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.