2. The contest details (of how the contest is to be conducted) 3. Your approximate readership/viewership per day Depending on your contest pattern and your number of readers we would be allocating a number of merchandise for a trial run and if the contest on your site/blog is successful we would try and help make it bigger. In case of any queries please feel free to contact me at monisha.mansukhani@virginmobile.in
4.WiFTy (Wine Food Travel) Scholarship Contest for 2009*
An excerpt from the press release (full content here<http://www.food4media.com/asia/pressrelease.php?id=23126> ):
This will be awarded to a writer who aspires to enter the field of food, wine and/or travel writing, but who is not already a writer in any of those fields where they have received payment for their work. The scholarship for the winner will consist of: Complimentary attendance at the 2010 IFWTWA's 7-day Conference at Sea aboard Holland America's ms Eurodam (including taxes and port charges) with full access to all Professional Development Sessions and two mentoring sessions with a senior IFWTWA member. A one-year membership in IFWTWA; A one-year subscription to Press Pass, IFWTWA's member newsletter, which contains industry news, leads on markets, story Ideas and press trips; The opportunity to publish at least one article in Global Writes, IFWTWA's online magazine.
Among the various requirements, which you will find at the link:
7. Entrants will include a sample of their writing, either published or unpublished, on food, wine or travel or a combination of any of the three topics. Photographs with submission are allowed if available in jpeg format and web resolution The competition closes on August 15, 2009
Hat-tip: food writer and consultant Rushina Munshaw Ghildiyal<http://a-perfect-bite.blogspot.com/>
5.Bombadil's Short Story Competition: "A Smile"*
We are inviting entries in English, Spanish and Swedish. The Competition is open for Bombadilians as well as non Bombadilians aged 12 and over, regardless of nationality or country of residence.This is a FREE competition, meaning free to enter. Any one who loves reading and writing short story can participate and contribute their part. For guidelines, kindly visit the following link: http://bombadilpublishing.ning.com/group/Bombadilshortstory or send a mail to info@bombadilpublishing.co Regards, Bombadil Publishing, Sweden (A youth to youth publisher)<http://www.bombadilpublishing.com/>
6. Writing Contest for Science Fiction Writers*
Full details available here<http://www.mywriterscircle.com/index.php?topic=21321.0>. This is an excerpt:
We want short science fiction short (micro, flash or short stories) that tell us a science fiction story around the idea "what if." Where ever you take it, take it interesting! The word limit is 5,000 words. This contest will be judged by science fiction writer T.M. Hunter Schedule: Submission accepted between June 1, 2008 - August 31, 2009.
The Hero
2 am in the morning and Rahul’s phone started ringing. Of course he was awake. The thing with insomniacs is that they are never really sleeping but they are never completely awake too. Rahul was not an insomniac, but bouts of it affected him. It was not chronic but it happened at times when his mind was not at rest. Of course a normal mind of a normal person is never at rest, but when something troubled him really bad he could not sleep. He was not worried about the things that are, and always will be mundane. He was worried about things you can’t keep your finger on. Indeed a menace. It was a week now and he did not sleep. His head was constantly aching and he just did not know why. He made some assumptions regarding what could be the cause. He wanted to do something that made his life more meaningful. It was two years in a software company and he didn’t see anything extraordinary happening and he was worried about that. Each night he went to bed he wished that something would happen that would change his life. Something would happen that would make him want to get up early next morning and look at the mirror with purpose. With a burning desire, with passion of doing stuff that meant more than the tons of lines of code he pushed into his computer. He picked the phone after 4 rings only because the number was unknown.
The voice was of a female on the other side.
“hello can you help me?”- the female.
“who are you?”- he asked confused.
“I am a girl who needs your help can you, I don’t have time for details”
“ok”
“listen, come to baker’s circle, near the Food bazaar immediately, some goons are after me I need help!”
“it’s a big place how do I find you?”
“just come to the food bazaar entrance I am hiding there behind the delivery van, hurry!”
