When people run in circles

it's a very, very 

mad world

--
Gary Jules, Mad World

She ain't no angel,

but if she were one, she'd look like this.

Rohini

If she tried, she could remember frantic afternoons, pressing his hurting legs, and suppressing her own hurt, as he spoke of his imminent death. I do not wish to be nasal fed, he’d declared. And she’d thought of the ugliness, the futility of it, and fervently agreed.

And yet when she’d found herself by him in the hospital, the dietitian strongly recommending nasal feeding, she had tried to be something she wasn’t -- cheerful and giving him assurances she herself didn’t believe in, and playfully admonishing to agree. Everybody had decided to extend his life that way, and she had readily cast aside her own convictions to do what was asked of her. All because she was jealous of the dietitian’s easy confidence and good humour that could coax smiles off her father.

(She had been so quick to hurt, when he’d stopped letting her kiss his cheek, cuz it suffocated him to have anyone so near to his face.)

Everybody called her strong. They told her that they wouldn't have been half as strong as her, had they been in her place. But she hadn't been strong enough to support him, when he’d recoiled from the thought of having a pipe shoved down his nose and hadn't the strength to really protest.

She was supposed to do what she needed to do. And what her father had needed was not for her to join in those thoughtless entreaties for him to accept it for his own good. Her mother hadn't understood, but she had -- that fervent desire to be dead, rather than suffer through painful days holding off death. And it was unpardonable, that she had not stood up for what had been one of his last wishes, that she hadn't stood up for what she had believed in.

Drabble: Pieces of nothing

She’d never regretted that she hadn’t stayed, that evening before he’d died. It was not life, that count down to death, and she hadn’t wanted to be a part of it. He’d been asleep, and she didn’t think she could stand it, watching him struggle for breath, selfishly wanting it to be over, to put it all behind her.

Months later, she found that without the anger, the worry, the fear, the need to be of use -- all inextricably linked to him -- she was just an empty shell, of that he’d wanted her to be, but she wasn’t.

Drabble: Don't give up on yourself, love

What was he thinking, that she'd fall right into his arms, look up at him, and tell him she'd been miserable without him? Well, she had been miserable, enough that she had absolutely no intention of giving him that power over her again. She knew enough of him that he’d stay away, if she asked him to, but could she make him stay the hell out of her mind? She didn't quite know. But she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to try. She bit back the sharp, bitter accusations, but her answer wouldn't change: No.


---
Ashi and Dhruv, in case you're wondering

Ze flatlanders. Or not.

When I entered the house, Ma'd just settled into Kaun Banega Crorepati, with all the anticipation of watching the guy win 5 crores. When are you going to cook dinner? she asked. Cuz I'd promised last night that I would. Aalu ka shorva. I replied non-committally, and later, when Mr Bachchan asked something about what had Bal Gangadhar Tilak accepted in dowry, besides some khadi, I burst out, 'two potatoes?'

Mother dear was all shocked, she was. 'Two potatoes?!' Meanwhile, Mr Bachchan was reeling out options for that 1 crore question, and only when she saw that none of them options was two potatoes, did she calm down. "Mm," I replied, "and three spoons of oil?" 'The potatoes are tiny,' ma considered aloud, 'use three. no, all four.' And I scurried into the kitchen to find them.

I tell you, if I believed in spirits and devils, and the like, the first place I'd go looking for them is in the just-sprouted eyes of them 'tatoes. Downright scary, they are. And ebil.

---
I beg yer pardon, if the title was more interesting than the post. But I shan't beg forgiveness, if said title is in need of elaboration.

Moar songs. And diamonds.

tangerine trees and marmalade skies.


cellophane flowers of yellow and green,
towering over your head.


plasticine porters with looking glass ties.


what more kould one want?

lucy in the sky with diamonds?

well, look for the girl with the sun in her eyes,
and she's gone.

bye bye now.

Dear curt.

dear curt. i hope you ont get ofended i spelt your name wrong. and that this ltter has about a hundred typos. or that it doesnt have a hundred of them, if you actually end up counting. or that i'm writing to you in the first place. uhm, you see, xlnc bade me ask you something, err , i'm sorry , i dont quite remember what. so, yeah, forgive me for htat too. right, bye.

ps: i've also apparently misquoted youir songs. aplologies for that too

pps: xlnc also has a problem that i've only apologized so far, so, uhm, i hope this helps:

ppps: er, nothing.
nothing aint an apology, and all that. 

---

for those wondering,

xlnc:  no no no.

i found it hard, it's hard to find, well, whatever, never mind.

 me:  found it ard-- what?

 xlnc:  ask kurt.

me:  cobain?

 xlnc:  mm. him.

Luriana Lurilee

Come out and climb the garden path
Luriana, Lurilee.
The china rose is all abloom
And buzzing with the yellow bee.
We'll swing you on the cedar bough,
Luriana, Lurilee

I wonder if it seems to you,
Luriana, Lurilee,
That all the lives we ever lived
And all the lives to be,
Are full of trees and changing leaves,
Luriana, Lurilee.

How long it seems since you and I,
Luriana, Lurilee,
Roamed in the forest where our kind
had just begun to be,
And laughed and chattered in the flowers,
Luriana, Lurilee.

How long since you and I went out,
Luriana, Lurilee,
To see the kings go riding by
Over lawn and daisy lea,
With their palm leaves and cedar sheaves,
Luriana, Lurilee.

