Same place... 3 days... 3 views ! Ode to the 'unknown' artist...

Take a look at these 3 photos... its the same frame in view (notice the TV Tower in the foreground, I took these pics from my home on top-o-the hill).

Its like there's some unknown Artist with an everchanging paintbrush out there... letting creativity flow as diverse as can be... every day is a new day, a different day. These views still keep changing everyday, and it keeps telling you that nature is far bigger than any imagination !

Being part of this 'Nature' I admire the views this unknown artist presents to us. But you need to stop your busy lives for a while. If you want to be part of it, make a visit at around 6pm to the corridor behind the ACIS pantry (non-smokers beware !) and take a view to the west... catch a glimpse of the red spot setting into the Arabian Sea and feast your eyes to the colors in the sky.

"The advantage of being an amatuer photographer is the freedom of not being professional"-EAG

Taking pictures has become my hobby since the Digital Camera became affordable... it gave me space to experiment in different light settings, outdoors, indoors..... and thats when I made the connection with nature around me. I enjoy clicking nature more than anything else. More of that in my next blog.

The Lover dreams to be a maggot

When the Maggot lost his soul,
He felt something very awesome in all.

His foot walked a bloodless Antarctica,
then an absconding mind got captured in Sahara;
His hands curled along the Amazon’s deadly imagica,
Whilst a pair of eyes stuck deep in the Marina.


When the Maggot lost his love,
He found his face hung on a multiplying web.

An army of drizzle might rescue him,
And through the unending pain of his wound,
He'd sense nature beckoning by his window,
Close, vivid and achingly fragile than ever.


When the Maggot lost his mind,
He saw things, original and animated.

His skin evenly peeled off to reveal,
A Foliage that had replaced the dead mattress.
A bare breasted skimming blue stoops down,
Low and he find his mamma and her kiss.


When the Maggot lost his heart,
He borrowed one from the Flintstone.

Stabbing it amidst a scorching vacuum,
He’d watch the scarlet drops bloom,
With his new bosom struggling to get set,
But the dark descended and his drive got lost.

********************************************

The Maggot fell into a deep haze,
after closing all exits and the rest,
From a world that’s never existed,
To a land where lived Peter pan and Alice.

Then he found his absconding soul,
Floating or dancing above his skull.

The Maggot turned for the first time,
And saw his siblings and the parents,
Working at the fields, and their home,
Alive and rusty, happy and peaceful.

Then the Maggot caught his mind,
That was busy with its unreal find.

The Maggot quit the chase,
For he’d woke up into a giant butterfly,
Waving its elegant blazing symmetry,
to find himself no more a maggot.

Hence the Maggot discovered the love,
Who looked awfully dissimilar but alike his heart.

5 years & 6 strings

Other than aimless twanging, I don't really get around to doing much with my guitar(s) nowadays. It's more like look-drool-foreplay-quit. Yes, I've been quite frigid with my guitar since the last couple of years.

The funny part is that... I never stopped buying new ones... or drooling at the sleek, deadly ones in shop windows... or watching legends squealing theirs on video.

I'm drawing too much of a parallel between guitars n chicks :P

I'm just plain lazy... I guess. There were times when I picked up my guitar and out flowed a nice sounding riff or two. Better still when the band was around. People of similar talent and taste, I played shit, they played shit, all of us were happy! But yea, the band was a pillar of motivation. When we were at our practice pad, we had no reason to show off, nothing to live up to. Just play. And yea, the pressure of having to put up a good show at the gig next week made sure that we learned all the songs down to the last note!

Bygone times. There's no gig next week. No motivation :(

For me, playing the guitar is all about performing... about fitting into a band and letting loose a medley of beautiful sounds and watching the audience enjoy it.

I guess that applies to a lot of things, to a lot of people. Man is not meant to live solo. He needs to show-off (loud or subtle, how he does it is his own business). He NEEDS to caress his ego.

Aren't we all show-offs, one way or the other?

This whole thing ended up just like it does when I take up my guitar... start at one thing, end at another.

What's the whole point of this? Lemme go think... meanwhile... you can surf to another web page.

Klick!

Coffee at the Park..

Absolute Trust

He is very restless, scampering here and there, watching TV for a minute, then chasing the soft ball and kicking it under the sofa, running into legs and squealing his appreciation as he is picked up and hoisted high above so he can touch the wind chimes.