“ok hold on”
That’s all he said and within exactly 3 minutes he was racing through the halogen illuminated streets of old delhi. It was beautiful, the night was beautiful. Cold and unforgiving, the night was not welcome for just any guy. But he was not any guy, he was a guy that needed some purpose to live, that’s the reason he sped towards an impossible rescue. Logic had nothing to offer, half of his mind wanted to figure out how a freak girl got his freaking number and what was she doing at 2 am near food bazaar. But as his bike touched 80kmph his mind was clear. His mind was empty. He felt alive and he smiled. Neelam stared at the morning newspaper. She was getting late for the office. And Rahul would get pissed off for having to wait downstairs on his bike. She must read the headlines at least. Something was very familiar about the front page photograph of a battered bike. She read on.
INDIA SAVED FROM A TERRORIST ATTACK, ONE LIFE SAVES THOUSANDS
May 25th-Thursday,New Delhi- An unidentified jeep collided with a bike around 2:30 AM this morning near the Food Bazaar stop, Old Delhi. After the collision the jeep exploded as it is believed a freak spark detonated 50 bombs. Each bomb is said to be capable of destroying an area of radius 3kms. The ignition was catalyzed by a spark probably from the bike engine. The jeep carried maybe 4-5 men but due to the giant explosion there is no clue as to who they were. The identity of the bike rider is also not known. Is this God’s way of making martyrs out of common men, we do not know who this soul was but we will remember him as our savior.
Neelam wanted to go out and look out of the window to tell Rahul to wait. She wanted to so much. All she could do now was to drop tears into her tea cup and stare at the photo of the battered bike. They had always gotten into these bets where you had to make the other person look lame. They had played a hundred pranks on each other in the last few years. That was their bond. Last night neelam had downloaded some free software by which you could call national numbers. She had pasted a note on the food bazaar entrance when it closed for the day. She mailed her friend in Chennai with the instructions and the plan went way smoothly. What did she write on the note? ‘Rahul you are the stupidest male alive on this planet, I am the stupidest female on this planet and that makes us partners. Let’s start our new stupid life together, this is my stupid proposal, please accept” Only one thought came to her mind all day and it would come to her for the rest of her years in this life. ‘Even God does not help stupid people’
Discipline on the blog
Hi everyone,
I have noticed off late there have been some posts which are more personally targetted than having anything to do with the writing.
I would appreciate if the we stick to posting our writings only and not have personal comments put up there.Please note this is a professional blog,which is publicised for our work to publishers.
If any such comments are repeated ,I would have to follow a stricter m oderation process.
Thanks.
Happy Writing.
I have noticed off late there have been some posts which are more personally targetted than having anything to do with the writing.
I would appreciate if the we stick to posting our writings only and not have personal comments put up there.Please note this is a professional blog,which is publicised for our work to publishers.
If any such comments are repeated ,I would have to follow a stricter m oderation process.
Thanks.
Happy Writing.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Eternal We
With what zest the choppers dash to the shores
Only to rejoin the ocean
That never lets them be there
With what grace every flower falls into autumn’s lap
Only to line up at the doors of life
For the next spring to bring them back
There is but the rhythm of change
The melody of creation
And we…?
Endless songs
No death
Can ever silence
V K Rajan
Only to rejoin the ocean
That never lets them be there
With what grace every flower falls into autumn’s lap
Only to line up at the doors of life
For the next spring to bring them back
There is but the rhythm of change
The melody of creation
And we…?
Endless songs
No death
Can ever silence
V K Rajan
THE MILKMAID
The morning sun rays faded a little and the sky looked dark. But the weather couldn’t bother the milkmaid, as she looked happy today. Everyday was an adventure to her. As usual, she had been to the meadow to milk her cows and she was now returning home with a big pail of creamy white milk in her head. Everyone in the village would get milk today, she thought. She walked carefully watching her footsteps. She then, hummed a tune and looked up at the sky and could sense the raindrops falling in her head. Quickly she ran and hid under a big tree with her pail of milk. But in the process, her leg abruptly hit a rock and the milk fell and crashed into the ground. Her happy face now became sad. She lost all her mirth. “What will I do now? The villagers have to go without milk and it’s my entire fault. How will I face the villagers?” she cried. She kept crying for some time and then suddenly she thought about the parting words of her mother.