Swing, swing, swing on a bough,
Luriana, Lurilee,
Till you sleep in a humble heap,
Or under a gloomy churchyard tree,
And then fly back to swing on a bough,
Luriana, Lurilee.

-Charles Elton

                                                                   (Another world than this)

In Verse: To Dad

Written on 6th April
The tube light went poof today, daddy.
I climbed chairs and tables, and played tinker,
just like I remember you did, so many moons ago.
I remember, we'd stand by the switchboard,
jiji and I, and we'd get to play with the switch.
On. Off. On. Off. On. And then it glowed.
How did you do it, dad, how did you coax
light off it? Well, you are gone now, and all I have
is finger-dots on a dusty, distinctly unhappy tube. 

I do not know why I find this inexpressibly cute, but I do.

...

And the songbirds keep singing like they
    know the score.



---
I'd expand, but I can not find the words to express the hope and the reassurance, and the bitter-sweet feelings this evokes.
Oh, this is borrowed from a song called Songbird. Lyrics by Christine McVie.

Drabble: Pitter patter

Dhruv always associated them rains with Rohini. It’d been raining, the first time they’d met. He laughed at the memory: she'd crashed into him, then unabashedly dragged him into the rain. Oh, he'd protested, she’d had none of it, and somewhere between all that tramping about the neighbourhood, and sinking hastily-made paper boats, they’d become firm friends.

That was years ago, when she’d visited her grandparents for the summer. She just stood there, today, tightly hugging herself, allowing the rain to drench her. She smiled weakly when she saw him, and went back to staring into the distance.

Drabble: And yet they're best friends

Kira looked up, when she heard the door close, then went back to methodically shredding newspaper. She barely registered her roommate’s, ‘what’s wrong?’ Half a minute later, she indicated the mess in front of her ‘I need to finish this by six.’
Ashi was bemused, ‘six?’
‘Meeting Dhruv.’
Ashi was disconcerted by her friend’s blank stare, but only nodded, unable to suppress her envy.
--Kira was now picking up fresh paper. She ripped it in half, deposited one half on the bed, then resolutely tore the other. She didn’t notice, when Ashi slipped out the room.

Meh. Again. What do you think?

ISFJ - "Conservator". Desires to be of service and to minister to individual needs - very loyal. 13.8% of total population.

Take Free Jung Personality Test
Personality Test by SimilarMinds.com

follows the rules, polite, fears drawing attention to self, dislikes competition, somewhat easily frightened, easily offended, timid, dutiful, private, lower energy, finisher, organized, socially uncomfortable, modest, not confrontational, easily hurt, observer, prone to crying, not spontaneous, does not appreciate strangeness - intolerant to differences, apprehensive, clean, planner, prone to confusion, afraid of many things, responsible, guarded, avoidant, anxious, cautious, suspicious, more interested in relationships and family than intellectual pursuits, not adventurous, fears doing the wrong thing, dislikes change (I'd disagree, perhaps, with finisher and organized)

Drabble: Reach for it, dearest

Ashi had not meant to watch it. No, it was taking up space on her hard drive, and she'd wanted to delete it. It wasn’t the kind of movie she'd watch; the girl was beautiful but unreachable, and she didn't like the guy's hair.
But she watched. Time went by, they looked different, they got dumped, they still laughed. They found each other. One day, she’d find someone too. Dhruv only smiled, she’d find someone to laugh with. She would not know where it would go. But there would be an open road ahead of them, and they’d laugh.

Double edge.

You Keep the Sunshine, Save Me the Rain. (clipped to polyvore.com)

Pain.

They'll think it's just cause we're young (clipped to polyvore.com)

Drabble: Unexpected undercurrents

Advait was unsurprised to find Rohini flinging pebbles into the pond. 'She lives a charmed life,’ she was saying, ‘nothing ever touches her.' But he almost gasped when he heard Dhruv: ‘she makes me happy.’

‘The novelty will wear off. That cheerful exterior holds nothing inside; you deserve better.’

'She's your best friend!'

There was a gentle, pained intimacy in her voice: ‘Ashi has a generous heart, Dhruv, but she will not understand you when you most need her to.’

Since when had Rohini been on such terms with Dhruv? Clearly, Advait was eavesdropping on a private conversation; he left.

Drabble: Once upon a time

The living room was alive, when he was in it. When he was angry, the room was angry. When he was bitter, the room was bitter. And when he was happy, the room was happy.

When he was happy, the room meant something sublime to her: home.

(47 words)

Drabble: An afternoon flows by, this way

Rohini stood by the pond, absently throwing pebbles into the water. She smiled brightly when she noticed him, "I'm trying to get back at the water sprite. Join me?" He took the offered gravel. "Pray, what has the little sprite done to offend you so?" She flicked another pebble at the pond -- it bounced twice before it disappeared -- and shrugged: "Nothing. I was bored”

He laughed, and flung his pebble as far as he could, triggering an unspoken competition of who’d throw the stone farthest. Somewhere between the banter, she said, “Advait? I’m glad you’re here.” 

Drabble: She was in high spirits, that night.

"My goodness, girl! what on Earth are you up to?" "I wanted a story," Kira grinned, and went back to drawing cheerfully sinister figures that, in the flickering light of the candle, seemed to dance around a set of alphabets. Ashi was incredulous, "And you decided to go looking for it among the spirits?"

As Kira wrote ‘OUIJA’ in ornate letters at the top of the cardboard, she thought that if those demons were to keep her from sleeping, they might as well make themselves useful. Aloud, she asked lightly, “Why not? I’m sure they have interesting tales to tell.” 

