Friday, December 18, 2009

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears and sympathy. I, Kirra Serra, bid adieu till we next hear from each other. That would be sometime in March. If, that is, I have anything left in me- courage, self-esteem, wit, rational thought, anything.
While I am out of action, do try to get something happening on the Make Boards Illegal front, for the greater good.
And thus,
Au Revoir.
PS- Merry Christmas, Happy New Year.
PPS- I will occasionally drop by (or so I like to think) and perhaps reply to some comments, should anyone bother to. Well wishes are appreciated. In fact, they are begged for.

Thursday, December 10, 2009


The words one is asked to type in for word-verifications before submitting a comment/reply/whatever are so very interesting. Today I got 'jewbroga'. The day before was 'essene'. I also recall a 'tregle'.
Also, recurring nightmares are so... boring.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

I have never EVER been able to use Fevi-Quick without sticking my fingers together.
In some households acetone is an essential for other reasons than just being a nail-enamel remover.
The more the soup cools down, the more the mom heats up.

Friday, December 4, 2009

"I can't bring myself to do it. If I'm sitting next to a guy and he has true belief, I look at him and think, Poor thing, you really are deluded. But, his life is much better than mine." -Woody Allen

Today, I attended a mass in our school church and, later, a sringar at the Hanuman temple; a first for me in both the cases. Yes, it got awkward sometimes, but the rest of it was very nice. I observed and learned a lot about both the practices and it was most interesting.
Of course, the peculiarities of both were... peculiar indeed... Well, we'll leave it at that.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

I see you gray.
You rest below.
Yours is the last word,
Irrevocably so.

And now, as you finally rest in peace, I seek mine.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Mosquito                                                  Me
    III                                                          -

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Spreading the Good Word

The best part of the series "A Series of Unfortunate Events" are the dedications:

Daniel Handler has also written or contributed to other works under the Lemony Snicket persona that are not related to A Series of Unfortunate Events. He has stated "there's a chance some other matters may take up Mr. Snicket's attention, that he may research and publish, but I'm always wary of making such promises".

Noisy Outlaws, Unfriendly Blobs, and Some Other Things That Aren't as Scary, Maybe, Depending on How You Feel About Lost Lands, Stray Cellphones, Creatures from the Sky, Parents Who Disappear in Peru, a Man Named Lars Farf, and One Other Story We Couldn't Quite Finish, So Maybe You Could Help Us Out, a 2005 McSweeney's short story compilation, has an introduction and unfinished short story attributed to Lemony Snicket. Readers are encouraged to finish the unfinished story, and to submit their work to the publisher: "Our favorite ending will receive a fabulous prize of some sort."

In all of his A Series Of Unfortunate Events books, he does not have pictures of his face except in THE END where it is an illustration by Helquist but you can't really see his face due to cucumber slices over his eyes.

Friday, November 27, 2009

Out of nowhere I remembered a certain thing someone once said to me:
The ostrich-approach can't be all that ridiculous. They survived this far, didn't they? There must be something going in its favour.

 Okay, now for some fact-
"Contrary to popular belief, ostriches do not bury their heads in the sand. The old saw probably originates with one of the bird's defensive behaviors. At the approach of trouble, ostriches will lie low and press their long necks to the ground in an attempt to become less visible. Their plumage blends well with sandy soil and, from a distance, gives the appearance that they have buried their heads in the sand."

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

I am in a dangerously random mood. And I am having trouble suppressing this insistent itch to post something. Run!