"Trust in the Lord with all your heart, And lean not on your own understanding; In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He shall direct your paths"
She closed her eyes and prayed to God and asked him to help her. Then she slowly got up to move when she saw a boy with a pot in his head coming from a distance, in the rain. He came near and spoke. “Auntie, we had a party in our house and a lot of milk was left over. I was searching for someone to give it to. Will you take it?”
The milkmaid smiled. She thanked the boy and took the pot of milk. There were tears of joy in her face. God’s ways are certainly unique, she thought. Slowly she took the milk and she began to walk to the village. The rain had stopped and the sun shone brightly in the sky.
SRINIDHI.R
THE INNER BEAUTY
Up in the sky,
In the dark night,
The moon,
With it’s thousand arm: all stars,
Tried to conquer my heart,
But sank into the depth of it,
As there was more beauty,
Than their charm
****
© http//:sreekumar-nair.blogspot.com
Monday, July 6, 2009
Sun rays
I always hear them tip-toe
The early rays of the sun
Silently collecting the beads of dew
From the leaves of paddy in the fields
V K Rajan
The early rays of the sun
Silently collecting the beads of dew
From the leaves of paddy in the fields
V K Rajan
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Time Warp
There seemed to be a time warp. In a mere eight hours of travel, she reached an older, more uncluttered existence. No matter how many times she made this journey, it always came upon her like a shock. She tried to rationalize away the differences but her endless brainwashing of herself could not be carried on for more than a week. Long before the end of that week, she would be yearning for home. A wide gulf of incomprehension settled between her and them and while occasionally it was possible to cross it, it was never possible to build a permanent bridge.
Over the years she learnt to separate the sweet from the sour and savour only the sweetness. The sourness did pop up occasionally despite her best efforts for her tongue had a mind of her own and seemed to respond faster than her power to stop it. The very laziness of the place was relaxing. There seemed to be sounder sleep, calmer thinking and an absence of hurry. But very often the uncomfortably warm, humid atmosphere took on a viscous quality that made her feel as if she were choking on invisible gulps of some syrupy liquid. She could not swallow the liquid and it felt as though it would force itself down her throat and into her lungs and drown her. Leaving that world and re-entering her own brought her back to life and the freedom to be herself and not be ashamed of it.
What was her parents thinking when they consigned her to a lifetime of trying to reconcile herself to that world? They could have married her off to anyone but they chose this family which ironically gave no importance to hers. Parents often decide courses of action for their children without having any idea of the consequences. Even her own mother would not have been able to adjust with the Stone Age thinking that went on in her husband’s house. Women were always subservient. They were to walk ten steps behind their men. They had to contrive to be attractive to their own husband but unattractive to every other man at the same time. They were not to talk much. They could eat only after their husbands and the other men of the house had eaten. The men existed only to be served. The women were supposed to do everything in the house. The men need not get themselves even a glass of water or return said glass to the sink. That could be why the men married women far younger than themselves – the younger the better to mould as they would like and to fetch and carry, cook and clean, wash and mend. In that world, women were always secondary and would always be so. In eight hours worlds changed and ages vanished and the present was pushed away into the past.
Every time she went back, she experienced the same sense of non-belonging – the same agony of trying to fit into a mould that pinched. Perhaps one day when the winds of change blew strongly enough, there would be place for her in that world.
Over the years she learnt to separate the sweet from the sour and savour only the sweetness. The sourness did pop up occasionally despite her best efforts for her tongue had a mind of her own and seemed to respond faster than her power to stop it. The very laziness of the place was relaxing. There seemed to be sounder sleep, calmer thinking and an absence of hurry. But very often the uncomfortably warm, humid atmosphere took on a viscous quality that made her feel as if she were choking on invisible gulps of some syrupy liquid. She could not swallow the liquid and it felt as though it would force itself down her throat and into her lungs and drown her. Leaving that world and re-entering her own brought her back to life and the freedom to be herself and not be ashamed of it.