In verse: To ma

Written in April 2011 

To ma (or why I got wet this evening)

Do not look at me so, mother, I truly hadn't intended
to get so drenched. Only, I was outside
when the raindrops came calling on our hibiscus.
It was all stiff and formal at first,
but then, they began to play this light, bouncy tune,
and the stems an' leaves danced so spiritedly,
I just had to join in the merriment.

Drabble: Fair weather we're having

“Don’t get out, Rohini,” he said, as he paid off the driver, “not yet.” And then he took her umbrella and disappeared behind the auto. “I see your plan,” she muttered, “you steal my umbrella, and then abandon …”

“This way, Mademoiselle,” Advait was at her side, holding open the offending object with flourish. She grinned, and daintily stepped out; he held it carefully above her head, gallantly getting half wet in the process. As they continued towards the hostels, she thought that it was extremely unfair, and pushed that darned umbrella towards him; she wanted to get wet too.

In Verse: To Dad

I.
Every night last winter, I covered you with a warm blanket,
and as I watched you sleep, sewed a patch onto my memory-quilt;
I knew it would be far too cold when you'd be gone.

II.
The fire goes out. Goodbye.
That quilt lies buried in nothingness;
I float in the cold.

Drabble: Negative Space

She could only stare.

She remembered that wave she called alone, washing over her, leaving her rooted to the ground, and at the same time, floating in space-time. Yes, she remembered very well, how it was to float un-anchored in a vast universe.

This was infinitely worse. He shrank into himself, as if that vast universe he was alone in was collapsing onto him, and would cease to exist, if he gave in. She was, once again, rooted in that nothingness, as she watched the fear in his eyes die, as she watched his hands stop trembling and go limp.

---
For those wondering where this fits into Kira's universe, stop. It doesn't.

Interlude: Dhruv

Snapshot's of his sister's birthday

1. Dhruv helps his sister gather flowers from their garden, and watches fondly as she carefully arranges them on the framed photographs in their puja room.

2. She announces her return from school by sneaking into the room and pulling his hair. He glares at her but snaps his book shut, and she settles into his lap like she did when she was younger.

3. She rubs cake all over his face, then darts out of reach. He catches up easily, and lifts her into the air, sending her into peals of laughter.

Interlude: Advait

The authoress wishes to let it be known that Advait was awfully secretive about his vacation, except that he kept himself busy, and played with his guitar, a little. The authoress is miffed, but not as miffed as Rohini was, who absolutely refused to talk to him for a whole sennight. If he was bothered by it, he did not let it show, and Kira eventually tired of it.

Interlude: Rohini

Rohini and the Cat:

One morning, our Rohini found a cozy corner in the park to read her book. It was a remarkably pleasant book, she thought, just like the warm winter day it was. She was startled out of humming ode to joy when she saw a rather ugly black cat staring at her. Disconcerted, she said, "please, monsieur chat, I do not quite know to hum ode to a cat. Will you not be a good cat and go on your way?"

It stayed stubbornly where it was.

"Run along now!"

It did not blink an eye.

"Why, you're as inconsiderate as that stupid cat in my book!" she cried, and pointedly went back to reading it.

---

For those interested, Rohini was reading Aunts aren't gentlemen, by PG Wodehouse.

Interlude: Ashi

Ashi writes an email to Rohini 
 
... If anybody ever made a checklist of what a girl could do at home in her vacation, you'd think I've been systematically crossing items off it: I've gone shopping, watched a stupid movie with my cousins, went out for coffee with old friends, attended an obligatory wedding, fought with my sister over nothing, baked a cake, and read a book I've been putting off for ages.


And I haven't been able to stop thinking of Dhruv. How I wish to talk to him! He is always formal,  but there is something about that formality that makes me believe that I'm the center of his world. Only, I'm so very afraid that I am not, and I dare not call.


Bah. I'm sure you have been more interestingly occupied. 

(Here, she clicks the discard button rather forcefully)

Chasm

Please note that this has nothing to do with Rohini, Advait or anybody that belongs to that perfect little universe I've created; Ashi refuses to stop being difficult.

----

Chasm

Her silence had once meant warmth: she'd been content to disappear into the kitchen when they'd had guests, to blush modestly at the affectionate compliments on the warm chai and pakodis. And she'd been content to let her husband carry on the conversation.

There was something remote and heavy, now, about her silence. She sat there, head bowed, wishing she had something to say to her visitors. Sometimes, the lull in the conversation would fill with praise of her husband. But silence would creep into the room again, and she’d find herself wishing that they’d leave soon, that they hadn’t come in the first place.

The months rolled by, and visitors thinned, and one evening, when she came back from work to an empty house, she thought that the accident had not just snatched her husband from her, but an entire family.

(145 words)

In verse: To Dad

I switch on your old radio; 
     its tunes wander 
into all the corners of the house  
          you aren't there.

Borrowing verse:

From a poem by E.E. Cummings

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

e.e. cummings


---

For those wondering, Kira and Advait (and everybody else) shall return when they stop being so difficult.

Drabble: All roads do not lead to Rome

She tried, consciously, to forget him. And sometimes, when she did not try so very hard, she succeeded too; not everything led to him, you see. But he always wormed his way back into her mind. Because almost everything led to him.

--
Ashi and Dhruv. 42 words. Yes.