Very keen and observant, he picks up the faintest rumble of his father’s bike as it enters the narrow lane. He bounds down the length of the living room, all excited at the prospect of playing rough and tumble with his Appa-whom-he-loves-the-most. He hurtles down with the energy of a small meteor; Appa-whom-he-loves-the-most balances the bike with his right foot on the steps that lead into the house.

It’s an old house. The steps are rather high and steep. The little one cannot climb down without assistance, and sometimes when we sit down together on the steps to watch The Mynah, The Crow and The Jackfruit, his tiny feet dangles half-way between the first concrete plane and the next.

As he reaches the very edge, this confident young man, all of two years, takes an unhesitating leap into his father’s outstretched arms. He jumps, without a shadow of doubt in his mind, supremely confident that Appa-whom-he-loves-the-most will catch him and he will come to no harm.

Now, that is what I call absolute trust.

My first blog

Maybe i'm late... but.... "better late than never" right ??
I've been hearing about blogging but never ventured into it thinking this was some funky "buddhi jeevi" stuff... BTW for the info of non-mallus "Buddhi jeevi" (or "buji" in short) is a word used for those with "elevated minds" so to speak. I'm not one of them and i've now discovered that blogging is not only their terrain... and here i dive into it.

Female Generation

Females have many descriptions,
Based on their different stages,
Descriptions not simple to state,
But that which run through pages.
As a baby, she is so innocent,
Like a bud that has just awoken from her sleep,
Unaware of the evil world
Which she is yet to face,
And dwells in her own magical world.

As a girl, she learns to live life,
Taking advice from her elders,
And looks like a flower beside the human door,
A flower, yet to blossom.
As she grows, she goes to school
And then to college, and
Then she learns to maintain her household chores.

At the time of her marriage
She is often a commodity,
Often purchased for dowry
By the fosters of her groom to be.
And when she goes to her new house
She resembles a rupee,
For now she is in one’s pocket,
And then in another.

She performs her duties
As a wife, to her husband,
AS a mother, to her children,
And when old, she is bent with age,
But still she performs her duties.

She bears all that comes her way
And accepts it with a Smile.
She plays a vital role in life,
For without her,
Life is Incomplete.

On Poetry

The world can be divided into two absurdly disproportionate portions – those who read poetry and those who don’t. Those who do read poetry are not seen in favourable light by those who don’t; similarly those who cannot bring themselves to suffer through a couple of lines of verse are treated with condescension by those who do. And heaven forbid, if one writes poetry, one is viewed as a sort of nut-case. (Don’t argue with me. I know that for a fact.)

That is why I always maintain that writing poetry is a dangerous pastime; it’s like white water rafting or mountaineering. Those who do not raft or mountaineer just do not get the concept of finding happiness in choking on water or baking in the sun.

As children we are naturally drawn towards nursery rhymes and the pleasant ebb and flow of syllables in conversation. I am yet to come across a child who would not be soothed by even the most unmelodious lullaby sung by his mother. Poetry is just a grown-up version of those lullabies. Sadly, not many are able to partake of the undiluted joy of reading beautiful verses.

Verses enthral and delight, once you acquire a taste for them it’s difficult to let go. Most poetry that stay in the mind are those written the traditional way. With rhyme and meter and scansion. They also paint vivid pictures, they tell you stories; there are some poems after reading which, one does not remain the same. I can give three examples illustrating each of the aforementioned aspects.

Painting pictures – The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy.
This is a gorgeous poem about a thrush ecstatically belting out ‘a full hearted evensong’ even in a desolate and sombre evening. This is one that has to be read out aloud.

Story – There are plenty in this category. But a beautiful story is that of The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.

A possible life altering poem is If by Rudyard Kipling.

And if you just want to have fun reading poetry, there are tons of them. My absolute favouritest fun poetry are by Vikram Seth – Beastly Tales from Here and There. Mind candy I tell you. Erm.. Beastly Tales is a book of poetry for children though, but that’s what makes it so fabulous. Vikram Seth is a genius, what else can I say! Link: Frog and the Nightingale.

There are also these brilliant teeny verses by Ogden Nash. Can it get any better than this?

And Cats! How can I forget Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats?! There are even Broadway plays on these Cats.

If reading these ain’t pleasure, I don’t know what is!

Spare some time, spoil your parents!