What was her parents thinking when they consigned her to a lifetime of trying to reconcile herself to that world? They could have married her off to anyone but they chose this family which ironically gave no importance to hers. Parents often decide courses of action for their children without having any idea of the consequences. Even her own mother would not have been able to adjust with the Stone Age thinking that went on in her husband’s house. Women were always subservient. They were to walk ten steps behind their men. They had to contrive to be attractive to their own husband but unattractive to every other man at the same time. They were not to talk much. They could eat only after their husbands and the other men of the house had eaten. The men existed only to be served. The women were supposed to do everything in the house. The men need not get themselves even a glass of water or return said glass to the sink. That could be why the men married women far younger than themselves – the younger the better to mould as they would like and to fetch and carry, cook and clean, wash and mend. In that world, women were always secondary and would always be so. In eight hours worlds changed and ages vanished and the present was pushed away into the past.
Every time she went back, she experienced the same sense of non-belonging – the same agony of trying to fit into a mould that pinched. Perhaps one day when the winds of change blew strongly enough, there would be place for her in that world.
THE MILKMAID--A STORY THAT I WILL POST SOON
Hi everyone. I am right now working on a story about a milkmaid who sees the Lord. It takes lots of time to write because I want the story to be touching and beautiful. I want the words to be smooth and to have a natural flow of mystical beauty..So I will post it soon.
SORRY ABOUT NOT ATTENDING THE MEETING.. SEE YOU ALL IN THE NEXT MEET...
SRINIDHI.R
Friday, July 3, 2009
DROPS
As I am, clear
You can see through me
I form a fizz
And fly across.
I fall, break, spread,
And get rapt in the air.
I revive life,
... DROPS I am.
***
A BEGGAR
I stand aside,
A hopeful look,
At the passing people,
Imagining they would,
Give me alms,
As I am a beggar
***
THE SOUL TO DEPART
I would fly away,
Like a bird one day,
To the destination,
The almighty has
Chosen for me.
A last wish though,
I seek painless
Exodus, so there is
No, suffer for kin.
***
Like a bird one day,
To the destination,
The almighty has
Chosen for me.
A last wish though,
I seek painless
Exodus, so there is
No, suffer for kin.
***
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Startlit Night
How can the earth on a starlit night sleep
With a million strangers winking at her
And how can my wayward mind
When she isn't?
V K Rajan
With a million strangers winking at her
And how can my wayward mind
When she isn't?
V K Rajan
Lengthening shadows
Lengthening shadows
Are the arms of night
Stretching as they pull back the retreating sun
Until they snap into complete darkness
V K Rajan
Are the arms of night
Stretching as they pull back the retreating sun
Until they snap into complete darkness
V K Rajan
1st meeting for the month of July
Hi Everyone,
I am announcing the 1st meeting for July ,which will be on this Sunday, 5th July between 12 noon to 1.30 pm.The venue will be the same place Mocha,Lavelle road.
The agenda for this meeting is:
1.Making groups for commenting on each other's works.Hence please carry 3 copies of any 1 of your writings which you wish to have comments on.
Will explain at the meet ,how this will exactly work.
2. a Magazine called 'the bangalore arts review' is interested in having our members submit works for their magazine's next edition. The editor may come in to discuss further on this or else will get a copy of the mail sent by her to read out to everyone.
Hope to see you all there.
Attendance will be taken as always.
Happy Writing.
I am announcing the 1st meeting for July ,which will be on this Sunday, 5th July between 12 noon to 1.30 pm.The venue will be the same place Mocha,Lavelle road.
The agenda for this meeting is:
1.Making groups for commenting on each other's works.Hence please carry 3 copies of any 1 of your writings which you wish to have comments on.
Will explain at the meet ,how this will exactly work.
2. a Magazine called 'the bangalore arts review' is interested in having our members submit works for their magazine's next edition. The editor may come in to discuss further on this or else will get a copy of the mail sent by her to read out to everyone.
Hope to see you all there.
Attendance will be taken as always.
Happy Writing.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Why I believe in reincarnation
Somewhere in a barren, sun-beaten countryside, a little boy—hardly seven years old—works 14 hours a day mostly by a hot brick kiln so that he can get a meal and Rs. 10 a day. At another place, a boy, still younger, chops wood in the hot sun in the backyard of a small tea shop—so that he can earn at least his own bread and not be a burden to his family. Children who are just about eight or nine years work long hours in small rubber units, handling corrosive material with their bare hands—and they are paid for a month less than what you or I earn in a day.