Contrast

There was something affected about that sorrow, Ashi thought. Oh, she liked Tanya well enough. She was a pleasant sort of girl who always attempted to make the other comfortable, despite being uncomfortable herself. Lately, though, she had taken to being quieter than her wont, to pay no attention to the people around her. Ashi knew she had a reason—everybody knew all wasn’t well at home. But nobody knew exactly what; she always seemed to assiduously make her way close to the subject, then suddenly veer off on tangents. And Ashi had lately begun to wish that she stayed off that topic altogether; she suspected that Tanya could be happy, if she allowed herself to.

Rohini, who had never been close to Tanya, took to spending hours with her. She didn’t quite know how to ask, and Tanya didn’t quite know how to confess, but they both knew what it was to hide and took comfort in each other’s company.
--

(161 words)

Drabble: Written in the stars

Advait looked at Ashi. Ashi looked at Advait. Rohini, they silently decided, had finally cracked. Really, nothing else could explain the “You must call me Krittika, you know?”

And now she sat in mock dignity, carefully turning the glossy pages of her book. Presently, she got tired of waiting for them to reply, and elaborated “It was very wrong of my parents to name me Rohini when I was born under the Krittika nakshatra.”

“A grave injustice indeed,” he agreed solemnly.

Krittika nodded. Advait nodded. Krittika looked expectantly at Ashi. Ashi clapped her hands. “Ooh, can we call you Kira?” 

Drabble: Pick a string, dear

It wasn’t uncommon for Rohini to barge into their room. Nor was it very unusual that she borrowed her guitar to figure out notes for her favourite songs. No, what surprised Ashi was that her roommate was resolutely practising chords today.

“What!” she exclaimed defiantly “I did learn, you know?” “Yes, and you also said that you’d rather choose a more exciting way to die.” Rohini glared at her in response, and moved on to scales.

It took an entirety of eight minutes before she ran out of patience. “If you must know,” she mumbled, “Advait wagered that I couldn’t.”

Happy Anniv, I think

A year and a day ago, I started blogging, with this post. Much has changed since then--for one, I do not adore that poem as I once did--but that post remains true.

Friends have suggested that this blog is a gate to the forest that is my thoughts. And yes, it could be seen that way. But I prefer that quiet intention, that 'the coppice gate--the plain, unassuming, unadorned coppice gate--was more appropriate, more... me.'

Edit: It iz quite amusing, that this comes on the heel of Twirl.

Drabble: Twirl

“Rohini? You have no schemes up your sleeves tonight, do you?” Her roommate, busy doodling in her textbook, didn't bother looking up, “nuh-uh.” “Good. Then you’ll help me dress for my date." "mm hm." "With Sandeep.” That succeeded in shocking her: “Goodness Ashi! Whatever happened to Dhruv?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied, “I find myself tired of playing tag with him.”

Rohini stopped twirling her pencil. Ashi smirked.

“Sandy's a writer,” she continued airily, “he showed me something he wrote on a kid amusing himself with a twig an entire evening; I dare say I can manage an evening with him” 

Drabble: Out Of Reach

She had always been a slip of a creature, but there was this vibrancy, this assurance about her that made one forget. She stood erect as ever this morning, but she was unnaturally still, one arm half extended forward, as if reaching out for something she couldn’t have. And it seemed almost wrong, to see her so vulnerable. “Rohini?” he asked her, his voice concerned.

Her arm jerked stiffly to her side, and she turned to face him. Her voice was mild, but her eyes flashed, as if daring him to challenge her: “It is a lovely day, isn’t it?

In Verse: To Dad

I cannot seem to find a poem
in that quiet sense of belonging
when we'd all sat down for tea one evening.

---
Not that I was having tea, no. I was flitting about the house while ma and dad had theirs.

Pale Blue Dot

They say it gives you perspective. They say it's humbling. Character-building. Carl Sagan himself said, "There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world," and a pretty argument he makes, "to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known".

And yet, I chuse only to amuse myself that I live on a mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam.

Drabble: Improbabilities Don't Add to One, Either.

I had too much fun with those two, to not take a peak at them later that afternoon.

--

Improbabilities Don't Add to One, Either.

“Neglecting your books, are you?” It was all her fault, and now she had the temerity to upbraid him. “What do you want?”

She held up her text book: “Teach me.” “I thought you had it all mastered; 99% probability, and all. No?” She sat down by him in response, and made a show of opening her book.

“A probability of 1 implies a certain event,” he drawled; she glared at him. “I know that.” That imp was dancing in his eyes, now: “Then you know that even a 99.99% probability cannot guarantee you a universe apart from this one?"

Drabble: Sometimes, Probabilities Don't Add to One.

He found her in the library swinging back and forth on her chair, reading some novel. An open Probability textbook lay neglected on the table. She grinned when she noticed him and indicated her book, an Artemis Fowl: “What’s the probability that this world is real?” “About 1%,” he replied.

“Ninety nine,” she averred, and he could swear he saw an imp dancing in her eyes. “Every book in this room is a world of its own. A good book, now, delineates an entire universe.”

He found himself gravitating towards the History section in search of a universe for himself.

---
A drabble, if you remember, is a short piece of fiction, exactly 100 words in length.

Today is, apparently, World Environment Day. Well, Monsieur Environment, I'm sure you're pleased*. This post, now, will not wish you a Happy World Environment Day. Nor will it preach the wonders of saving the environment. Why bother, then?

You see, it is just twisted irony. That I happened to notice this today:


This is Sydney Opera House.                       This is Sydney Opera House with 
                                                                       lights switched off.  

