When it rains: Part 3 (of 3)

in, I'm sure my non-existent reader will forgive me this delay in posting part 3.

The butterfly's song, I think, naturally follows the raindrops' message. I wrote a whimsical draft of what I think the butterflies would have to say to my young heroine. I haven't completed it, no--it is such a fanciful mix of ideas--but I still delight when I think that I am capable of such capricious thoughts.

The butterfly's song

When you slept, sweet one,
and dreamt of rainbows,
the sky faeries plotted to plunder
to steal its ____ greens

fay children, raindrops, spray paints,
seep into soil, nudge seeds awake

borrowed moonbeams, and fashioned
them into flowers and fell asleep in them

This deserves a place here, methinks

“The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.”

-Muriel Rukeyser

Illusions

written on 24 Sept 09

I have often stood at a terrace and stared at buildings fade and lose identity, until it finds the horizon. Then, there's the platitude about the horizon: it will not come nearer however further you walk. And then, there's the old platitude: the comparison between time and distance.

Funny I never bothered to connect these three into the proper sequence that they form: The future fades and loses identity as we go further and further away in time.

I mean, I know that now I am to pull my hair over Database Management when I'd done pulling my hair over putting my notions into words. Tomorrow, I have a idea of what I'll do in the day. And then, I know I'm going home the day after, but I have a vague image in my head of what I'd actually do. The rest of this sem, I know what subjects I'll have, and roughly what extra-curricular stuff I'm up to. In the next three years I will continue here in BITS, in the same campus. And then, I've reached my horizon. After that, the future becomes "the future". And in the future, I will have a lovely husband and live a charmed life. And yet, it is as empty a dream as that charmed place beyond the horizon. It will not come nearer.

Yellow Flowers

One day on my way to school- I was in 9th class then- I was cross with my sister and myself, and I was generous enough to include the rest of the world in my list: I determined that I would be sullen the rest of the day. I walked the last bit to the school building. Walking, you see, is one of the few things I exaggerate my love for, and, despite everything, actually feel that love.

There was a slight breeze, that morning, and while I walked nursing my injured feelings, the breeze quietly cooled them until they remained a mere litany in my mind. And I was all surprised to discover that I was rather cheerful when I finally reached school. It took me a few seconds to understand why- the tree by the gate had the loveliest yellow flowers, and said flowers were, at the moment, very much occupied dancing in the breeze; They were laughing, I thought.

And since that day, in my mind, flowers were divided i nto two categories- flowers, and yellow flowers. 

Pencil vs Pen

(Or) Regrets
written in Jan 2010

I am, for some reason, more comfortable with pencil than with pen. And in this case, I know what that some reason is: Pencil can be erased, you see. If anything does not turn out as intended, erase it. If you can improve upon it, it's as easy as erase and rewrite.

But, you see, even when there's no eraser in sight, I stick to my beloved pencil. I stick to the thought that I can go back home in the evening and erase it. More often than not, I don't, but I stick to that comfort nevertheless. And so, you will find easily scribbling away ideas in dark grey, putting as light a pressure as possible, and in as tiny a size as I please.

I wish life was pencil, not pen. I wish for an eraser to erase away my social gaucherie, to do away with regrets: I should have stayed silent, I should have said this, not that. To erase away bad memories. Of course, I like to think that this option would be much like my hypothetical "I'll erase it once I get home". I'd not do it, that is, just have the comfort that I could, if I wished.

But even a pencil can not save me from regrets of another sort; it can not write on its own.

Run along, now...

...to www.picnik.com, a lovely place for

• buttering sandwitches
• fluffing clouds
• coloring flowers
• picking blackberries
• blooming blossoms
• warming breeze
• planting trees
• sprinkling dew
• laying blanket
• floating kites
• growing grass
• applying sunscreen
• painting sky
• stealing picnik basket
• cueing bird songs

oh, an' for playin' with piccies.

Adjectives

A Happy Morning
A Lazy Afternoon
A Pretty Evening
A Beautiful Night

Make of it what you will

Golconda Fort: Impressions

At the entrance: Kerul was immediately attracted to the spinning toys that one usually finds at such places; I decided I wanted one too.

Once Inside: The elders of our party (cuz i'm too polite to take names) argued with the guides, beginning with "we don't want your expensive service, thank you," to "show us what you will in hundred rupees" and finally, "oh, all right!" I just wanted them to stop.

I adored the terraces and the stone walls and the gardens; I did not like our guide very much.

I spotted those delicate white flowers along one of those stone paths, that I'd so delighted in, when they'd bloomed with the rains in our campus last year. I paused to stare at them, then walked on with the group.

We settled on the lawns for a while; I played 'tag' with my cousins, and was all out of breath in 10 mins.

On the way back: We asked Kerul if he'd enjoyed. "Kind of," he replied. And kind of, I decided, was just right.

When it rains: Part 2 (of 3)

There's somethin' ridiculously nice about sleeping to the sounds of rain. Perhaps, it is the assurance, that when you wake up the next morning, the day will be green, and fresh, and happy. 


I got it in my mind to continue the idea of whispering raindrops:
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sleep now, little one.

When morning comes, run along with breeze

to where green grasses dance,

and wild flowers bob curtsies to a robin

that drinks from water-pearls on vines. 

Skip along, little one,

to where a butterfly flits about,

and if you coax gently, she’ll come to you 

and sing a faery song.