I was given everything I ever needed by my parents. Education( never mind that it was the worst school in the town; they had no clue either), clothes, all the food I can eat, all the movies I wanted to watch, all those things that make our life worth living. And most importantly they gave me my freedom and space. In short they spoiled me (My English was spoilt by the aforementioned school though)

So now that I have grown up (physically at least) its time for me to repay my parents. I can give them whatever money I make, I can get them the new generation luxuries. Send them on a holiday trip to wherever they fancy. I have instead decided to just spoil them. That's what they would like more(and at this point that's all I can afford) There is a huge age gap between me and my parents because they had a late marriage. And I guess my father and mother took it seriously when Nehru said that our country is going to progress with the five year plans. There is exactly 5 years of gap between the 3 of us siblings. So I was born late as well. It doesn't matter now. I am a big boy now (more so on the waist)


All I want to do for them is what they did for me. It's a little too late to put them to the same school as mine (wish I could; then they will know why I hate my school life) but I can do all the other things they did for me. I want to drive them wherever they want to go. Wait for them outside when they have parties at their friends place and dad can't drive (and I can't drink). Take my mom shopping whenever she feels like. Make sure they don't have to travel by bus or walk at any time. Make them eat their medicines, make them meet the doctor. Make sure they sleep properly. Take them to the movies and buy them popcorn. Have a sumptuous dinner at a nice restaurant. Go out with them to the beach and watch my mom holding on to my hands when the wave comes up, just like I held on to hers some 20 years back. It feels good.


At a point of your life, your relationship with your parents goes into a reverse mode. You start taking care of them. You get worried when they are late in reaching home. You get worried when they are not feeling well. You become the caretaker and them the carefree children.

So what made me write all these goody stuff (other than to make me look good). A few days back I was teaching my mom how to use the mobile and internet. I was irritated at times when she could not understand simple things. I lost patience, raised my voice and my face looked like I lost hope. She never complained. She just smiled and said it takes time. She wrote down all that I told her. Next day, I got an SMS on my phone. "Hi how are you?" it was from my mom's number. She learned how to use it. She went a step further and started using my computer, connect to internet, find the railways website and checked the PNR status of her ticket. The pride she had in her face when she told me she did it alone. And I could not believe it. I know a lot of people do that. But for some one at her age who has never used a computer I thought that was one hell of an achievement. She was happy and that's all she wants. And i wonder how long she spent explaining the thousands of things that was new to me. Answering my never ending queries and doubts. And I couldnt do that properly even once. Well I will.

So I am going to go ahead and spoil them. Let my dad eat some oily food without worrying about his cholesterol level .Let my mom have her peanut candy without me reminding her about the sugar level. Let them live for themselves and have a great time. That's the least I could do for them. Cheers!!!

The Richest

An 'India Rising' moment, if there ever was one.

In the the news, Mukesh Ambani edges out Carlos Slim and Bill Gates to become the world's richest man. This comes as a result of the extended price rally in the Indian stock market, with the index touching 20,000 today.

The five richest, with their net worth

1. Mukesh Ambani ($63.2 billion)

2. Carlos Slim Helu ($62.2993 billion)

3. William (Bill) Gates ($62.29 billion)

4. Warren Buffett ($55.9 billion)

5. Lakshmi Mittal ($50.9 billion)

Also, the Ambanis are now the wealthiest family, well above the legendary Walton family (Wal*Mart)

It will be interesting to see how long Ambani stays at the top. A correction in share prices is now overdue, and is just waiting for the right trigger... a political crisis, perhaps? Maybe a fall in oil prices..

Silly Games

Teenage girls have a propensity to attempt an unfolding of the mysteries of their future; often slipping into reveries about that all important person – The Husband – how he is going to be, his eyes, hair, hands, mouth; the males of the species are rather on the fortunate side, they do not burden themselves with such exotic fancies, restricting their flights of fancy to just a three-letter word. Correct me if I am wrong.

We used to amuse ourselves with a silly game the text of which someone had secretly smuggled in; bored 14 year olds trying to while away time in slightly more useful pursuits than listening to the droning monotone of a History teacher. The theme was an all-time favourite – Love, of course. It was simple, more of an amusement than a game, requiring pretty simple arsenal – a pen and paper. It hinged on the basic premise that every human being would be curious about what the object of one’s affection thought about oneself. One had to think of a boy whom one was very fond of and make a series of short strokes on the paper. Three such rows had to be made. Then groups of three were cut off, so in every row there would be either 0, 1 or 2 strokes left. The score of this very interesting exercise was calculated thus: if the first row had 2 strokes left, the second none and the third had 1 stroke, the score would read as 201.

