... well enough, you said. Don't know you?
I was properly introduced to you in public, and shook your hand.
I know when you were born, how tall you are.
I know where you went to school, what you studied, how you earn a living.
I have been in your workplace, watched you, all serious and focussed, engrossed in your job.
I have met your brothers and their wives, been in their homes.
I have watched as you stood by a friend on his special day, I have stood by you in your own moment of triumph.
I have eaten breakfast, lunch and dinner with you.
I have looked into your eyes as you raised your glass to mine.
I have drunk from your glass, and worn your shirt to bed.
I have spent all night in your arms, feeling your breath on my cheek, listening to your heartbeat.
I have held you as your heart bled, mine bleeding.
Don"t I know you well enough?
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Friday, November 03, 2006
Yellow
Yellow is the color I hate.
The yellow of the crayon my baby picked up, the yellow of the shirt he put on, the yellow of the toothbrush he used every morning.
The yellow that reminded me that I had passed on to my precious first born not just an artistic sensitivity and a love for tabasco sauce, but also the defective gene that turned all blues and reds into greys.
Yellow is the color I love.
The yellow of the sunflower, the yellow of the mango, the yellow of the reflectors on the highway.
The yellow that brought color into my son's life.
The yellow that he savored with abandon.
The yellow of the crayon my baby picked up, the yellow of the shirt he put on, the yellow of the toothbrush he used every morning.
The yellow that reminded me that I had passed on to my precious first born not just an artistic sensitivity and a love for tabasco sauce, but also the defective gene that turned all blues and reds into greys.
Yellow is the color I love.
The yellow of the sunflower, the yellow of the mango, the yellow of the reflectors on the highway.
The yellow that brought color into my son's life.
The yellow that he savored with abandon.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Mechanical Deities
The heat rose in sweltering spirals from the darkened cobblestones. The oppressive grey clouds above smote it down, debilitating, overwhelming, gloaming.
My eyes automatically scanned the Venetian street that lay before me, checking, checking. Windows, pilasters, flowers boxes above. Maybe a touch of red in the third box from the end - I made a mental note to myself.
At the far end, the unpainted gondola was being tested on its rails. I walked down to the trough that would be filled with water to create the canal. A few trees, a bridge, and the dome of St Peter’s beyond. This looked alright.
Cloisters with the roofs behind. ****, the incompetents. I had personally marked out the chimneys this morning, could they not match up the chalk lines?
I passed girls in tight leather skirts and men in flamboyant shirts as I moved on. The larger than life representation of the roof of the Sistine Chapel. Not bad, but then, they only had to work on a vertical surface. No agony or ecstasy here.
A loud crash. I turned to see a large truck, a pile of junk, half on and half off it. About to turn away, my eyes glimpsed a flash of brown. Rich, luxuriant brown. Curious, I went over.
Old machine dies, being junked. Now it was the shapes that held my eye. Here, a curved section – the trunk of an elephant god? There, a flared wedge – the skirt of a goddess? And there, a fluted prong – the distinctive cast mark of the lord of the seven hills…
An eternity – or was it just a flash? – later, they stood before me, glowing, resplendent. My work, my art, my life. Me. So precious, so sacred. How could I share them with anyone else? Let their profane eyes wander over the very marrow of my soul? Would all the suns, the moons and the stars in the universe be recompense enough to part with them?
Could I still live without my soul?
My eyes automatically scanned the Venetian street that lay before me, checking, checking. Windows, pilasters, flowers boxes above. Maybe a touch of red in the third box from the end - I made a mental note to myself.
At the far end, the unpainted gondola was being tested on its rails. I walked down to the trough that would be filled with water to create the canal. A few trees, a bridge, and the dome of St Peter’s beyond. This looked alright.
Cloisters with the roofs behind. ****, the incompetents. I had personally marked out the chimneys this morning, could they not match up the chalk lines?
I passed girls in tight leather skirts and men in flamboyant shirts as I moved on. The larger than life representation of the roof of the Sistine Chapel. Not bad, but then, they only had to work on a vertical surface. No agony or ecstasy here.
A loud crash. I turned to see a large truck, a pile of junk, half on and half off it. About to turn away, my eyes glimpsed a flash of brown. Rich, luxuriant brown. Curious, I went over.
Old machine dies, being junked. Now it was the shapes that held my eye. Here, a curved section – the trunk of an elephant god? There, a flared wedge – the skirt of a goddess? And there, a fluted prong – the distinctive cast mark of the lord of the seven hills…
An eternity – or was it just a flash? – later, they stood before me, glowing, resplendent. My work, my art, my life. Me. So precious, so sacred. How could I share them with anyone else? Let their profane eyes wander over the very marrow of my soul? Would all the suns, the moons and the stars in the universe be recompense enough to part with them?
