Thursday, December 30, 2010

I wanted catharsis...

...basically, I wanted to use this blog to rant and rave on the last day of this year. Venting is such an important part of life, isn't it? Else, we would all be weapons of self destruction.

On the other hand, blogging about perpetual bad days is a total waste of time and e-space. No one cares, and I don't care either. Yaaaaawn...


I have been thinking about God. I find little time for prayer. I was devout till I lost my fear of the dark. A pity that. Now, on very fine days, I merely request him/her to curse some very select people. So much wiser than doing it to their face. It avoids so many complications, and thank God for that !!

In spite of a very sapient Professor (whom I worship and credit for all my eccentricities) being a stout atheist, I fail to comply. I agree with his take on most -isms, except this one. Infinite philosophical speculation exists on the subject, but I want no part of it. I just want to believe. It is so comforting. Like cool breeze on a warm day, or a cosy blanket on a cold one.

I plan to wrap myself snugly in my speculatory blanket and hope for the best for next year. My only resolution for 2011...optimism.


Happy New Year God...I hope you are reading !!! I deserve an especially good year because I am probably the only one who wished you. The rest were too busy asking for stuff.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?


Or does the dream haunt you perpetually like a nightmare? Does it constantly rattle like a break dancing skeleton in your very own very very private cupboard? Does this happen because the hoi polloi tell us to "dream big"? Visualisation is the key word here.

Size matters, but why not begin with the microscopic? Maybe like reading one poem a day to revive and rejuvenate a decaying mind that fails to find companionable conversation?

Julie and Julia anyone?

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Free Fall

Can it stop? Or do you just keep falling into an abyss with absolutely no end in sight, except THE END? Existentialist thought seems predominant.

Once again, time to turn a new leaf. So many new's like autumn every single day of the year. I feel I am burying myself in a pile of dead leaves in trying to turn green ever so often. The burden of expectations gets more and more onerous to bear...Atlas like almost.

Ironically, the Existentialist hopes. Paradox, anyone?

Friday, November 12, 2010

Only Time - Enya

Who can say where the road goes,
Where the day flows?
Only time...

And who can say if your love grows,
As your heart chose?
Only time...

Dee dah day, dee dah day, dee dah day
Dee dah doe day doe, dee doe day doe

Who can say why your heart sighs,
As your love flies?
Only time...

And who can say why your heart cries,
When your love lies (dies)?
Only time...

Dee dah day, dee dah day, dee dah day
Dee dah doe day doe, dee doe day doe

Who can say when the roads meet,
That love might be,
In your heart.

And who can say when the day sleeps,
If the night keeps all your heart?
Night keeps all your heart...

(long interlude)
Dee dah dah dah
Dee dah dah dah
Dee dah dah dah
Dee dah dah dah

Who can say if your love grows,
As your heart chose?
Only time...

And who can say where the road goes,
Where the day flows?
Only time...

Who knows?
Only time...

Who knows?
Only time...

More lyrics:

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Disillusioned with friendship....

Oh, the comfort - the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person - having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away. ~ Dinah Craik, A Life for a Life, 1859


Oh...the loss of that comfort !!! And the horror it can perpetrate. Sigh.

Friday, May 21, 2010

Goodbye Party for Ms. Pallavi M

I recently had the privilege of being given a fond farewell by my well meaning colleagues. After they "facilitated" me with a bouquet and a book, the speech given in my honour reminded me of Nissim Ezekiel's poem Goodbye Party for Miss Pushpa T.S.

My very own "Goodbye Party" homily was just as farcical. Part appraisal, part insult, and part malapropisms, it redefined the “Send-off” concept. Indeed, we English teachers have much to applaud ourselves for. In our incompetence, we tend to convert everything into stand up comedy.

The goodbye speech evoked such strong emotions in me, that my lachrymal glands shrunk instantly and I could not produce the expected histrionics. I regret to say that I failed to shed a tear.

In hindsight, I wish I had recorded the momentous event. I am sure that that is the important stuff you share with your grandchildren.

Goodbye Party for Miss Pushpa T.S. :

our dear sister
is departing for foreign
in two three days,
we are meeting today
to wish her bon voyage.

You are all knowing, friends,
What sweetness is in Miss Pushpa.
I don't mean only external sweetness
but internal sweetness.
Miss Pushpa is smiling and smiling
even for no reason but simply because
she is feeling.

Miss Pushpa is coming
from very high family.
Her father was renowned advocate
in Bulsar or Surat,
I am not remembering now which place.

Surat? Ah, yes,
once only I stayed in Surat
with family members
of my uncle's very old friend-
his wife was cooking nicely…
that was long time ago.

Coming back to Miss Pushpa
she is most popular lady
with men also and ladies also.

Whenever I asked her to do anything,
she was saying, 'Just now only
I will do it.' That is showing
good spirit. I am always
appreciating the good spirit.

Pushpa Miss is never saying no.
Whatever I or anybody is asking
she is always saying yes,
and today she is going
to improve her prospect
and we are wishing her bon voyage.

Now I ask other speakers to speak
and afterwards Miss Pushpa
will do summing up.

                                    ~ Nissim Ezekiel

About The Poet :

Goodbye Party For Miss Pushpa T. S. was written by Nissim Ezekiel, one of India's foremost Indo-Anglian poets. He was born in 1924 and was educated in Mumbai and London. He produced several volumes of verse and plays and was an art critic. Ezekiel died in 2004 at the age of 79.

Most of Ezekiel's poetry is for adults, as it is serious and quite difficult to understand. In this poem, however, Ezekiel uses simple Indian' English. Here he is making gentle fun of the people who cannot speak English properly by including in the poem common mistakes made by speakers whose mother tongue is not English. There are grammatical mistakes, strange arrangements of words and phrases and idioms which are direct translations of expressions in Indian languages - they all sound very odd in English. The poem is in the form of a speech made by one of Miss Pushpa's friends. It should be taken in the spirit in which it was written.