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

I walk out of my house to go for my classes and see that the elevator is not working. I live on the 8th floor, hence this is no joke. All the same I descend the sixteen flights, praying furtively that three hours are enough to get the darn thing running. Once out of my colony, I am taken aback by the tetris-like traffic. But, living in Connaught Place, take it to be usual. A little way ahead I discover the reason behind it anyway.A staggering multitude of people are stubbornly obstructing the path to my afore-mentioned goal. A juloos. After trying to swim upstream despite the formidable opposition, I give up and turn around, this time walking up the sixteen flights.
I fail to see the humour. Miserably.
Try climbing up sixteen flights yourself and so will you.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Consider the following dialogue from a certain scene in isolation from the rest of it-
(right after the whole "tujhe dekha to yeh jaana sanam, pyar hota hai deewana sanam...")
Simran: "Mujhe yaha se le chalo, Raj. Mujhe yaha se le chalo."
Raj: (bewildered) Kya?!
I find it infinitely hilarious.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Came across these by accident. Love at first sight. Don't even know why.

Elevational Mass, 2006
Hot rolled steel
60 x 84 x 72 inches overall (152.4 x 213.4 x 182.9 cm)


Fernando Pessoa, 2007-2008
Weatherproof steel
354 1/2 x 118 1/8 x 8 inches (900.4 x 300 x 20.3 cm)

Photo by Joshua M. White


Tracks #41, 2008
Paintstick on handmade paper
40 x 40 inches (101.6 x 101.6 cm)


Untitled, 2007
Oilstick on paper
40 x 40 inches (101.6 x 101.6 cm)

Saturday, November 14, 2009

The chaos of the blank white
Forms an abyss
With an unquenchable thirst
For what is mine.

Pen poised, I resolve to relinquish
My right to the access of the mine.
My catharsis forms;
If only for me to burn it later.

My fingertips sing to the rhythm of my heart.
Words surge through, blue.
My feelings stain the ink.
An imperfect amalgamation.

The rhymes don't come!
Oh, never mind that catacomb of the almost-lyrical!
It doesn't matter.
I write for me. Alone.

The words come faster;
Pen ablur, calligraphy forgotten.
A whirlwind of my own creation.
Well, I don't mind the trap.

The kitsune of thoughts prances.
The crescendo magnifies it's flame.
The elusive will-o-wisp- I hold it now.
I made it so. In ink, with ink.

Period. Sweat. Gasp.
An ink-stained nose. Foggy eyes.
It's late. My personal "25 'o' clock".
And yet...

One empty line. Right at the end.
It leers to me, "Is that all?"
No, I won't take to taunt now.
I mar the last whisper of blank
With a "..." .

Thursday, November 12, 2009


"Meri pyari bindu, meri bholi bindu, mere prem ki naiya beech bhavar me gud-gud gote khaye, tu jhat-pat par laga de."

"Idli, appam, sambhar, khao, quick-gun murrugan ke gun gao, dishum-dishum aur dishkao, Mind It!"

"Mana ki college mein, likhna chahiye, padhne chahiye... romance ka bhi ek period hona chahiye. To ho romance period. Love and dance period."

Been singing these for over a week now.
Somebody shoot me!

Friday, November 6, 2009

Because I like the words

Late Goodbye

In our headlights, staring, bleak, beer cans, deer's eyes
On the asphalt underneath, our crushed plans and my lies
Lonely street signs, powerlines, they keep on flashing, flashing by

And we keep driving into the night
It's a late goodbye, such a late goodbye
And we keep driving into the night
It's a late goodbye

Your breath hot upon my cheek, and we crossed, that line
You made me strong when I was feeling weak, and we crossed, that one time
Screaming stop signs, staring wild eyes, keep on flashing, flashing by

And we keep driving into the night
It's a late goodbye, such a late goodbye
And we keep driving into the night
It's a late goodbye

The devil grins from ear to ear when he sees the hand he's dealt us
Points at your flaming hair, and then we're playing hide and seek
I can't breathe easy here, less our trail's gone cold behind us
Till' in the john mirror you stare at yourself grown old and weak

And we keep driving into the night
It's a late goodbye, such a late goodbye...