This would then be compared against the Result Sheet. Each score signified something. We had copied those in the last leaf of our notebooks. It read something like this:

000 – I love you.
001 – I am thinking of you.
010 – Don’t waste my time.
011 – I will marry you.
……
222

And of course the results of each one’s ardent enterprise to pry into the mind of that-cute-boy-across-the-road would be greeted by giggles and blushes and howls of laughter. It didn’t matter that every time the scores turned out to be different; of course his thoughts and feelings for you were bound to change over a period of time. We never doubted or questioned the wisdom of our Bible.

It would have been very unwise indeed, if I had attributed this unrelenting thirst to drink the subconscious of another soul, to the precincts of just a bunch of bored schoolgirls. But as I was to find out, the wider world was no different, in fact I discovered further possibilities in this realm.

When I went to the city to do my pre-degree, I had to stay in a hostel. Now, hostel-life is something one must experience in one’s life-time. It’s like no other; there is so much to be learnt from a hostel. Like how to get ragged and rag (I never did), how to have midnight binges with the little potato chips or cornflakes that we had, how to beg, borrow or steal food, most importantly how to put a face to Mr. Right, the ones we all saw as a vague shadow, a misty silhouette in the mind’s eye.

The technique again was very simple. One had to get a small sprig of a wild creeper that grew lush, flowering in profusion over the hostel fence. After dinner, at about 9 o’ clock in the night, we would all quietly go to the fence in search of the perfect sprig; a shock of bright pink flowers, a hint of green and a coiling brown tendril. Once the booty was in one’s hand the person had to keep quiet till the next dawn. She was not supposed to open her mouth; instead she had to concentrate on the face of Prince Charming, pray for him to grace her dreams. With a small bunch of weed in our hands we would walk back quietly, the chatter abruptly cut short, like an old procession of druids who carried sprigs of herbs with them.

The holy weed(ha!) would then be placed beneath the pillow to forcefully attract the image of his divine face in one’s dream that night. And it worked.

But only when we left the hostel did we come to know that this very secret ritual was revealed to us by the hostel warden herself who always complained about the loudness of the girls’ chatter, especially in the night. Oh well!

Little Flower Seller

Dear me!!! those two little eyes,

fumbling balls of petrified innocence.

How do i forget you my angel face,

even if am deprived of thine rosy glance.

Amidst the lifeless vagabondage in hell,

A fugitive here, folding my enormous wings in pain.

stalking around the obscurity, i met her,

that little archangel.

She, a primrose, bounded by blood roses,

as they wait for the lovers.

Stretching a bud, fresh with sweet odor,

she baffled thus, for my hand took the

bloom carefully.

Undecided, for whom this blot of love rests,

yet i held it over my bashful heart dreamily;

A loner from the black and white,

my bosom never suits this herring.

Death, her focus on my angel's gift,

and my palm felt a petal trembling;

Even as the scarlet face beamed proud,

unaware of its ephemeral moments.

I lend the flower to a souring heart,

it killed his misery and won a hand;

How glad am to tell this to my sprite,

for i marched with an overwhelming mind.

The streets looked in absolute endurance,

except for the primrose, that's vanished;

A chill slit my toneless face,

as i saw the bloodspurted petals amidst

that dull crowd.

They closed her eyes for the last sleep,

wrapped in a cheap cotton, there lies my

little seraph, her face still, yet gleaming.

Snatched away by a raging city,

her soul ambled over someone's weep.

What an irony and fate i hold here,

for my heart is still not crying.

Literature Nobel 2007

The Nobel prize in Literature for this year is to be announced tomorrow. If tradition is anything to go by, the political leanings of the winner will be as important as talent. The front runners for this year, as per bloomberg, seem to be Philip Roth, Ko Un, Ali Ahmad Said Asbar and Les Murray . Ladbrokes , the online betting agency which got it right last year, has this list of odds. Philip Roth is at the top (7/2), followed closely by Haruki Murakami (5/1), Amos Oz and Claudio Magris . The collective wisdom of the betting crowd is most often right. But then, the odds show JK Rowling at par with Salman Rushdie and John Banville ! Maybe this doesnt matter since they are at the bottom of the list anyway (100/1) .. I think Rushdie is gonna win the prize in a few years. I haven't read any of his works, but I feel his politics and life story is just right for Nobel winner.