Courtesy :

Thursday, April 29, 2010


..that is what I feel, all the time. What am I doing? Where is life going? Why am I so tired all the time? What do I want to do with my life? Do I have the motivation to see my resolutions through?

I think it is time to find out. There is no other choice left.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Pain is Good

Or so I am trying to tell myself. When you have no cure, you just have to endure, and I am going to try my best !!!

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Procrastination Help

How did I spend my Saturday?

Watching 3 seasons of Desperate Housewives consecutively. Eating fried Gujju (to hell with being politically correct..) farsan (yeah yeah...don't remind me it's me who was eating it), two packets of Monaco biscuits slathered with cheese, and more than six servings of ice-cream. And yes, after this rather sinful day, I feel I am in hell.

I can't think. I can't move. I am in this catatonic state. It is nothing short of paralysis. Is this what I want to do with my life? I realised I am just procrastinating. Physical ailments apart, this is the most dangerous disease that I am suffering from. And what is worse, it seems to be chronic.

When this realisation dawned, I turned to God. I googled "procrastination help". That was the clearest manifestation I was capable of in my paraplegic state.

Thank you God for answering my prayers...there's actually a site dedicated to people like me. I'm not alone. And what a relief that is.

I am going to defeat this Goliath by taking a year long sabbatical in God's own country. :) Sounds good? Or is that a paradox ?


Ok...I'm rambling.


Saturday, March 20, 2010


Well well...after worrying for a month or so that I was going mad and that it was all in the head, the above mild Mitral Valve buckling is the diagnosis. I have to take betablockers and take is easy with physical and mental exertion. And yes, I must also keep my teeth clean and be careful if I am undergoing any operative procedure. Easy enough !!!!!! :)

Now I know why I get palpitations, hate inclines, get headaches and feel dizzy and arrive in class breathless after climbing one measly floor.

I am ever so relieved.

Thought for the day : A known evil is better than an imagined one.


Saturday, March 13, 2010


My maid has hepatitis, so she's resting. This means in spite of a humungous amount of paper correction, the kitchen is my domain. Hmm....I overcome this difficulty by nibbling on Parle Digestive Marie and adipose cell enlarging banana chips. cooking. :)


Freshly grated ginger added to tea makes for a divine combination. And that's what I set out to brew. 2 tsp tea + 1 tsp sugar + 4 cardamoms + etc. etc. Sigh.

If you look at cook books today, the art of cooking has been reduced to a chemistry experiment. We are assaulted by all sorts of measures - tsp, tbsp, 1/2/3 cup + ml + grams + etc. etc. Did our grandmothers and mothers cook like this? What happened to intuition?


Some water + a handful of tea leaves + some sugar + some spices + etc. etc. :) Now I am happy with my intuitive cup of tea.

Inspired, mensuration free I come.... :P


Thought for the day :

We are so caught up with measurements, that we tend to forget what we are measuring.

Thursday, March 04, 2010

In Memoriam

When it's dark ahead

When it's dark ahead

At times when

it is dark all around ,

all paths left behind


and nothing

seems to exist ahead

it's best to

stay still ,

and face


and everything

that happens .

                  ~ Manaswini Paladugu

The poem above has been reproduced without the permission of the poet since she has gone where I cannot reach her anymore. But yes, memories still exist. Memories of a spontaneous person with child like enthusiasm for everything that surrounded her. Someone who did not hesitate to go on solitary rambles, or to wander off into the wilderness.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Another sky? Another horizon?

There is another sky

There is another sky,

Ever serene and fair,

And there is another sunshine,

Though it be darkness there;

Never mind faded forests, Austin,

Never mind silent fields -

Here is a little forest,

Whose leaf is ever green;

Here is a brighter garden,

Where not a frost has been;

In its unfading flowers

I hear the bright bee hum:

Prithee, my brother,

Into my garden come!

    ~ Emily Dickinson

I wish I could write poetry too. I mean REAL poetry (not that we postmodernists believe anything is "real" anymore ) !!! The few lines I churn out are too Modernist to be poetry. In other words they are highly symbolic pieces of writing with a profound subtext and with encoded meanings which only make sense to me.

I always feel the urge to write when I get emotional about something. Old Will Wordsworth did get something right when he called poetry the "spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings". Unfortunately my "feelings" are not as idyllic as his.

I generally consider the 13th of any month a good day for me (since I am born on Friday the 13th), but today has been an exception. Today has inspired me to write an epic, or maybe direct a reality show (I am sure that would be more politically correct in 2010). To cut a long story short, today has been a tragedy.

What is literature made up of, but conflict? And washing particularly dirty linen that assualts the olfactory senses is the stuff that reality shows thrive on. I have all the ingredients for a New York Times' Best Seller. The TRPs would be great too. Any takers?

To be honest, I don't want any. I want to go into hibernation. I want to repress ugly memories. I want to forget. I want to explore another sky. Gaze endlessly at a less begrimed horizon. I want to set sail for new lands. I want my ideals back. I want idols too, and without clay feet. I want scintillating ideas. I want devotion unsullied by incertitude. Hope, compassion, understanding, forgiveness - I want it all !!! I want T.S. Eliot's "Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata./Shantih shantih shanti".


January is the cruellest month, breeding
Depression out of dead resolutions
Newspaper headlines heralding student hangings
Accusing three well meaning idiots
Hope faces the gallows

"Hurry ! Hurry !
You will miss the rat race
The show must go on"

The burial of the breathing
Multiple games of chess...

The horror! the horror!


Another sky, another horizon? Please !!!!

Amen !!!

Poem Courtesy :