Based on a poem by Sam Lake

When darkness is no less than everything you've built become undone
There's no fight and no flight, disaster leaves your passion overrun

It's time to let go, it's time to carry on with the show
Don't mourn what is gone, greet the dawn

n' I will be standing by your side
Together we'll face the turning tide

Remembrance, can be a sentence, but it comes to you with a second chance in tow
Don't lose it, don't refuse it, cos you cannot learn a thing you think you know

A new light is warm, shining down on you after the storm
Don't mourn what is gone, greet the dawn

n' I will be standing by your side
Together we'll face the turning tide

Monday, November 2, 2009

I am now an enforced hypocrite... and I am not certain if that justifies it.

Also, as is obvious, twitter is my calling.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

If only there was a way of recording silence and playing it loud enough to drown out the noise.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

I would much prefer a certain someone to stop using my nick-name and inserting an 'l' in it along the way.
Also, somebody please confiscate his duster. Please.

Friday, October 30, 2009

I will miss all of this, won't I


The J

The M


The S

The L

Courtesy: The CJM community on fb.
I really like dragging my finger across the laptop screen. Especially if the background is blue.
(Yes, it has been one of those days.)

On Free Wings

There is a little golden bird
Perched on a tree, precariously.
It is as yet trapped in its shell;
The little thing yearns to be free.

It chirps out loud, hoping for help,
But nobody can hear.
Are they there and yet not helping
Or is really nobody near?

It knocks with its golden head and beak.
It lets out a feeble trill.
Battered and bruised as it is
It tries harder still.

Suddenly, it sits silently
And all it sees is black.
It thinks and thinks and thinks some more
And finally finds a crack.

One last jolt was all it took,
One last push, but slight.
In streamed all that surreal light
And nothing to stop its flight.

The little golden bird was finally free.
It flapped its wings with glee.
It has yet to learn to fly,
But now at least it was free.

Wrote this some time back, 13th August to be precise. Inspiration when commanded. Well, at least my class teacher was happy.

Monday, October 26, 2009

The Watchers/ Cat-Talk

Two cats, healthily plump, sit atop the parapet enclosing the school yard. The brown one sits lazily in the noon sun, absently pawing at the ants passing by. The black one stands, motionlessly surveying the girls uniformed in red and white, running, seemingly pointlessly, around the lawn.
Black Cat (Bl C): (contemptuous)  Oh! The noise! These creatures thundering past. Pointless. Stupid. Idiotic.
Brown Cat (Br C): (balefully) Mew.
Bl C: (turning around sharply) Be more articulate than that!
Br C dips down head and sheepishly sways its tail. Once. Twice.
After a final glare Bl C resumes his stance and continues.
Bl C: (looking left, then right) As I was saying. Stupid. Two silly legs to totter on, clad in all those extra layers of that skin-like... well, skin. Pointlessly cumbersome. If they had an ounce of sense they would all just grow fur. And all that loud noise! So much like dogs! Howling! Speaking of dogs, they are stupid too. If only they would all just daintily mew. All that nipping and whimpering, primitive manner of life.
Now feline manners; so immaculate, so elegant, so graceful. The personality, the aura. The finer things in life.
(A distant ring sounds and the mass of red and squeals changes course towards the building, leaving the lazy afternoon empty.)
Bl C: (thoughtfully) But then, if they were more feline... that wouldn't really do, would it? Their stupidity leaves space for silly things, like generosity. All you have to do is walk up to them, mew weakly and rub you head to their leg a bit for them to part with an 'awww' and some milk. A feline wouldn't do that. Being rational, she would scratch, spit, hiss and lap up all of it on her own. Hmmm... Best let balance prevail. Things are almost right the way they are. A certain appeal, it holds, to my rather refined sense of identifying beauty. Oh no, it's not the people. But I do like milk. That makes the taxing ordeal relatively bearable... Are you feeling too hot?
Br C: (balefully) Mew.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Unlike somebody I know, I have better luck at haircuts.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

For all that it truly symbolizes- a very happy diwali and hereafter to everybody! :)

Friday, October 16, 2009

"Life's like that"