Btw, I would place my bet on Amos Oz for this year's prize.

Update:The prize, as you might know, went to Doris Lessing . So much for ' the collective wisdom' (my bet was wide off too). From what I have read up on Doris Lessing, it seems to be a wise and well received choice. But, I am happy because she writes science fiction too, and Doris Lessing's win is in a way, recognition for the genre. I doubt if this will make the mainstream critics take SF more seriously, but it will be harder to dismiss it as just escapist fare.

Doris Lessing began writing SF only towards the later part of her career. She is best known for her early work, especially books such as The Golden Notebook, The Grass is Singing and The Fifth Child.

The Nobel committee in its citation describes her as,"that epicist of the female experience, who with scepticism, fire and visionary power has subjected a divided civilisation to scrutiny".

My High Art

An obvious depiction of global warming along with the genocide in Darfur ?
Not so fast, look deeper.... See??




The French critics have called this work 'merde sans signification' .



uh, still deeper...

The Wonder of Music!

Music is something which most of us enjoy. I am a great lover of music…it gets me out of my bad moods. Have you ever realized how music can change your life? Yes it can do wonders indeed.

As a child I used to think you need to study about music to understand it, but I was wrong. I haven’t learnt music but it wins my heart and soul. That’s the kind of magic it does!

Did you know how music really works? Most musicians play by ear. Suppose you play by ear. What use would you have for a book on musical technique full of examples in the form of music notation? Doesn’t make sense. Other ways of explaining music work just as effectively. Or even better.

Fluency in music, like fluency in language, does not require the ability to read or write. So, How Music REALLY Works! has no music notation.

I sometimes play the guitar, though I haven’t really learnt it. I play it for fun….and it sounds melodious! Truly….have you tried it out any time before? Don’t hesitate….go ahead.

Play that music….its hidden in you!

Nuts About Fruits

Not really.

I mean, I am not that nutty about fruits. Or maybe. About some.

As a child I had the rare privilege of sampling exotic species of fruits. And straight from the trees, that too. Branches heavy-laden with fruits so ripe that the slightest breeze was enough to shake them free and deposit on the ground. Mornings were mostly reserved for scouring the courtyard for guavas and rose-apples. Those that bore tooth-marks of bats and other assorted nocturnal creatures were forbidden, but I’ve had those too anyway.

I had two tiny aunts, who were only about 9 and 12 years older than me, stay over at my place quite frequently. I used to envy their skill in climbing trees, especially that of the younger one. She used to lithely drape her long limbs around the tree and almost float up along trunk. She’d pluck those half-ripe guavas and drop me some, for I’d be patiently waiting beneath the tree, salivating and envying her blasted good luck to be able to gnaw at the crunchy green skin and spit out half chewed bits in a neat shower.

I’ve had my revenge too, by the time my kid brother was of the age when he tottered around the courtyard, waiting beneath trees for benevolent gifts of guavas, I was an expert tree climber. I’ve skinned my knees and half cracked my skull because I’ve fallen from almost all the big trees. I’ve known the sting of quite a few varieties of ants. I’ve observed in close quarters the symbiotic relationship between the white fungi on trees and the ant colony that raises them.

Two varieties of guava. Red and white. Red is lip-smacking good and very sweet. White is crunchy and they grow big. The trees don’t grow beyond a certain size. They are very climbable without being intimidating. One of the trees that used to be my favourite had twin branches extending to either side from the main trunk, so the tree was shaped like a catapult. A fine seating place. The higher one went up the tree the better it was, because the branches caught even the slightest wind and swayed like mad dancers. It was exhilarating to be at the mercy of the wind, all the while trusting reed thin branches to carry one’s weight.

I started young.

I love nature and animals!

Bird on the Grass.....one of my fav pictures!

An Obituary for Robert Jordan

Robert Jordan, creator of the best selling fantasy series 'The Wheel of Time', died Sunday, September 16 2007. The cause was complications from primary amyloidosis with cardiomyopathy.

The New York Times reports:

"Known for its epic sweep, intricate plotting and large cast of complex characters, the series centers on Rand al’Thor, a humble messianic figure who must stave off the forces of evil that threaten to overtake the faraway land in which he lives. Along the way, there are perils and portents, fair maidens, fantastical deeds and the like.