               

          

Sydney was where it all began, the phenomenon called Earth Hour, back "in 2007, when 2.2 million residents of Sydney participated by turning off all non-essential lights. Following Sydney's lead, many other cities around the world have adopted the event."

And, with less publicity, going back to their lives the next day.

Lives, that sometimes include this:            A less pretty--but more telling--picture:

(This, is part of the Sydney Festival 2011, that transformed the city into a 'colourful canvas of light'.)

So, was that One Hour of Darkness compensation for this brilliant lighting? Have they spared the slightest thought to their commitment to the environment? Forgive me my cynicism, but I do not think so.


Note: This is in no way specifically targeted at the Sydney Opera House. Only, they made it a symbol of Earth Hour, and now I'm using it to attack that Token gesture.


---

*Or not. Everybody will puff up their pride about doing their bit for the environment, and go back to doing what ever it is they do.


Pics from:
http://www.101worldtravel.com/2010/06/23/the-sydney-opera-house/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Earth_Hour
http://www.limitemagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/sydney_opera_house_2.jpg

http://www.zimbio.com/pictures/CVIitYMvYan/Vivid+Sydney+Festival+Lights+Up+City

Hello, me hearties.

I realized, last week, that I haven't been really devoting much effort to my blog, since I abruptly stopped the Pearl Diaries, or what ever that was. Except for a scattered few--very few--posts, they have all been borrowed from elsewhere and/or cryptic stuff. Or stuff I'd written earlier for various reasons. It has not juice, most of the time, and for that I apologize.

Rest assured, though, that I am still in no humour to write stuff like this. Or this. But I promise you better than this.

On a completely unrelated note, we have, finally*, the Federer vs Nadal final tomorrow that is usually clamored for at the beginning of every grand slam, except that it wasn't this time. People now have to forget all pre-tournament chatter of Nole's winning streak, of the anticipated Nadal vs Djokovich face-off, and brush off the dust on their records of The Rivalry between the GOAT (that is Greatest of All Time for the uninitiated) and the King of Clay. #blinks#



---
*A wish that has not been granted since AO 2009

In verse: A summer morning

Poem written in April 2011.

A Summer Morning

     Sunshine dribbles on the leaves of my hibiscus,

     and a warbler hops over tender stems in search of worms;

     inside, I breakfast with my family.

I once wrote that Home was ma, dad, jiji, and me. It still is.

In verse: When we were little

Written sometime in April 2011

When We Were Little

When the clouds ran out of raindrops,
and we were all chastened, dried
and changed into fresh frocks, we'd run out
again with paper-boats, place little dreams in 'em,
and set them sailing in little oceans on the street.

Mugga wugga mum bum wugga wugga

Brownies for those who figure out.

 Uh wugga wuh. Uh wugga wuh.
 Uh wugga wugga wugga.
 Uh wugga wuh uh wugga wuh
 Uh wugga wugga wugga.

Oh, and Googled (or any search-engined) Brownies taste bitter.

Make of it what you will.

Too many fingers. Only one pie.
Na. The other way round.

Speaking of pies,

If you want to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe.
-Carl Sagan

Somewhere in London. 

By Robert Montgomery


(http://www.robertmontgomery.org/robertmontgomery.org/5.html)

I never thought I should be posting this, but...

...Your Xlnc, and everyone else under Capn' Ted's command,

Drink up me hearties, yo ho.

oh, and to---er, well, somebody/something (and this I expected)

shoo.

The Starling

"No," said the starling; "I can't get out, I can't get out," said the starling.

I do not know why I am so fascinated, so attached to this little passage from Laurence Sterne's 'A sentimental journey through France and Italy'.

It is beautifully written, true, but there is something about the starling that strikes a chord in me. The starling's plaintive cry, "I can't get out," serves as my gtalk status. But, you see, I do not feel (and have never before felt) like a caged bird that wants out but cannot.

No, my cage has a door that I know I can open, should I try just a little harder. Only, I do not dare.

This day we sailed on

"This day we sailed on course WSW."
                                   -Christopher Columbus.

Well, not exactly, the ship careened too many times to count, but yes, in essence, that's how my days go by.

Nights, now, is another matter. I'm walking every night after dinner, the breeze is lovely, and it feels inordinately good, walking with it. It even better when I find company more tangible than the night breeze.

Songs: Moon River

Leaves me rather wistful, this one. I do not know why I like it, but I do. Very much. #shrug#

Cooking with ma

This was march 3rd, 2011:

Hi jijima!

guess what I did at home?

I cooked!!!

I cooked ze cabbage n anda on tue night. But, u see, i was so worried about not burning ze cabbage that it ended up slightly undercooked, n just this lil bit bitter.

But jiji, ze cabbage haz the most lovely pale green color when it is just mixed with ze pyaaz n hot oil. The haldi n mirchi ruins the color, they do.

And then, wed, i makeses ze aalu-gobi for lunch. Ze gobi smells delicious, it does, when it iz added to the aalu n pyaaz n oil. mmmmmm..

This turned out nice and yum, but it didnt have the 'that' that makeses ma's cooking so rich and yummy. It's okay, i'll learn!

and guess what else I did? I watched Masterchef. With Ze Hon. Chef Ramsey. But this was ze semis n ze finals, so all high class cooking, n no blunders, and so no thunders from our fav chef. 
...


