Saturday, July 28, 2007


Just as I try to speak
Time stops in anticipation
My heart skips an odd beat
Eyes well up in exasperation
Groping for a moment
That would let me finish my words
Waiting for the torment
To pass and lift the curse
Amidst helpless heartache
She comes when she is due
When I expect her to break
She comes back all renewed
Gulp down sugar and water
Swift, sickening and sweet!
But she outshines and persists
Like a regular drum beat
Think of the dew-kissed jasmine
Or of white hermit peaks
The poetic escapes intercepted
By rhythmic, ridiculous squeaks
Eons go by without hope
It’s easy to leave her alone
Just as I get used to her
I realize that she is gone
Then there is nothing to fuss over
Like a piece of gum or snuff
She leaves a bittersweet longing
The harmless, wicked Hiccup!

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Wrong Jobs and the people in my Life! =P

A few days back, my best friend Ameya suddenly wanted us to imagine what her life would have been as a Newsreader. She is actually a doctor working towards a postgraduate degree and sometimes the impending pressures of so much studying throw her into these fantasy bouts. She should have fantasized about something else, as she possesses all the talents to be the worst Newsreader Television could ever witness.
She speaks at the rate of about one hundred and eighty words per minute. So they would either have to put her on tranquilizers everyday or just bring in more news every hour.
She has this innate ability to go into these long, winding almost three dimensionally intricate descriptions of events. So her being on television would be like one of those Zen stories, where there is a TV inside a TV. Plus, I do not even vaguely remember her having shown up on time even during high school exams. So the breakfast news would be probably renamed as “The Brunch News with Ameya”.

My mom would have been a very bad judge. She is so innocent and gullible when it comes to stories people tell! She considers people to be completely honest and free of guile. So I have banged my fists on the table in vain a lot of times when she lent out money to almost every other guy with a sad story to tell. She believes people when they tell her diarrhea stories and take two days off and then reacts with an almost wonderstruck surprise when they show up with nicely written resignations at the end of the month and join our pesky competitors. She believes me when I tell her that my Benneton perfume costs a hundred and fifty rupees and I got my new Nike trainers for five hundred rupees. To selfishly maintain my advantage over her, I volunteer to do all her gym shopping and she very innocently believes that I am just being the ‘Ideal Daughter’. Needless to say, I would rather have my adorable mom than someone under a funny white wig!

My other best friend Pooja would probably be a very bad wildlife photographer.
She has all the qualities of a top-notch executive. So we always find her managing about ten different things at a time. She is always over-worked and busy but she manages to get everything done in the best possible manner. So imagining her waiting in some godforsaken jungle for the Cheetah to wake up and start running is very funny. She would want to go up to the Cheetah and poke him with a broken tree branch and ask him to get going so that she can take pictures and move on to the next jungle. Or if the poor beast doesn’t run to her satisfaction she would want to make arrangements to get people with flaming torches after him to get the desired speed and shots. She would probably call me from Africa telling me in a furious voice, “These stupid beasts they never seem to wake up! I can sense weeds growing out of my ears now and the two crocodiles are still dozing off! Damn it!”

My dad would have been a very bad doctor. He is infamous in our family for being forgetful. He walks from one room into the other and suddenly becomes blank and asks me, “ Why did I come here? I had to fetch something but I fail to recall the object now”.
So had he been a doctor, right after he finished stitching someone’s belly up, he would start wondering where on earth he put the scalpel. Then he would make all the nurses go under and around the operation table. To be on the safer side, they would all agree to open up the guy again and check before the anesthesia wore off. Just as they finish removing the stitches, my dad would reach into his gown for something else and come out rather gleefully and sheepishly with the missing scalpel. Or worse still, he would forget it completely and would be responsible for a world record for the oldest man alive with a scalpel stuck inside his spleen!

I think I would be eligible for the worst boss ever. I function really well when I take control of machines of any kind. I look after them nicely, keep them clean and calibrated and generally take pride in showing my lab off to others. I am sure however that if I am given that kind of control over people; I would turn into this selfish and explosively tyrannical boss. I would bring them to a point where they develop a permanent allergy to my presence and become melancholy and sad. I would point out the tiny speck of dust on the floor and to make them realize the value of cleanliness, I would myself clean it in front of them. I would turn paranoid everyday suspecting that the spectrometer is about half a centimeter to the left than where I had set it two days ago. I would become really competitive and reach office half an hour early to see if they all show up on time. I would stand right behind them when they are working on the LC and narrow my eyes when they perform critical operations to make them shiver and shudder out of fear.
Maybe that is why my mom has cunningly assigned me a job that puts me against myself.=)
I guess she isn’t such a bad judge after all! ;)

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Wimbledon 2007

The Wimbledon Finals July 08 2007
I don’t really know if “gripping” is the word that I am looking for, but this match made me sit propped up in my easy chair with my feet thrown over one of its arms through all the five sets including the commercial breaks. I had to ask myself if my feet were still a part of my body after the presentation!!