In an essay in The New York Times Book Review in 1996, Edward Rothstein wrote, “Even a reader with literary pretensions can be swept up in Mr. Jordan’s narrative of magic, prophecy and battle.”

The “Wheel of Time” books have often been compared to the work of J. R. R. Tolkien in terms of their ability to exert a magnetic hold on readers. Translated into more than 20 languages, the books have sold more than 30 million copies worldwide, according to Mr. Rigney’s publisher. "

Robert Jordan was the pseudonym of James Oliver "Jim" Rigney Jr , born on Oct 17, 1948 in Charleston, South Carolina. He served in Vietnam from 1968 to 1970 as a helicopter gunner. On his return, he joined the Military academy to study physics and went on to become a nuclear engineer before switching to a full time writing career.

His first novel was The Fallon Blood , published in 1980. He followed it up with two sequels. However , it was with the incredibly detailed and complex worlds of the Wheel of Time, that he established himself as a master of the genre.

His books have had a cult following, with fans considering him the successor to Tolkien. The last 3 volumes of the WoT series were #1 on the NYT bestseller list. The final volume of the series remains uncompleted at the time of his death.


( Via Writers write ; Links - Wikipedia )

OneWeb

September 22 is the OneWebDay, a day to celebrate your existence in the web - "The mission of OneWebDay is to create, maintain, advance and promote a global day to celebrate online life: September 22 " .
The originalcelebration was held in 2006 ; events are now organised in more than 22 cities around the world. There are no rules, you choose the way you want to celebrate. It need not even be a part of the official event , you can just go online , find friends and celebrate.

Some suggested ideas are :
Collective art projects (see yourself as a pixel)
Teach your grandmother to blog
Make a website for your club, church, school.
Make an entry for your neighborhood in Wikipedia
Companies: run a virtual meeting for work-at-home employees
help a young student find a new educational resource online

Tim Berners-Lee, the inventor of the Web , has made this video in honor of OneWeb.

In India, an event is being held in Chennai. Maybe you could take the lead to organize it in our city. Go to the OneWebDay Wiki page, edit it to inlcude a line saying that you would be interested to organize , give your contact info .

There, I've done my bit for OneWeb ;)

Daddy and Me

I walked down the road
Hand in hand with him,
I feel that touch, that special touch!

My life was in darkness, pitch darkness!
He held me tight and pulled me out.
He led me through an Illuminated path,
A path that was lit with his Glory and Grace.
We walked together for quiet sometime,
I had tons and tons of questions in mind.

I asked him why I feel lonely at times,
He replied, that’s for you to realize,
How much I care for you.
I asked him why I miss my friends,
He replied, how much more do I miss you,
when you go after friends.

I asked him why I didn’t have beautiful hair like others?
He said, my dear child,
I wanted you to be special and stand out of the crowd.
I asked him why I get angry at times?
He said, that’s what is called the devil’s attack.

I asked him why he made nature so pretty?
He said, only for you to enjoy.
I asked him, can I become a baby once again?
He said, you are always my baby.

I asked him a final question….God!
What’s your plan for me?
He replied, only and only good plans.

Then we continued the beautiful journey….
The everlasting journey…..
Me and my Daddy all alone!

(My Early) Workspace

I don’t have a cabin. Not yet. But I have a great view from where I sit in the office. I can see the sea! Everyday! Can it get any better?

I sit facing a huge glass window and the view is fabulous. When I look out through the window, beyond the greenery, beyond buildings that get progressively tinier, the sea is a blue ribbon in the horizon. Sometimes, on clear days, I can even see ships sailing by. In the night, the view is better, especially so out in the balcony. Catamarans light up the dark, black sea in pinpricks of light. And when night falls, you are sandwiched by the starry sky above and the dark sea below. It feels as though you are enfolded by two layers of black starry night.

GREAT Place to work!

The Christian Imp

When they stand together in a neat row, they look like penguins. It’s hard to miss the resemblance. Short, tall, chubby, thin – penguins of all dimensions and contours. The senior ones mostly wear white robes and to break the routine an occasional blue-grey. The junior ones who are yet to glimpse the face of the Lord always wear brown. Very symbolic, if one spares a thought to it. Brown – because the very choice to wear the robe cleanses half your sins, so black pales to brown. Then you climb the rungs to wear snow-white robes that reflect the highly purified state your existence.