Could I still live without my soul?
Monday, September 11, 2006
I Go West
I am awake long before the alarm will go off. Should I turn it off? Should I just get up and get ready? Or should I stay in bed to get as much rest as I can [which will not be half as much as I need, anyways] ?
My bags are packed, my clothes laid out. No, these will not do, I decide. I will take no chances, I want to look my best. Quick, put these away, take out the smarter option, pull out all stops.
When I step out, it is still dark. I peer down the road. Where is my ride? I do not want to be late, to miss the train. My eyes move up the western sky - there she is, the beautiful, almost-full Moon. Smiling down at me. God bless, she says.
I wait there, anxious, my heart brimming. Waiting, to go West. To my hope, my future, my destiny. Am I so near, so close, to that road of my dreams?
I look down the road again, and up to the moon. My eyes move across the skies... Wait! There is the Heavenly Hunter, and the brilliant blue Sirius. My mascots, my lucky stars! Yes. Now I know that this is the right road, nothing will stop me.
I go West.
This one is for my Bear... who is there at the end of the road.
My bags are packed, my clothes laid out. No, these will not do, I decide. I will take no chances, I want to look my best. Quick, put these away, take out the smarter option, pull out all stops.
When I step out, it is still dark. I peer down the road. Where is my ride? I do not want to be late, to miss the train. My eyes move up the western sky - there she is, the beautiful, almost-full Moon. Smiling down at me. God bless, she says.
I wait there, anxious, my heart brimming. Waiting, to go West. To my hope, my future, my destiny. Am I so near, so close, to that road of my dreams?
I look down the road again, and up to the moon. My eyes move across the skies... Wait! There is the Heavenly Hunter, and the brilliant blue Sirius. My mascots, my lucky stars! Yes. Now I know that this is the right road, nothing will stop me.
I go West.
This one is for my Bear... who is there at the end of the road.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Breaking the Barriers
Fortune favors the brave.
Start with a larger canvas.
Mix brighter colors.
Choose a larger brush.
Load it with more paint.
Form broader strokes.
Draw a better picture. Live more.
Happy Birthday CrazyBard. This one's for u!
Start with a larger canvas.
Mix brighter colors.
Choose a larger brush.
Load it with more paint.
Form broader strokes.
Draw a better picture. Live more.
Happy Birthday CrazyBard. This one's for u!
Monday, September 04, 2006
Go. Now.
Go. Now.
it is late.
Go. Now.
they wait for you.
Go. Now.
you need to rest.
Go. Now.
there is work to do.
Go. Now.
i have to go.
Go. Now.
or i will never let you go... ever.
it is late.
Go. Now.
they wait for you.
Go. Now.
you need to rest.
Go. Now.
there is work to do.
Go. Now.
i have to go.
Go. Now.
or i will never let you go... ever.
Good Morning, Merry Sunshine!
Sunshine and roses will make anyone's day. They did mine the other day in Erode.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
a wisp of love
it's a tiny sliver, a wisp, a hope...
it started with a passing glance, a brush of the fingers, a few casually uttered words... slowly, slowly...
a tingle at the nape of the neck, a flutter in the breath, a frisson down the back...
a quickening of the heart, a dizzyness in thought... faster, faster...
meeting, meshing, melding
now a little sliver
very little, very very little
but strong.
it started with a passing glance, a brush of the fingers, a few casually uttered words... slowly, slowly...
a tingle at the nape of the neck, a flutter in the breath, a frisson down the back...
a quickening of the heart, a dizzyness in thought... faster, faster...
meeting, meshing, melding
now a little sliver
very little, very very little
but strong.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
The Million Masks We Wear…
We start life in a mask, the mask that protects us in the womb, keeping the world, out, and keeping us safe in.
At birth, this mask is peeled away, and we enter the world, ready to put on the first of many masks.
The first masks of childhood are reactionary, a response to external impulses and stimuli. Early on we learn that there are certain reactions expected of us, and soon we are adept at simulating these likely motions, mask automatically in place.
As the world teaches her lessons, we learn that we can use masks not only to hide, but also to project a certain mood or message. We learn that we can hide disapproval behind our eyes, and carry it further with a false smile and fancy words. We learn to use these masks to please, to coax, to cajole, and to get what we want.
And so you see a darling child, eyes rounded, lip trembling, angelic cheeks flushing… for that new toy her heart is set on.