I am late! Run! Okay, people are staring. Just walk. Fast.
At the gate of the hospital I realized I wasn't entirely sure where the dentist's room even was.
Hmmm... I think I take a right here... there it is. The blue board- Room 3.
I barge in. I don't always do that, but I am late.
There is the lady dentist. She looks up and smiles. I have known her for a long time. She's sweet. Goes out of her way to make you feel relaxed. Not that I need that. I have too much experience, courtesy my orthodontic treatment. Every weekend, and then, every other, was spent in a little cabin on a 'chair', disproportionately large, for a very long two-year three years back (the '' signify that I do not know what that contraption is called).
But, she is not the one who is going to work on me (this statement has always sounded rather Frankenstein-ish to me). Next to her stands a tall turbaned man wearing a grim look. Well, at least his eyes were grim. The rest of his face was cloaked behind the surgical mask. The kind of look which says, "Well, I don't really like what I am doing, you know."
I questioned the sanity of letting a person who thought thus to be given control of my teeth while I followed him to a chair, the afore mentioned  kind, in one of the small side-rooms.
Well, I sat all the same.
The roof was, get this, polka dotted, black against white. That is the last thing I saw (this ominously). I closed my eyes. Prudent thing to do let me assure you.
Yes, I am experienced, been through much worse and painful too, and I knew that. But, I had forgotten the whizzing sound which now whizzed somewhere near me. I have heard it countless times before, but I hadn't remembered how downright scary it can sound.
Nothing big. I was just getting my teeth cleaned (this months Reader's Digest had quite an impact on me).
But, I will be honest, I started getting slightly scared. Only slightly.
The next noise was worse. The whatever-it-was-which-emitted-a-high-pressure-spray-of-warm-water screeched against my lower-center tooth. A banshee would have cowered. With a sinking heart I remembered my father's words, "Half-an-hour, forty-five minutes, that's is what it should take."
Anyway, the process began. It wasn't painful, but it certainly wasn't pleasant. The screeching eventually faded into a drone.
Suddenly, interrupting my otherwise silent musings, I heard a familiar song- ik onkar, the Rang De Basanti version, of course. The Oral Hygiene Specialist's  phone was ringing.
Professionalism forbade him from picking it up. The caller, apparently trying to surprise the man into picking it up, kept disconnecting and calling, again and again, in seemingly nonrhythmic intervals. Finally, he gave up.
The relief was short. Then the poor man, just trying to clean my teeth, was disturbed again by an assistant who came in and asked him to get up for a moment. He wanted to check if the chair (the normal kind, which he sat on) needed any repair. He left, at last, making sure that the chair would relatively survive.
I must have thought, at least thrice, "It's over." The final time I was right.
He sprayed, with a thankfully larger nozzle, something which I am guessing serves the same purpose that varnish does.
He stepped back, inspecting his work critically, and, satisfied, permitted me to get up. I saw the large orb-like light hovering over me, slightly blinded. Then he admonished me for not taking better care of my teeth.
My earlier evaluation turned out to be wrong. He was a good-humored person and kept checking now and then if I was in pain.
As I was slipping my shoes on he asked me to fix one more appointment for something which sounded an awful lot like buffing.
After forty minutes since I had entered, I stepped out. Everything was of a wrong color, I was still dazed by the sudden overhead light.
The ordeal was over and had been motivation enough for me to brush much more sincerely from now on.
Well, at least I have clean teeth.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

And then caffeine loses its kick. Sigh.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

101 Corporate Haiku by William Warriner

A few of which are:

Rabbit and dog tracks
cross the snow: tell me timing
isn't everything.

A mushroom has pushed
through stone; it knows the art of

A marketing bird!
He tells me, tells me, and then
tells me what he told me.

One nagging instinct
pursues and stings him; never
be accountable.

By some mystery
of scent, we know our places
around the table.

Heat shimmers from cars
surrounding my parking space;
they all want my job.

Truly, the Wise One
is creative: he invents
his own statistics.

Heavy silence fills
the room and points to me- I
spoke the truth too soon.