No one tells these children management mantras on tips on how to be successful in life, how to improve your personality and interactive skills, how to become thought leaders, or how to achieve career goals. In fact, they hardly have any goals, any dreams, or any life at all. For, unlike us, who are ambitious and refuse to be complacent with just being engineers or middle level managers drawing paltry five or six digit salaries (and devote ourselves fully to our own lives and careers), these are children God hated even before He created them; why, they were made without even the capacity to aspire for anything!
These children bear out an unpleasant, shameful truth about us—that we are the beneficiaries of some blatant injustice… some divine injustice, some cosmic sadism: an injustice we prefer not to analyze. And we owe our sophisticated positions to that unreasonable discrimination by the Gods. By that we are in a position to seek professional success, expand our social circles, why, even speak of civility or righteousness. If we hear that we actually deserve much more and that there are sigma techniques, management regimens and all that will bring out the best in us, we are eager, enthusiastic about them. Yes, we have the power to slither to the top of some corporate gutter, we have the power to write and speak the language of the masters who had made slaves of our ancestors, the refinement to express our exasperation through words like ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’ instead of using their regional equivalents such as @#$% or &*$@, using which would make us pariahs! We have the power to earn more and more and more even while those God forsaken children toil day in and day out for a meal.
I am not against people who dream of and want to increase their wealth or foray ahead along their career paths; but I just cannot understand why some people are in a position to do all these, while others are not. Circumstances? But who is responsible for it? Why does a child who has done no wrong in this life suffer? Why are some people who have done nothing really good blessed with circumstances that are conducive to achieving much more than what is required for a comfortable life? It is this question that makes me doubt the sanctity of the Gods even when I stand inside the most sacred temple, gets my goat when they call him ‘my merciful lord’ or prostrate before him in routine prayers.
The only possible explanation I find for this injustice in creation is the theory of reincarnation. It vindicates my Gods, my concept of God…as an entity that is the benevolent creator, the father of entire mankind. Your suffering is not the inequity of the Gods, but your own making.
If this has nothing to do with this life, has it something to do with previous lives? What sin had that ten-year old boy who was burnt to death in Aligarh do in this life? Why was that seven year old thief brutally assaulted by a sadistic mob of adult brutes in Culcutta? Was he actually even capable of committing any crime? Why was a ten-year old boy shot dead by two drunken Haryana police thugs who flaunted the power of their pistols by shooting into his little heart? Where was the merciful creator then, if at all he were merciful? Isn’t God a bloody SOB? A bully, a brute who does not deserve even the contempt of man because that too would be too little? It is plain that the victims have done nothing sinful in this life. Yet they suffered and no God came to their rescue. How can you still call God merciful, just, or kind? If you do not believe in ‘past lives’ and sins of past lives, what other theory do you have to vindicate your Gods? How do you defend them? Or what else can explain this? If you have any explanation, do let me know, my dear friend.
And now, even if reincarnation might explain the injustice we see around and vindicate our Gods, is it fair to be punished in this life for some sins of the past? What crude justice!
Yes, I doubt the godliness of the Gods…and right from that moment, I see man as a horror.
V K Rajan
No one tells these children management mantras on tips on how to be successful in life, how to improve your personality and interactive skills, how to become thought leaders, or how to achieve career goals. In fact, they hardly have any goals, any dreams, or any life at all. For, unlike us, who are ambitious and refuse to be complacent with just being engineers or middle level managers drawing paltry five or six digit salaries (and devote ourselves fully to our own lives and careers), these are children God hated even before He created them; why, they were made without even the capacity to aspire for anything!
These children bear out an unpleasant, shameful truth about us—that we are the beneficiaries of some blatant injustice… some divine injustice, some cosmic sadism: an injustice we prefer not to analyze. And we owe our sophisticated positions to that unreasonable discrimination by the Gods. By that we are in a position to seek professional success, expand our social circles, why, even speak of civility or righteousness. If we hear that we actually deserve much more and that there are sigma techniques, management regimens and all that will bring out the best in us, we are eager, enthusiastic about them. Yes, we have the power to slither to the top of some corporate gutter, we have the power to write and speak the language of the masters who had made slaves of our ancestors, the refinement to express our exasperation through words like ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’ instead of using their regional equivalents such as @#$% or &*$@, using which would make us pariahs! We have the power to earn more and more and more even while those God forsaken children toil day in and day out for a meal.