It was like God had kept the final decision to Himself and as He watched gleefully through the cloudy skies over Europe; even He must have doubted the final outcome. (Pardon me for assuming God to be a tennis buff for I cannot like Him if he isn’t)
Never have I seen such a close match and all my pro-Federerism dissolved by the third set and I found myself saying,” I would support the guy who wins this”!! (I know!! Talk about betrayal!!)

I think Nadal truly rocks because
1. He never flinches and gives up, even after losing a game in four straight aces from across the net
2. He is always angry, one side of his face twisted in something close to a painful grimace. Giving a fierce asymmetrical aspect to his personality. He creates an equally charming gradient in any game throwing his opponents off balance ruthlessly.
3. He gets the King queasy and uneasy. I have always found Federer somewhat grumpy around Nadal. He is the only one who can force our beloved Mr.Cool into coming close to throwing a semi-tantrum on court for a wrong decision and lose all the following games in an utterly heartbreaking manner.
4. His ferocious demeanor wins us over as much as the opponent’s calm. The angrier he gets the better he plays. He is unabashed about showing all his feral traits on court after every game he wins even though he does not win the match!
5. He got Ms.Miroslava to bite all her expensive manicured nails!
6. Unlike his persona on court he speaks in an obviously shy and endearing manner during all the presentations, including the French Open.
7. He gets Federer to thank Luck after a torrid five setter like that.

And I (still) like Federer (more) because
1. Only he can ask the umpires to get their technology checked and sit in a chair cursing as he is being seen Live all over the world.
2. He can rain down on Nadal with his Stinger Aces and maintain his usual matter-of-fact calm during nail biting tiebreakers
3. He carries an all white suit with him assuming that he’d win and manage to change into it before the presentation while Nadal comes up as disheveled as he is on court.
4. He never jumps, jogs, sprints or dives unnecessarily. If Nadal’s play is something close to a rock concert, Federer on court is like a calculated, synchronized ballet. He is the kind of player who would pull a chair for his girlfriend on Center Court or open a door for her as gracefully as he serves.
5. He is not overtly humble or conceited. He shows he is scared and upset too! He shows his sadness when he loses and his mirth when he wins in that bright, gentle light-bulb smile. ( yeah after he is done sobbing hopelessly for the zillionth time)
6. He has the grace to tell Nadal that he is going to be around for a longer time and accept that either could have won and it was sheer luck that got him ahead.
7. He becomes the goodwill ambassador for UNICEF as quietly as he moves around the court. :)

Sorry for posting this late, but I mean it as much as I would have meant it on the 9th! :P

PS: How many of you think that Roger Federer and Daniel Radcliffe look similar in some ways?? :)
Or maybe I have just had too much of Harry Potter.

I thank my good friend Lenin for the picture and the inspiration! :)

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

July 17th

Don’t judge me by what I write
For all you know I just might
Turn over to the other side
And still sound like I am right

On some days I may tell you
That I am tired of being so persistently blue
And on some, so delirious with joy
That I will get sick of it too

Don’t love me because I hurt
Or I am lost in a maze without a clue
Don’t try to pull me out of it
For I just might hurt you too!

There is no dependable woman in me
That you seek so religiously
In every girl stepping over
Into her foremothers’ legacy

I can sense your dislike for me
As my thoughts gently disperse
But there is nothing I can really offer
Except this transient, capricious verse

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Vincent-Don McLean

I have been trying to get over this song for the last few hours, but I think I should just give up!!

Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer's day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills,Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land.

Starry, starry night.
Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless heads on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met,
The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow

Saturday, July 14, 2007

The World as Seen by a Dragonfly

It's always what it meets the Eye
The world as seen by a Dragonfly
As I straighten the sheets off the wrinkles I find
I wonder if I could just straighten my mind?

Look at the world from a Butterfly's view
Just the Flowers shivering with tender dew
Look at a face as Eyes and Nose
Seeing through the tear that flows

Walk barefoot on the Rain soaked Grass
and let the easy Lizard Moments pass
Look at the Birds on their Mossy Throne
Under the Sky that is always Alone

Grateful that I just AM..
Right Now, as a part of this Plan
Driving away Confusion and Care
On the periphery of Silent Despair

It's always what it meets the Eye
The World as seen by a Dragonfly!

Sunday, July 08, 2007

The Writer's Song

It is just a story after all
That they all read with Impassive Eyes
Giving crooked smiles at the funny parts
mock, criticize and sympathize!