Their black habits flutter in the breeze. They have held us all, from childhood, fearfully watched us grow, ruefully shaking their heads as some of us grew horns and an arrow-tipped tail. Early morning catechism classes to help us see and take The True Path to Salvation. Exhortation of lofty ideals, derision of those who dare let their thoughts take the inroads, blatantly ignoring the huge markers sporting The Right Direction, complete abhorrence and scorn for idol-worshippers – children of Satan. Stamping black and white areas demarcating the Pure and the Evil, in impressionable young minds. But I love them. My memories are scattered profusely with penguins of all kinds.

And there was one who taught us English. She later went on to become the Headmistress. Parsimonious with praises, she nonetheless threw a few acknowledgements of a well-written essay or an exam paper our way. Her reticence could also have stemmed from the fact that her star pupils were almost always the most seditious. How else can the restrained hum of rebellion in the Catechism classes be explained?

World Evangelisation is one of the basic tenets of Christianity and most follow it with a zeal that borders on mania. While not one to oppose and scorn this very basic way of life for most Christians and especially all the nuns, one particular Christian Imp dared to raise this question.

“I truly appreciate the Evangelisation of the world or attempts to that end. It is a very lofty ideal to uphold, showing The Right Path to our fellow human beings. However, if a Christian wants to take the True Path that is shown by another religion, say, suppose I want to convert to Hinduism, is there any particular Christian principle that would allow me to do that?”

The question was raised in the earnest. Not a hint of contempt or derision. As genuine as can be. However what followed was something close to Apocalypse at least in the Imp’s world. She was adopted as a challenge – to be shown The True Path – to be worn with righteous disdain on snow-white attires, like a sullied badge.

The first step was a compulsory weekend of ‘Holy Retreat’. Imps might fly! Huh!

Lovelessnesslessnesslessnesslessness…

I thought a trillion times,
And the thoughts betrayed me.
I fought a zillion mimes,
and the heart, sidetracked me.

It looks, a fountain,
Then it’s a spin….
It opens, a candle eye
And your wings burn..

You will never know,
All you did is, you will
have given your wings…
and would’ve never seen,
you’ve given your dreams.

Amidst the flame we stand,
Scorching heat that licks the skin,
and our peeling pride.
Feels nothing. It feels power.
It’s so earned, but a flower.

It re-discovers the nights,
Brings back Goethe and the bard.
The stars comes down and I goes up,
Pessimism and I, in great heights.

The Write Club

'The Write Club' is a forum for artists of all kinds, predominantly writers - both established and wannabes. Our membership is restricted to current and previous employees of ACIS.

Why?

For the pleasure of sharing original work, to begin with. We also hope to accomplish a certain improvement in writing skills by receiving and giving appropriate feedback and encouragement.

Writing is not a very visible talent like singing or dancing or even painting. This forum, hopefully, will make it visible enough, albeit to a select group of people, and thereby gently nudge awake the hibernating talent of most of our writers.

Can anyone join?

Anyone who has at any point of time worked for ACIS can join. You need not be a Booker Prize winner, and it doesn't matter if you don't aspire to be one. The purpose of this forum is just to share and encourage.

Guidelines

There is no active moderation, so anything you post will appear on the blog. However, basic etiquette is expected and posts that are not keeping with the spirit of the forum may be removed by the moderators.

How do I post?

First of all, you need to have a google id to post on this blog. Please send a mail to aciswriteclub[at]gmail[dot]com and the moderator will add you to the group.

Once you are a member you can start posting. Go to blogger.com, login using your google id and you will be taken to the 'Dashboard'. Click on 'New Post' to create a new entry. Type in or CtrlC CtrlV what you want to post, hit 'Publish Post' and you're done.

Okay - Step by Step

1) First login to http://www.blogger.com using your gmail id and password

2) Once you sign in, this is the page you will see. ‘All Rightey’ is the title of our blog. Click on ‘New Post’ to create a new post.

3) Here is where you can create your new posts which will be displayed in the blog. Please type an appropriate title for the post in the text box marked red . The body of the post can be typed onto (or you can just copy paste from your word doc) the bigger text box marked green. It would be good to categorize your posts as ‘Fiction’, ‘Poetry’, ‘Humour’ or whatever. So, please type a Label for your post. I have typed in the label – Poetry. Once you are ready to release the final version on the blog click ‘Publish Post’ button (marked orange) and your post will be displayed on the blog.

4) You can view the end result by clicking on ‘View Blog’.