I tell you, my anxiety waiting for ma's opinion on the aalu gobi was as good as any felt by the contestants waiting for Chef Ramsey's. And this was march 13th:

...


speaking of, dinner was cabbage-anda, ma style; 

i tried to make it, okay? ma cut ze cabbage n pyaaz. n then i wandered into ze kitchen; i'll make it, ma? i ask. n so she says put 3 spoons oil. and i put oil, n get distracted by what to put next, i think a moment n ask, zeera? she says yes. so i take zeera and wonder if tthe oil is hot enuf. when i think it is, i put in zeera, n thn i wait wait wait for it to turn slightly brown, n i put in pyaaz, very cautiously, you know. n a lil oil splashes, u kno, just smallest drplets, n just a lil bit, but i gt startled and i jerk my hands, and most of ze pyaaz falls off the plate.

n then i turn off the stove n call ma. n she asks, you put only one spoon oil, no? n then i realize tht ya, i stopped at one spoon. (well, actually, I remembered vaguely wondering that there's too little oil, and pushing the thought aside)

n then i getses out of the kitchen, cuz i iz too slepy n i dont trust myself anymore.

I really ought to stop with the 'ze's and the 'es'es and the 'iz' and everything elses, but I have too much fun with it, and jiji doesn't mind. And so I go on and abuse ze language as I please.

Unseasonal

( The first three were written last April)

Unseasonal: 

1.Diagnosis

The monsoons retreat, and my home is flooded

with visitors come with fruits and scripted conversations:

There is nothing wrong with my father, they say.

2.Treatment

A lackadaisical winter sun bears witness

to electron beams scorching cancerous cells,

and anything else in their path.

3.Uncertainty

I walk in sync with birdsong, side stepping a dead leaf.

Once upon a summer, I’d have quarrelled with my sister

to crunch it, but now, my own father is a dry leaf, singed

by cancer.

4.Death

I know not when spring breezed in,

but there are plenty of flowers to choose from

to adorn the frozen memory that is his photograph.

In a wild and wonderful world...

This post is nearly two months overdue. Right. On with it, then.

You see, the chemists have a complicated way of counting: instead of saying "one, two, three, four, five protons," they say "hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron."

--Richard P Feynman, in QED: The Strange Theory of Light and Matter*

Richard Feynman called it a wild and wonderful world of quantum physics, where the very particles of light dare travel at above and below the speed of light (and not necessarily in straight lines), where electrons go backwards in time. And then he dared to go accuse the chemists of complicating counting.

Speaking of counting, he had us count 584 beans and take out 236**, and have a marvelously good time at it. Genius, he was.

Ooh, this is the Feynman Van, with Feynman diagrams painted on the side.

_____________________________________________
* QED: The Strange Theory of Light and Matter is a collection of four lectures where he seeks to explain, to a non-specialist audience, the theory of Quantum Electrodynamics, without a single equation.


**metaphorically speaking, that is. 

Women's Day

Last year, I was startled by Kartheik, "Will you write something for Women's Day?" I had absolutely no clue what he was going to do with it, but I agreed, and found it doubly hard to think of what to write when I didn't know what it was for. I googled* for women who left a mark upon the world (and not the usual list); women whose story meant something to me, would mean something to the audience (whatever it was--I love creating brick walls out of nothing, because, had I thought clearly, it would have to be the students of my campus). I found Nellie Bly after some searching, but I wondered if my audience (again, whoever they were--yes, now they became real people) would relate to her. So I kept searching, and returned again, and again to Nellie Bly. As I ran out of time, I decided to stick to her and be done with it.

I do not have to look very hard this year; my ma is an unknown to all except a very small world, she is not (like Bly**) a whirlwind of a personality. No, she is a tender plant, one that looks lovely and fragile, but withstands harsher winds when compared to those tall, strong trees. From her, I'm learning that it is possible, to go on despite everything. I was given very good advice last summer: 'courage is not about being fearless,it's about doing what you must inspite of being afraid'; my ma, she has plenty of that courage.  

All women, they say, turn into their mothers. I'll be proud of myself if I become half the woman she is. 

And this is what I put together  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
*aside: ah, my blogger text editor still doesn't recognize google as a verb. Nor google as a word, for that matter.


**Okay, now that's too many parentheses.

Songs: Mili

Mili was the first movie I watched beginning to end. Daddy brought home a dvd, and we all sat down to watch it; the first time ma, dad, jiji and me watched a movie together. Uhm, not exactly. Dad stopped after the first half where all the comedy was, and I watched the rest another day when no one was home.

The songs have even greater memories: I remember, when I was six or seven, waking up to 'maine kaha phoolon se' playing on the radio. 'Tis a remarkably cheerful song, and happy, happy lyrics, and I'd distort them to 'maine kaha tune tu,' and insist it was so when ma tried to correct me. I laugh, now; I have no clue what kind of thought processes lead to that

Maine kahan phoolon se 

haso to woh khil khila kar has diye 

Aur ye kahan jivan hai bhai mere bhai

hasne ke liye hasne ke liye.

I did not hear the actual song for a long time in between, and Lata's voice gave way to my mother's soft, unadorned one, for she'd hum it occasionally while she went about her cooking. Indeed, I was disappointed in the song when I found it on the internet --I am still decided that Ma's is way better.