No moon and no rhyme,
no reason, no blossoms, I
drink my Chardonnay.

It takes great heart
to view the Rockies as a
sales territory.

My cat on a hot
car hood, gathering warmth- is
this why I commute?

What makes a samurai
step down from his high horse?
A few bad quarters.

Seventeen syllables, enough for one to recognize a genius.
William Warriner has a piece of art to his name.

Monday, October 12, 2009

The Listeners

Quite recently a girl in my school van, class IV, I think, was reading her English literature textbook before her Unit Test. I happened to glance down at it and remembered the poem that she was frowning at. The Listeners. I remembered frowning at it too. The teacher had not given as complete a meaning as I would have liked. There were too many things left ambiguous. I had asked her a lot of questions- Who were the listeners? Why weren't they opening the door? What promise?
She had replied with a quizzical look, a few incoherent words and a nonchalant shrug. The crux of this performance was, "I am not going to test you on it, so never mind.".
I remember I had hated that. But I had still loved the poem. So many things hinted at and left trailing. My favorite part had been the lines-
"But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:"
"'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:"
When I came back home I went on the net and found it. I think I read it at least four times consecutively. Then I went on to read reviews and interpretations. I guess some of them were nice, but... not quite there enough to dispel the shroud.
A lot of them suggested more poems, some of which I had already read at some time. All in all, it was day spent magically! It is quite something to just spend the whole (or a quarter) day reading ballads which make you cry with despair (I had to keep repeating to myself, "I didn't really happen") or send a chill down your spine. Some of the poems that I went through were:
The Lady of Shalott - Alfred Tennyson
The Highway Man- Alfred Noyes
My Last Duchess- Robert Browning
I am very open to further suggestions. In fact, I practically beg for them.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Mental Devolution

In 10th I asked- Going by the particle theory, when we say that black absorbs light, does the mass of the thing that is black increase, however minutely, when light is thrown on it?
In 11th- Why is the sound 's' the most prominent? Even when one whispers the one sound which is always discernible is 's'. Why are human ears thus tuned?
In 12th- How can vampires come out in the moonlight when they can't do so in the sun, considering how 'moonlight' is nothing but reflected sunlight?
Yes, devolution- a reality.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Hints never come easy

Have you ever played 3D cross and knots?
I have.
I didn't like it. The game I had came with no instructions. So I spent a lot of my time guessing.
Every time I thought I had finally got the gist of it I would make a move and the laptop would ping (indecently happy)- Invalid Move.
Occasionally it would kindly hint me to shift the blue ball with the white one.
Only, this left me further at sea. Blue, green, red... wait! No white?! What white ball?! Hmmm... Is there some way I can change the colours? Am I suppose to find a white ball and place it somewhere?
Damn it! What ball?! Wasn't this suppose to be cross and knots? The simple, timeless, challenging pass-time, which knew no national boundary.
Well, to be fair, I am sure this game would also be challenging. That is, after it was done being simply boggling.
Eventually, I did get it. And then I deleted it. My heart broke when I realized it wasn't worth all the effort.
I was in a similar game already. No love there.
The similarities were disturbing, distressing. One move in one plane changes the game across so many more. How repercussions always spiral back to the origin (poetic justice in a way, not that I have to like it).
And all you were trying to do was figure things out amidst hints which don't make a lot of sense. It is just too bad life doesn't come with a ctrl+z.

The avenues don't say.