Sometimes it inspires them
at times it gets sickening and sad
They put their hands together on the jokes
and label some parts awfully bad

They talk about it at dinner parties
with sparkling eyes; scandalized!
The Gossipers get it dramatized
and the Rationals have it rationalized.

They talk about it to show off
Their bigger Hearts or sharper Brains
The poets call it tender and poignant
A sky full of silent Rains!

They turn a few pages and speculate
What would happen after ninety eight
And bet furiously slapping their thighs
choking themselves on wine and cake

It's just a story after all
But it's written a Page a Day
Taking care to muffle the Tears
and keep all the weakness away

It's read and reviewed extensively
With Egos floating outside Care
It is rated and discussed for Excellence
An Applause here and a Lashing there

They all are free to Get Bored
To Predict and to Analyze
But the writers cannot choose their plots
Express freely or accessorize

They cannot Edit what they wrote
Or make a Draft for a Future Event
Stuck with a panel of Expert Jury
They only write their Urgent Present

We all get one Book to write
and They laugh at every trip and fall
But then they must have Invisible Pulitzers
For it's a Story after all!!

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Treating Birthday Blues

I think birthdays are just overrated crap.
I mean they do make a difference in our lives (yeah right! Listen to the Loser speak) but only on the extreme ends of the X-axis. I think I have crossed the one on the left hand side and I am now cruising along towards the phase where birthdays are just numbers you need to fill up in immigration forms and type in when you forget the password to the email account you abandoned long back so that Spam could take over.
When we look at the open sky with a million shimmering stars at night, it kind of makes us realize that this whole thing about getting older is all hogwash. It is another thing that it is a bit difficult to find an open starry sky in July so the process becomes tough to execute.
When I was about five, I used to start marking the calendar with a red sketch pen from the 1st of July and irritate Aai with the same questions everyday. “ Have you invited all my friends?” “ Are we going to get the Mickey Mouse cake?” “ Did you tell your boss that you need a day off?”
On my birthday, my mom used to make me learn how to tell my age.

“ I am five complete and running six” and I used to repeat that line to people who didn’t even ask me my age.
We used to trudge a few sludgy, slushy miles looking for the perfect birthday dress while all along my mother stifled my Fantasies with her rainy Realities.
Then there was a time when all of us in school desperately wanted to turn sixteen and get a two-wheeler license. I remember how we envied people who were born in April and May back then, for they got their license before the first day of junior college and could ride to college as “cool freshers” on brand new bikes.
Just two years later we had our “I-am-eighteen-now-I-know-what-I-am-doing” birthdays. I still remember how mad my best friend Ameya had been when she realized that I used my first vote ever for the Congress and to her dismay, my vote really did turn into the Government!
I made it through a lot of war stories as a teenager just because I happen to share my birthday with Earnest Hemingway. I must confess I am not yet grown up enough to understand Hemingway. So there is still hope. ;)
My granddad is on the right hand extreme now. He is eighty-five and has ambitions of making it to the other side of a century. So every year on 7th June, my bright, intelligent and witty grandfather cuts the cake with a booming, all encompassing laughter! Then there comes an elaborate lecture on everything he does to stay so young at eighty-five. It covers everything from Yoga to practicing detachment from the world. I have actually learnt Detachment trying to detach myself from these lectures and still look really interested on the outside!
I guess henceforth I will just deny my birthday. That is an easier option.
I know for sure that I wont grow old into one of those deceptively aging women. When you ask them their age (yeah after having swallowed all the chivalry and politeness you ever possessed) they raise only one of their artistically carved eyebrows and ask you back, “ How old do you think I am?” and when you go off about ten years on the wrong side, they hit you with a frying pan!
I will probably turn into the kinds that my mom is. Every time anyone asks her how old she is, her eyeballs go up against her forehead and she mutters, “ Hmmph! September 1958” and begins to count. Most of the times she ends up adding a couple of years to her actual age and finally answers, “ I am about fifty now” and gets on with her business. :)

I tried telling myself that it’s not so bad after all. You cannot be 23 all your life!
There are so many people who are much older and happier than you are! Some of the trees on our farm back in Kolhapur are older than me. The Earth is so old and yet so young! Some of the stars are so old and faraway that they are already dead but we still see them!
It doesn’t work.
So from now on it is my strategy to ignore my birthday. Like a typically henpecked husband can see through his nagging wife and watch football in the same room, I will see through my birthday. I will keep a low profile all month long, so people don’t pay much attention to me and eventually forget to ask me how it feels to be thirty or forty-two. So that even I forget it and do not feel bad about the fact that I haven’t as yet rode on even one of those really wild and scary rides they have in Disney Land!