I am not against people who dream of and want to increase their wealth or foray ahead along their career paths; but I just cannot understand why some people are in a position to do all these, while others are not. Circumstances? But who is responsible for it? Why does a child who has done no wrong in this life suffer? Why are some people who have done nothing really good blessed with circumstances that are conducive to achieving much more than what is required for a comfortable life? It is this question that makes me doubt the sanctity of the Gods even when I stand inside the most sacred temple, gets my goat when they call him ‘my merciful lord’ or prostrate before him in routine prayers.
The only possible explanation I find for this injustice in creation is the theory of reincarnation. It vindicates my Gods, my concept of God…as an entity that is the benevolent creator, the father of entire mankind. Your suffering is not the inequity of the Gods, but your own making.
If this has nothing to do with this life, has it something to do with previous lives? What sin had that ten-year old boy who was burnt to death in Aligarh do in this life? Why was that seven year old thief brutally assaulted by a sadistic mob of adult brutes in Culcutta? Was he actually even capable of committing any crime? Why was a ten-year old boy shot dead by two drunken Haryana police thugs who flaunted the power of their pistols by shooting into his little heart? Where was the merciful creator then, if at all he were merciful? Isn’t God a bloody SOB? A bully, a brute who does not deserve even the contempt of man because that too would be too little? It is plain that the victims have done nothing sinful in this life. Yet they suffered and no God came to their rescue. How can you still call God merciful, just, or kind? If you do not believe in ‘past lives’ and sins of past lives, what other theory do you have to vindicate your Gods? How do you defend them? Or what else can explain this? If you have any explanation, do let me know, my dear friend.
And now, even if reincarnation might explain the injustice we see around and vindicate our Gods, is it fair to be punished in this life for some sins of the past? What crude justice!
Yes, I doubt the godliness of the Gods…and right from that moment, I see man as a horror.
V K Rajan
Random thoughts on some recent tragic/comic/tragi-comic events
1. Michael Jackson moonwalks to nowhere land.
Death and taxes are inevitable. Birth is sooner or later followed by death. What is tragic is the way MJ died: skin and bones; totally bald; unable or unwilling to eat proper meals; symptoms of skin cancer; signs of numerous plastic surgeries. How far are wealth and fame measures of health and happiness?
2. Mayawati’s 1000 crore elephantine inferiority complex.
Mayawati is the prime example of Paulo Freire’ assertion that the more one is oppressed the greater will be the oppression dished out by that person in turn. The whole exercise is highly comical to an outsider but very tragic to the poor of UP for whom 1000 crore is a lot of money. Remember Saddam Hussein and what came of his statues?
3. Teacher absenteeism in Indian schools.
Gurcharan Das, who often writes in Times of India on educational matters, said in an interview that 1 out of 4 primary school teachers are absent on any given day; further, 1 out of 4 do not teach! This is more tragic than MJ’s death or Mayawati’s elephantine ego. The government needs to spent money on upgrading teacher training, put in mechanisms to make teachers more professional and control the unions. Can anyone tell me which university in India allows a person, teacher or not, to do M.Ed. by dissertation without written papers, which only serve to test your skills in recall and reproduction? I hope the new education university proposed by Azim Premji will cater to all those who wants to make a contribution to educational theory and knowledge, irrespective of age and whether they are in teaching service or not.
4. Minister Kapil Sibal’s proposal to abolish standard 10 exams.
No doubt, there is merit in his proposal. However, in the Indian context, the numbers of teachers absent and not teaching on a given day will go up from 1 to 2/4. The quality of education will, most likely, come down. In many other countries, there is accountability on the part of the teacher. More internal assessment means, more abuse of the hapless pupil. If we follow Sibil’s thinking, after a 100m dash on sports day everyone who ran is given a grade and a certificate of completion. In singing competitions that dominate our TV these days, there will be no elimination; everyone will win, each given a grade – fair, average, good - as well as a prize. Competition is part of life and education is a preparation for life; the key is to keep it healthy
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