The other two songs, aaye tum yaad mujhe and badi sooni sooni hai offer a remarkable contrast. The former has memories with dad; tis one of those songs we'd listened together. Tis a beautiful song, infused with pain and longing, but daddy and I, we were both too wrapped up in each other to give much weight to that. We were too busy counting stars:

Jab Mai Raaton Mein Taare Ginta Hoon
Aur Tere Kadmon Ki Aahat Sunta Hoon
Lage Mujhe Har Tara, Tera Darpan

Badi sooni sooni hai... it is -will you let me use 'beautiful' again? Cuz it is. A perfect expression of the emptiness I sometimes feel. Of when I can not find sleep at night, of when I can not find happiness:

Kabhee main n soyaa, kahee muz se khoyaa sukh meraa aise

Pataa naam likhakar, kahee yoohee rakhakar bhoole koee jaise

Dear Mr. Dumkopf

Sometimes, you find amusement in the most unexpected places. Here, 'tis the lecture slides of our Computer Networks course. I still haven't figured out from which book/website our prof. picked up this particular picture. Will acknowledge it if I do.

Edit: Found the source! Tis from Computer Networks, by Tanenbaum

Pearl 2011: Day 1

Alright, Day 0 sounded wierd (I've added to the post, by the way), but I'm going to continue with the 0, 1, 2, and 3. So here's my

Day 1: Trips to nowhere in the Sun, and a beautiful night with the stars.

Okay, the day was terrible. No other word for it. I'm trying, very hard, to be honest here, but I do not think I can convince my fingers to type out the variety of pickles I found myself in. That, and this post will bloat, should I do that. Right.

So, I awoke a lil before nine, Akhila and I'd planned to have breakfast in the mess at 9 15, and then attend Abhivyaktika, the classical dance competition. We were neither of us ready by then, and so we took a lil more time and then trudged to the cafe, me complaining of the heat, and she about the distance. However, she received a call that she was needed elsewhere,and though I was tired and hungry, I was not particularly inclined to eat, forget eat alone.

The rest of the morning found me in all corners of the campus (okay, not really) with jags, me whining all along about the heat, and how I wanted to go home. I had breakfast with her and her sister, and over the course of the afternoon, invented recipes for about half a dozen new pickles. Can I skip to the evening, now?

Or Later.

Pearl 2011: Day 0

Pearl is the annual cultural festival of BITS Pilani, Hyderabad. Before you read further, do check out our website: http://www.bits-pearl.org/ I am a little bit in love with the homepage; brilliant, it is. I do believe I could spend hours playing around.

I'm going to write about my experience with Pearl 2011. This dreamscape, for that is the theme, through my eyes. Here we go!

Day 0: Inauguration, a headache, and Till Deaf Do We Part

We --my friends and I -- found our way to the main stage just in time for the inaug, and just to late too grab seats. I was, I confess, a little detached from my friends, and I'm not talking about distance here. It is hard enough to maintain that connection when I'm fully alert, and tonite, I was very, very sleepy.

I clapped when the others clapped. There were speeches which I half listened to, and then the cultural events--a classical dance performance, a bhangra, the theme dance, and a drama split into three parts, I think, interleaving between the dances. I liked the dances, had no clue what was going on with the drama, and had no patience to bother about it.

Dinner in mess. Spicy. Me no likes.

Ajita called, after that, and it is always really, really good to talk to her.


okay. I'm stopping now. I am entirely too sleep deprived. I'll continue this tomorrow, hopefully. (time with my friends, and a battle of the bands) Oh, and you are very welcome to wonder why I'm still up at 2 am; I am wondering about it myself.

12th Feb:
Right, I found my way to Jagruti's room later. A little after midnite, we could hear cheers besides the sound of the instruments, and we figured that Till Deaf... (the battle of the rock bands) had begun.

I was headachy, and have no clue what possessed me to attend, except that I had this vague feeling that I'd regret it if I didn't. That, and it was a lovely excuse to go out into the night.

And so I did. I don't know if it is that I've missing circuits in my brain, or just that them neurons were sleeping that night, but I couldn't distinguish one song from another. The music seemed entirely too alike, and well, I couldn't figure out the words anyways. And yet, somewhere beyond my fatigue, I had this feeling that I would have liked this music. The bang-bang (oh, I've got no knowledge of rock/metal what-soever) resonated somewhere within me, and I know that it is a rather perfect thing to listen to, should I be in one of my moods.

 We stayed there a lil more than half an hour--me and Jagruti's sister--and then made our way back to the hostel.

And I, idiot that I am, switched on my laptop instead of switching off the lights and going to bed immediately. And ended up with writing stuff like 'to late too...'

Off I go, now.

Lists

1. (As I wrote before,) I belong to my family and friends; I want to be loved, and more importantly, I want to love.

2. I love birdsong, cool breeze, and long walks; I hate crowds and loud noise.

3. I am a rather absentminded creature.

4. I can not stand ambiguity. I'll elaborate in a later post.

5. I admire those who are open and outgoing, and always have something to say to everyone that makes them feel special. I know I'll never be one of them. 

6. I worry too much; one morning, I was accosted(!) by a friend, "you look worried." I managed to mumble something about just being sleepy, but later realized that I was worrying.

7. I fear rejection. It's crippling.

8. I am usually a conformist, but sometimes, I delight in being contrary.
9. Oh, and I always seem to be in some pickle or another. 

Of Bangles and Ramblings.

These are chaubandi chudiyan I'm wearing, traditional--auspicious--bangles worn by our family during weddings, etc. I insisted on pics; I adore them.

I adore bangles. Period. But there is something extra special in wearing these glass bangles. Perhaps it is the weight of tradition. Perhaps it is the sense of belonging, that these adorn the hands of every woman of my family. #shrug#

The order is 4 red, 4 yellow, 7 green, and then 4 yellow and 4 red. For an unmarried girl, that is. Married women wear two extra green bangles on the front (make of that what you will).