You see a young lad, brash, rowdy, foul-mouthed… whose teachers fail to see that it is dyslexia that prevents him from articulating his intelligence.
You see a pretty young thing, eyelashes a-flutter, head tilted to a side, bow-lips pouting… bringing a strapping young hunk to his knees.
You see a father, eyebrows lined up, vein in his cheek throbbing, teeth clenched under his smiling face… wondering if he will get that raise he needs so desperately to buy his family their dream home.
You see a wife, eyes flashing, brow furrowed, lips pursed in anger… wanting nothing more than to be held in her moment of need by the man she loves.
You see a man, eyes cold, head held high and imperious, mouth set… not able to let his hands follow his heart, to reach out, and draw the woman he loves close to him.
At birth, this mask is peeled away, and we enter the world, ready to put on the first of many masks.
The first masks of childhood are reactionary, a response to external impulses and stimuli. Early on we learn that there are certain reactions expected of us, and soon we are adept at simulating these likely motions, mask automatically in place.
As the world teaches her lessons, we learn that we can use masks not only to hide, but also to project a certain mood or message. We learn that we can hide disapproval behind our eyes, and carry it further with a false smile and fancy words. We learn to use these masks to please, to coax, to cajole, and to get what we want.
And so you see a darling child, eyes rounded, lip trembling, angelic cheeks flushing… for that new toy her heart is set on.
You see a young lad, brash, rowdy, foul-mouthed… whose teachers fail to see that it is dyslexia that prevents him from articulating his intelligence.
You see a pretty young thing, eyelashes a-flutter, head tilted to a side, bow-lips pouting… bringing a strapping young hunk to his knees.
You see a father, eyebrows lined up, vein in his cheek throbbing, teeth clenched under his smiling face… wondering if he will get that raise he needs so desperately to buy his family their dream home.
You see a wife, eyes flashing, brow furrowed, lips pursed in anger… wanting nothing more than to be held in her moment of need by the man she loves.
You see a man, eyes cold, head held high and imperious, mouth set… not able to let his hands follow his heart, to reach out, and draw the woman he loves close to him.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Diamonds in The Sky
I greet a new day. There are diamonds everywhere – across the sky, on the leaves, even in that pile of unearthed clay in front of my house ( which even last night mocked me and threatened to pull my little car skittering into its rain-wet, murky depths )…
I step out, and my feet sink into the clouds, soft, silken, cool…
I feel the tender fingers of the wind caress my cheek, skimming across…
It’s going to be a splendoriferous day!
I step out, and my feet sink into the clouds, soft, silken, cool…
I feel the tender fingers of the wind caress my cheek, skimming across…
It’s going to be a splendoriferous day!
Friday, July 07, 2006
Can't Shan't Won't
When faced with recalcitrant pre-schoolers, we can smack them.
When faced with mutinous teenagers, we can reason with them.
But what does one do with mature, pragmatic forty-year olds who just refuse to move out of the rut?
How long does it take for a "habit" to form? And, if it can be broken, how long would that take?
At forty most of us have not even lived half our lifetimes. I say not even because the first twenty years of most of our lives are just training and practise anyway, so they really do not count.
There have been amongst us persons who have achieved a lifetime's worth of work in the first half of their lives - Alexander and Mozart, to name a couple.
But there have also been those whose works and creations did not see light of day until they were well past the first flush of youth - Le Corbusier and Colonel Sanders, the examples here.
So what is it that makes some of us go " can't shan't won't" but others "can shall will" ?
When faced with mutinous teenagers, we can reason with them.
But what does one do with mature, pragmatic forty-year olds who just refuse to move out of the rut?
How long does it take for a "habit" to form? And, if it can be broken, how long would that take?
At forty most of us have not even lived half our lifetimes. I say not even because the first twenty years of most of our lives are just training and practise anyway, so they really do not count.
There have been amongst us persons who have achieved a lifetime's worth of work in the first half of their lives - Alexander and Mozart, to name a couple.
But there have also been those whose works and creations did not see light of day until they were well past the first flush of youth - Le Corbusier and Colonel Sanders, the examples here.
So what is it that makes some of us go " can't shan't won't" but others "can shall will" ?
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Patience – The New Order.
Whoever said there is no fortitude in today’s world? That this is the generation of Instant Gratification?
Well who ever it was has never come across the Protracted Prose Penner. That Master of story telling who concocts intriguing, enthralling, intricate tales that will not fit into a single tome. And hence are brought out as an epic series of several volumes.
And for some obscure reason [probably economics], the PPP does not wait until the entire saga is written to publish. Rather, the pages are sent into press even as they roll out of the writer’s printer. Ah, the wonders of Technology.