Crossroads. Many. Too many. They make quite an intricate net. And I am standing in the middle of one. How did I get here...?
There is a tall pole where I stand. Right in the middle of my crossroad. As I look further, I see that such a pole stands in the middle of every crossroad. So many poles. So many crossroads.
These poles blur the horizon. They make it appear like a giant feathery... well, feather.
It is all about imagery. Overcast sky, densely so. It is sun-set, though I can't see the sun. How do I know then? Well, it is my dream. I get to choose, however subconsciously, what time of the day it is.
The roads are smooth, gray. They stretch endlessly away from me. They intersect some roads and merge into yet others.
The patches of unpaved land between the roads are an even, rich green.
Now, I come to a contradiction. The roads have no end. None. And yet this strange place is bordered by high dense evergreen forests on all sides. Well, things don't have to make sense in dreams. We'll leave it like that. An endless network of roads bordered by forests. Some how.
I am still standing there. I like this place. The weather is perfect, with gentle but cold breeze blowing without any apparent rhythm. Also, I am completely alone.
But I can't stay here forever. I am here for a purpose. I am looking for a particular road. I know I have to be somewhere. Somewhere else. ...But where...? Oh! I don't know. And yet that is where I want to be. That is where I have to be.
I look around. So... how do I get there...
Duh! Crossroads. With poles. There have got to be directions. They can hardly be decoration pieces.
I look up. And I keep looking. Yes, the poles are tall. Towering. There are direction signs right at the top. Four of them. They tell exactly where I am and where I can go. But, I can't even see the top. What do I do?! Am I lost?! Where do I go?!
Four options. One to take me where I want to be. One will take me back where I came from. The other two...? Traps... or someplace better?
I don't want to compromise.
I could wait for someone... But I want to be the one to decide.
Advice never hurt... But then I'll have to wait! I don't want to wait! Stand idle?! No!
A distant thunder sounds. It wakes me up.
And I find myself in a predicament not much better.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

The 6 mark answer.

I sat there. Silence. The tiny scratching noises of 36 watches merging into that of pens (not ball pens. They don't scratch). Rustle. Extra Sheets. Double spaced-lined sheets. Very un-green. More rustle. Scratch.
Screech! How can you possibly afford to leave your seat. Time, there isn't any.
And I sit still. Scratching, but nothing coherent. The one point that eludes me. A greasy fish.
Fish... red herring... ? What if there is no 6th point? What if one of the previous 5 carries 2 marks? I'll have to elaborate it. But which one? Do I, at all? Or do I just chase the missing (or not) 6th?
6 marks equals to 6 points. Logic follows. Sadism doesn't.
The reason for my dilemma and agitation, the last 10 agonizing minutes, a delusion?
How can this possibly be legal?!

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Uh... well... wait... I know... hmmm... ... ...
Oh, forget it! I've got nothing.

Monday, September 14, 2009

The colour of chaos

White. The amalgamation of all the colours simple and devoid of conflict on their own. All the other colours, for me, have chosen their sides. Not white.
When I picture white I am quite washed over by so many feelings at the same time. Vertigo, claustrophobia, confusion, a sudden rush, a strange sense of futility. The blankness of it is so bewildering. It is like an abrupt conclusion to an unfinished story. There is so much left to be said. No, you can't leave it at a blank, not now.
For many it is calm. I can see how, but the only calm I see is that of helplessness, of predestined outcomes.
Chaos, a whirl, so fast that all you catch is white. Stark, unspeaking, unyielding, withought compassion white.
And still magnificent.

At 11:43 pm

Of all the things hard to find, good food and good sleep, in that order, are the hardest. Also are english papers that really go well. There is a conflict here. What I might consider correct, according to my interpretation, hardly ever coincides with what is more universally accepted (or so I am made to believe; the best of authorities assure me). And when I don't write what my own convictions are I am left with the worst of feelings of being hypocritical.
Sigh. I am not meant for this time zone.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

How stupid of me!

So sorry! I just realised I have two pictures on my blog and I haven't mentioned that they aren't mine! The main one, with the fire on water, and the other black and white one of the tree in the right column are taken by me from the internet. I apologize again for the almost plagiarism. I don't know the sources, I have had them for a long time, but I'll find out and acknowledge them as soon as I do.