If you have the patience to count the green bangles on my right hand, you will find eight. Absentminded, scatterbrained creature, I am. That, or I do not know how to count. Meh.

Now don't go counting 'em on my left hand. You'll find six. Which, by the way, is not due to the extra on my right. The story is way too meandering to be accounted for by such simple reasoning. It never is easy with me, you know. I always have to think too much. Always take the circuitous route. Sometimes, even when the straight one  is right in front of my eyes. And no, it is not me being stubborn; I have this propensity to somehow 'not see' the elephants in the room.

There, I shan't bore you any more.

Clumsy Kitchens

Written June 1st, 2009  

No, it is not ma's kitchen that is clumsy, just me when I am in it. It is called, I think, a transferred epithet. I am not too bothered to google it*.

Last summer, I was gathering all I need to make an omlette, as I always do: oil, the egg, spoon, salt, pepper. When I was done, and ready to turn on the stove, I laughed. I had forgotten the frying pan!

Yesterday, now the consequences of my absentmindedness was far more than amusement.You see, I was making maggi, the first time without jiji. And always, it is she who is in charge. Maggi, however is a simple enough affair, even when complicated with making tea for dad.

I decided that the tea deserved my attention first. I poured out the milk and water into the vessel; now, how much water would I need for maggi, single pack? It said 1 and half cup. I had a glass at my disposal. What was it that jiji'd said? something was 3/4th something. 

My mind was quite nicely occupied figuring this out, and I poured a whole glass of water into the vessel, then proceeded to wonder a little more. I finally determined that two glasses would do quite nicely- after all, don't I like my Maggi soft? And I realized then that I had poured my earlier glass of water into the wrong vessel. Oh dear!!!

Okay, damage control, now. What do I do with the excessively dilute milk? Why, drink it, of course, considering that I am rather fond of plain, cold milk. And a very good plan it was too, except there's no other word for its taste than yuck!!! Oh! And the maggi turned out soft- too soft. My calculations had been rather skewed.

    

So, you see, when it comes to cooking, I'm more seriously handicapped than being so totally not-confident with the knife! **

_________________________________________________________

*I did! And I was right. Transferred epithet is the trope or rhetorical device in which a modifier, usually an adjective, is applied to the "wrong" word in the sentence. A happy morning, for example. When I will speak of happy mornings, it is not the morning that is happy, but me in the morning.

_________________________________________________________
29 Jan 2011: 

**Keep in mind, dear readers, that this was 2009. I'd like to think I've improved more than somewhat since then.

Will you not tell me yours?

Your secret from Jean-Sebastien Monzani on Vimeo.

How cute is that!

http://vimeo.com/17794382

Tennis Australia - Rafael Nadal from Chad Twentyman on Vimeo.

Incorrigible, I am

I felt so very proud of myself, every time I wrote a --/1/2011  in my class notes. Part of it is that I remembered to write the date, and more than part of it is that I remembered that it was 2011. (You see, I've this propensity to write --/1/2007 instead of --/1/2008, --/1/2008 instead of --/1/2009, you get the drift. ) And so, when I was done, I underlined it with flourish. And then, on Jan 12th, I felt proud enough to make a note of this in my diary.

And then my eyes fall on the date of the previous entry, and I smiled, a very amused smile, eyes crinkling and all: it read 8/10/2010. Seriously, October?

It was not really surprising, given that I've suddenly landed in Feb 2009 after a month and 24 days in 2010. Now I think about it, sometimes it was 20010.

Oh, and I swear I remember writing 2008, sometime smack in the middle of 2010.

 Yes, I iz incorrigible.

Is Mod Se Jaate Hain

Is Modh Se Jaate Hain

Movie: Aandhi

Singers: Lata Mangeshkar, Kishore Kumar

I remember listening to this song as I meandered about the campus on my walks, or just on the way to my hostel after classes. It seemed particularly apt--I do not need to add a somehow, do I? 

There is a warmth, a sweetness, a hope suffused through the song, and... oh, it is so very beautiful, and I adore it.

A particularly lovely interpretation, here: http://murky-reflections.blogspot.com/2006/08/is-mod-se-jate-hain.html

Lyrics:


Is Mod Se Jaate Hain 
Kuch Sust Kadam Raste Kuchh Tez Qadam Raahen 
Patthar Ki Haveli Ko Shishe Ke Gharaundon Men 
Tinakon Ke Nasheman Tak Is Mod Se Jaate Hain 

Aandhi Ki Tarahu Dakar Ik Raah Guzarati Hai 
Sharamaati Hui Koi Qadamon Se Utarati Hai 
In Reshami Raahon Men Ik Raah To Vo Hogi 
Tum Tak Jo Pahunchati Hai Is Mod Se Jaati Hai 
Is Mod Se Jaate Hain 

Ik Dur Se Aati Hai Paas Aake Palatati Hai 
Ik Raah Akeli Si Rukati Hai Na Chalati Hai 
Ye Sochake Baithi Hun Ik Raah To Vo Hogi 
Tum Tak Jo Pahunchati Hai Is Mod Se Jaate Hain 

Is Mod Se Jaate Hain 
Kuchh Sust Qadam Raste Kuchh Tez Qadam Raahen 
Patthar Ki Haveli Ko Shiishe Ke Gharondon Men 
Tinakon Ke Nasheman Tak Is Mod Se Jaate Hain 
Is Mod Se Jaate Hain