But Hark! Is that a croak I hear beneath the birdsong?
Yeah, I just finished the latest installment of spellbinding mystery and adventure, so how long do I have to wait to find out whodunit?
Oh yes, I am at the moment so enwrapped in a cocoon of several of these yarn spinners creation, it’s a wonder I am able to move.
Let’s see – there is Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, into which I was thrust in kicking and screaming by our very own crazybard. And I confess I read the first few only because I had been forced to read the first one and it didn’t seem right not to finish a “series”. But ohmigod, I’m glad we didn’t lose King before he could finish this incredible tale of Roland Deschain and gang in their quest for the Dark Tower. And looking back now, I think fondly of not only Gilead and Midworld, but also outrageous Lud, the bleak Wastelands, and even the preposterous lobstrosities on the beach. I have finished all but the last book, which has yet to make way to these remote shores. As I’ve already read the spoilers [the book’s been out for ages, so sue me!], this thread does not bind too tightly.
Next there is George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. A “genuine masterpiece of unsurpassed vision”, the first three books build up an extraordinary saga, replete with an Iron throne, dragons, dwarves and unspecified dangers beyond “The Wall”. Wonderful fantasy, just real enough to send a slight chill down your spine. And now what do I hear? That our brother grrm may drop the series… oh wait he’s not…. Oh shoot he is… make up your mind luv, or I’ll have to write my own conclusion.
Of the same ilk is Christian Jacq’s The Stone of Light series. Four books, set in The Valley of the Kings some time during the Middle Kingdom, stopping at murder, mystery and suspense. Will someone tell me if M. Jacq is planning on finishing this one, and if so, how long will it take the translators to Anglicize it, and when will it reach our impenetrable bookshelves?
Then there is the ubiquitous Harry Potter and his battle against You-Know-Who [at least, you must by now]. Well, this one’s easy. Ms Rowling has promised the last volume by July ’07, and since she’s got a movie contract as well as oodles of other endorsements hanging on this one, my guess is she’ll deliver. And now that Dumbledore is dead, I’m sure it’s going to be one long battle.
And now there is our very own Ashok Banker’s Ramayana. Nearing the end of book five, I hope Mr. Banker is assiduously at his keyboard, proofing the next book. If not, I might have to consider personally going over to persuade him to get a move on it. Even though I know the end of this story.
And they say Patience is a Disappearing Virtue.
Well who ever it was has never come across the Protracted Prose Penner. That Master of story telling who concocts intriguing, enthralling, intricate tales that will not fit into a single tome. And hence are brought out as an epic series of several volumes.
And for some obscure reason [probably economics], the PPP does not wait until the entire saga is written to publish. Rather, the pages are sent into press even as they roll out of the writer’s printer. Ah, the wonders of Technology.
But Hark! Is that a croak I hear beneath the birdsong?
Yeah, I just finished the latest installment of spellbinding mystery and adventure, so how long do I have to wait to find out whodunit?
Oh yes, I am at the moment so enwrapped in a cocoon of several of these yarn spinners creation, it’s a wonder I am able to move.
Let’s see – there is Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, into which I was thrust in kicking and screaming by our very own crazybard. And I confess I read the first few only because I had been forced to read the first one and it didn’t seem right not to finish a “series”. But ohmigod, I’m glad we didn’t lose King before he could finish this incredible tale of Roland Deschain and gang in their quest for the Dark Tower. And looking back now, I think fondly of not only Gilead and Midworld, but also outrageous Lud, the bleak Wastelands, and even the preposterous lobstrosities on the beach. I have finished all but the last book, which has yet to make way to these remote shores. As I’ve already read the spoilers [the book’s been out for ages, so sue me!], this thread does not bind too tightly.
Next there is George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. A “genuine masterpiece of unsurpassed vision”, the first three books build up an extraordinary saga, replete with an Iron throne, dragons, dwarves and unspecified dangers beyond “The Wall”. Wonderful fantasy, just real enough to send a slight chill down your spine. And now what do I hear? That our brother grrm may drop the series… oh wait he’s not…. Oh shoot he is… make up your mind luv, or I’ll have to write my own conclusion.
Of the same ilk is Christian Jacq’s The Stone of Light series. Four books, set in The Valley of the Kings some time during the Middle Kingdom, stopping at murder, mystery and suspense. Will someone tell me if M. Jacq is planning on finishing this one, and if so, how long will it take the translators to Anglicize it, and when will it reach our impenetrable bookshelves?