When it rains: Part 1 (of 3)

During NaPo '09, jiji wanted me to write a poem on the rains. I daresay this was not what she was looking for, but she (and I) was delighted with the result nevertheless:

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Rain

Raindrops whisper

to puddles, to leaves,

and to the rusted garden shed;

if I listen carefully, daddy,

I’ll find out the secret message

the sky sends the earth.

Fear

My biggest fear is to lose the love and esteem of those dear to me. 

I shall not elaborate.

Butterflies have the right idea.

Go figure.

A study in contrast

We were at a dinner party; when I waved my hands to my young niece, my bangles frisked and gamboled over my arm, and she waved back, laughing delightedly at the patterns of pink and gold. 

Later that night, the chun-chun of the bangles that was lost amid the noise of the party came clearly and rhythmically I pressed daddy's legs. Sometimes, the chamki in the bangles caught the night-light and sparkled.

The Last Leaf

One of the prettiest pictures I've had the fortune to read: O. Henry's 'The Last Leaf'

More later.

July 13th: More:

Setting: ...quaint old Greenwich Village, the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. 

 Characters: 

"Johnsy," familiar for Joanna. 

Sue: “let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self.”

Mr. Pneumonia, not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. 

The busy doctor

Leaves. On the ivy vine. 

Old Behrman, a fierce little old man, regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.

Plot:

"When the last one (leaf) falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"

Go read. Now.

Happi Anni, Ma! Dad!

10th July

24 years ago, Ma and Dad were thrown together on a bumpy path. Daddy was outgoing and opinionated. And Ma, dearest Ma, was quiet and reserved, and stubborn in her own way.

I won't go into clichés of how far they have come since that day, or of how perfect they are together. And I won't go into those clichés of wishing them a long, joyous life together. Neither feels appropriate.

No, I just quietly wish them all the happiness they can make for themselves. And I make a quiet promise to myself, that I shall do my bit towards that end. Ma, daddy, I love you so very much.

'Tis the little things...

This morning, ma crept out of the house for work, and I darted out the door to catch her: "bye, ma!" She turned to look at me, smiling, and I blew her the one-finger kiss that is hers and mine. Well, it was mine, before. For daddy, for jiji, for those I love. But as she looked at me, one hand arrested at the handle of the main gate, I realized that it was ma who knows the trust and adoration that comes with it, ma who understands that it's special. At that moment, it became ours.

She had to leave, of course, and as I stood at the gate, carefully making sure that her smile stayed put, I felt a child-like glee at lifting my ma's spirits.

That lil' goodbye had me smiling the entire morning. A feat unaccomplished by any momentous news, be it acceptance into CS at BITS Pilani, Hyderabad, or any nine point whatever CGPA.

Hindi

सो जाओ!

In Nitika-speak, it means shut up. You can not talk when you are sleeping, and all that.

2 July, 2010


Darkness was gathering from behind grey cloud, and I was hurrying home from my walk. There was this bandi in my way, and as I stepped aside, I remembered another beside our school, the old man would sell guavas sprinkled with some mixture of salt and red pepper. A closer look told me it was lemons, not extra-yellow guavas that this old man was selling.
There was no rush of students around him; just a little girl squealing that she wanted one too, and her elder sister, who teasingly advised patience before she skipped away with hers. The old man, clad in that typical white shirt, blue-checked dhoti, and matching pagdi, cigarette in his mouth, smiled indulgently, as he carefully cut a perfectly yellow lemon into four not-yet-separated pieces and added his salt-n-pepper mix. I caught his eye--he chuckled something about kids--then stole a look at the beaming girl.  She returned my smile, willing me to share in her joy, so pure in its innocence, and the happiness swelling in my bosom was almost painful, certainly more that I could bear. I abruptly looked away and directed swift steps homeward.

This Is My Letter To The World

This is what I found, this evening: Emily Dickinson’s

This Is My Letter To The World

This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.

Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!


    Just as choti si asha became my song, dear reader, this poem became my own. It became my letter to the world, and its simple words the request of my lil' heart: judge tenderly of me.

The Professor Named Randy

Some three years ago, dad showed me a video of this guy called Randy. Randy Pausch (it may ring a bell, but never mind). He looked young. Energetic. Handsome, a kind of adorable handsome. He was a professor at the Carnegie Melon University. He performed push-ups on stage. He spoke of childhood dreams. And he had cancer. Daddy was impressed, inspired, and did not stop speaking of it the whole fortnight. And I? I did not care.


Eight months later, he died. Till then, I had been fairly confident of dad's chances; he was responding well to chemotherapy, and was in excellent-ish health in general. That afternoon, when I found this small article in the newspaper saying "Randy Pausch dies" my first concern was how dad would take it. As I recorded it in my diary, it struck me that Pausch's health had been excellent too.

That night, the flickers of hope in my bosom quietly died.

Limelight

I do not like it. The limelight, I mean. No, much as I wish for it, sometimes, I am not one for liking to be the center of attention. The coppice gate, and all that.

But this blog post is about Limelight, the movie. The first Charlie Chaplin movie I watched. It was some eight or nine years ago, and I'd laughed away at his wisecracks ("Oh, how would you know, have you ever appealed to their sense of humour?" in response to "Worms can't smile!") at the landlady's bluster ("you take your hands off me!"), and there was always that performance on stage with the dysfunctional piano and violin.

Lately, however, all that humour has been washed off my memory. No, all I can think of is its ending. Chaplin's had a heart attack at the end of afore-mentioned performance. He wishes to see his love dance (she's a ballerina). And so she dances, Chaplin dies, and the limelight fades on her, still dancing away.

Somewhere in the movie, he says, "Life can be wonderful if you're not afraid of it." Sometimes, though, it just hurts.