It sits ablush in morning glory.
A small little thing, a short new story.
Too small, insignificant. It doesn't matter.
But oh, too small, give it some water.
The stem, pale green, bows to the ground.
It's too young and weak to lift it's crown.
It is too small, it will die soon.
It won't be around to even meet the moon.
No one will remember it when it's gone.
It leaves only its leaves to mourn.
The grass, the leaves, the bowed down stem.
It was special all alone, and alone to them.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Miss my sis...?

It could be, you know. It could just be.

The weird sisters.

You tell me who is the better photographer.

Choke hold! Struggle! Defeat.

2 or 9? 2 or 9? Which one is it?!

So, do I... ?






Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Remember the failed attempt at writing that book I told you about? This was a part of it.

There is this land of another time
Where birds and bells in harmony chime.
Lush grass of royal gren.
Higher trees than ever seen.
Never a kinder day was found,
But at night things turned around.
Trees drooped down as if to crush,
The blanket of a sinister hush.
Rocks which in day gave the weary rest,
Unwelcoming with jagged crests.
It wasn't just the time for the bird of prey,
Every sparrow and fledgling simply turned its way.
The playful twitter turned into a shriek,
The bubbling brook into a gnarled creek.
It was as if the hours had set,
During the day the good would dwell,
But at night don't venture around
As all dark is set unbound
And I don't talk of hunters alone.
Despite the brightest moon which shone,
(Infact, I am sure you'd rather not see
Whatever is out to play with thee)
So hear the woods sing their song
To bring back the long gone.
Maybe they will one day return
And give the day a better turn.

It's okay. I wrote it long back, you know. It sounds kinda lame now :).

The Letter

Cleaning the cupboard
In the house we shared.
Cleaning out the things
For which I never cared.

A rusted pin, a broken pen,
A reciept of the laundry
And suddenly I discovered
A letter that you sent me.

It spoke of things I remember not,
You wrote when you were far away,
Of things long past which I forgot,
But I remember now, I remember that day.

You talked of wonders that you saw.
You wrote of things all new.
I kept it in the box full of others.
Now these are the cherished few.

A few days later I got another
And this would be the last.
It was from a lawyer saying
That you had died in the blast.

He offered me solace,
He said he understood,
But I listened to none
For I knew he never would.

I was sad. I was dead,
I was just quiet.
Forgetting you was not easy
Even though I did try it.

But that is all past and gone,
Though you shall never be
And I burn this letter hoping you'll get it
And maybe will remember me.

Bang, poof, and then some.

Back with a bang. But won't last this time either. Exams next week. Exams are so like natural calamities. Can't stop them. All you can really do is stock up food and wait for it all to blow over.
Well, I really have been missing posting things for a long time now, but... '12th standard' is so self explanatory. You might be interested in knowing that I haven't been idle in all this time. Far from it. Won some, lost some, what matters is participation after all. Have not precisely done much concrete reading. I am not counting Anna Karenina. You know, it really isn't as bad as people might have you believe. Sure, there isn't much that compels one to read it till the end, but it isn't like it can't be done. Admittedly, the parts about Anna's life are not... well... but Levin's story is genuinely interesting. His reactons and opinions on things, political, social and agrarian, are very worthy of thought. I might not agree with him, which I don't on various accounts, but it is still one way of seeing things.
Other than that, I read my first Segal (I know, about time). Prizes. Nice. Really nice.
I have also tried writing a book. Didn't like the way it was going. Mission aborted. I am currently on my second attempt. Hmmm... it is going... okay, I guess.
Also, I am on my path to rediscovering my taste for pizza.
Written two plays. Both were... well. In all fairness, the scripts were actually good. The execution is a very different aspect.
Have of late become very interested in the UFT. I am largely considered to have lost it beyond any help.
The education system, atleast the one here, quite defies its very purpose, don't you think. Why is there this unspoken law which ropes out half the school library to 2/3rds of the students? But let's not start on this. I find it much to maddening to talk of it politely for long.
Under consideration is a new blog in partnership with Cz. Let's see how things work out for that.
I shall try to keep this up for as long as I can, but I really can make no promises.
Till later then,