Then there is the ubiquitous Harry Potter and his battle against You-Know-Who [at least, you must by now]. Well, this one’s easy. Ms Rowling has promised the last volume by July ’07, and since she’s got a movie contract as well as oodles of other endorsements hanging on this one, my guess is she’ll deliver. And now that Dumbledore is dead, I’m sure it’s going to be one long battle.
And now there is our very own Ashok Banker’s Ramayana. Nearing the end of book five, I hope Mr. Banker is assiduously at his keyboard, proofing the next book. If not, I might have to consider personally going over to persuade him to get a move on it. Even though I know the end of this story.
And they say Patience is a Disappearing Virtue.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
The Manic Multi-tasker
Some activities do not lend themselves to multitasking. Admittedly these exceptions are few and far between. But they do exist, as i painfully discovered the other day.
The exception I discoverd is Scrabble. Yep. Do not try playing scrabble with an online opponent when you are on the phone and trying to read your mail . Doesnt work. Not even if you are 250 points ahead.... you run out of time and your rating goes downhill very fast.
So you hang up, close all windows and try again. This time resist the impulse to alleviate the boredom of bad tiles by fingering your opponent, and on finding yourself playing a charming Irishwoman, engaging in nonsensical chat with her regarding weather and kids. I now understand what people mean by the Irish Blarney.
And send your kids out of the room. They are only in there to find out when they can get the computer. Or to peer over your shoulder within inane 6-letter suggestions when you are looking for a bingo opening.
More downhill skiing. At this rate the Giant Slalom at the next Winter Olympics would be a good option..
And if you decide to give one last shot to retrieving your sliding rating and morale, make sure your opponent is not the most neo of neophytes before you are 10 minutes into the game! Failing that, at least refrain from giving in to his charming request for another game. Neither of these wins will help you a smidgen.
Nor will going to bed at 4 a.m.
As I said at the beginning, Scrabble is definitely not for multitasking.
The exception I discoverd is Scrabble. Yep. Do not try playing scrabble with an online opponent when you are on the phone and trying to read your mail . Doesnt work. Not even if you are 250 points ahead.... you run out of time and your rating goes downhill very fast.
So you hang up, close all windows and try again. This time resist the impulse to alleviate the boredom of bad tiles by fingering your opponent, and on finding yourself playing a charming Irishwoman, engaging in nonsensical chat with her regarding weather and kids. I now understand what people mean by the Irish Blarney.
And send your kids out of the room. They are only in there to find out when they can get the computer. Or to peer over your shoulder within inane 6-letter suggestions when you are looking for a bingo opening.
More downhill skiing. At this rate the Giant Slalom at the next Winter Olympics would be a good option..
And if you decide to give one last shot to retrieving your sliding rating and morale, make sure your opponent is not the most neo of neophytes before you are 10 minutes into the game! Failing that, at least refrain from giving in to his charming request for another game. Neither of these wins will help you a smidgen.
Nor will going to bed at 4 a.m.
As I said at the beginning, Scrabble is definitely not for multitasking.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Aha! Zigackly, ferpeckly what i needed!
Now I can say whatever I want and noone'll ever know who said it!
Multi-media mask created by me May 2005 for an online challenge ( naaah i didnt win, the ones that did were truly wunderbar!) using beads, velvet, apoxy clay, glass paints, coloured crystals and buckram. This one wouldn't have happened without my then-newly acquired hot glue gun.
So HGG, this un's for u!
today is the first day of the rest of my life
Yes. Definitely.
Today I start blogging. The bug I caught last week gave me more than a cold and fever. Its also got me blogging.
Maybe, like Phoebe, I should save the germs in some tissue. Might be able to make some money with it on e-bay.
It takes a lot of courage to write, lemme tell you. Specially for me. I am surrounded by hotshot writers - my sister and my best friends.
Yoiks. I think this blog may die even before it is born!
So, should I jump right back into the cockpit and fly off again, like they make crashed pilots do? Or go and quietly curl up under a rock, like a scared lil bug?
Hmm, I think I'll give this thing a go before I decide.
Welcome to the rest of my life!
Today I start blogging. The bug I caught last week gave me more than a cold and fever. Its also got me blogging.
Maybe, like Phoebe, I should save the germs in some tissue. Might be able to make some money with it on e-bay.
It takes a lot of courage to write, lemme tell you. Specially for me. I am surrounded by hotshot writers - my sister and my best friends.
Yoiks. I think this blog may die even before it is born!
So, should I jump right back into the cockpit and fly off again, like they make crashed pilots do? Or go and quietly curl up under a rock, like a scared lil bug?
Hmm, I think I'll give this thing a go before I decide.
Welcome to the rest of my life!
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