What would the world say
When it finds out?
The years would’ve flown by
I would be among the winds scattered.
My duplicity was not unique.
Never do trust their words, I tell
The child being told my story.
They would have made me an example.
My conceit was not uncultivated.
They all shaped me thus through
A force I could resist in vain.
Who would believe one who is guilty?
My vanity was never out of place.
The teachers applauded my arts,
My peers cheered my tastes.
Who would have seen the rent soul within?
My blindness was but an adaptation.
I, then, saw only the agreeable
I was just being comfortable.
Would the ignored tolerate?
My mask of chastity was for approval
From the world that questions me thus,
Amidst a thousand others’ anonymous.
Can I just go unrepentant?
My actions were reactions
To what was spread on my table.
The sweet & the bitter I took up.
Would my innocence be forgiven?
Oh, let me not stop, for I have braved
To tell my truth now.
I have lived in & not with the world.
I go, hence, to my repose, whence I come.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Onward I would march
The silent breeze that rustles the
Bleak tree, my hair too, it ruffles,
Like the tender caress of my love
And so the evening ended
In a note of fondness.
It had been shortened, time,
By thoughts and music of you.
What is not yours, love.
This evening is but a small consign
To reflect on your perfection.
My path has been alight,
But I have trusted your eyes.
My mind never sought refuge
From the stinging sold deluge.
What kindness is wrought
From your shaping touch.
The directions lose bearing when
The heart seeks your presence.
The oceans would seem silly
If they were to bar my way.
Onward I would march,
Onward I would march…..
Bleak tree, my hair too, it ruffles,
Like the tender caress of my love
And so the evening ended
In a note of fondness.
It had been shortened, time,
By thoughts and music of you.
What is not yours, love.
This evening is but a small consign
To reflect on your perfection.
My path has been alight,
But I have trusted your eyes.
My mind never sought refuge
From the stinging sold deluge.
What kindness is wrought
From your shaping touch.
The directions lose bearing when
The heart seeks your presence.
The oceans would seem silly
If they were to bar my way.
Onward I would march,
Onward I would march…..
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Repairing an Electric Stove
We say I am bad mechanic. I am bad at numbers. I am bad at cooking. I am the worst driver ever. I would like to narrate something that has disproved that I am bad at repairing things.
I have this electric stove at home. It has heating coils, which heat up when the power is turned on. It suddenly stopped working last month, I did not know why. I really felt like cooking and having homemade food, but was forced to eat out.
Last night I couldn’t sleep. I was hungry, and I had to do something about it. So I decided to repair the stove. I have a decent set of tools at home, though I never use them.
The whole underside of the stove was rusted and the screws were all jammed. I first oiled them, found the right spanner and screwdriver, and slowly opened it. It was after all a very simple apparatus. It just had a connection leading from the plug socket to the heating coils.
I carefully opened the socket, which had a lot of small screws and nuts. I made sure that I put the nuts and the bolts together after taking them out, lest I should lose them. I took the coils out, which were wound around a base of non-conducting material.
And I found that a soldering had gone off from one of the end terminals. If I put the coil in contact with the end terminal, the stove would work again. I don’t have a soldering iron at home. So I open the end terminal and I just tied the coil’s end around the screw.
Half the job was done. Now I had to put it all together. This is the most difficult part. Now you have to remember, and also use common sense and a lot of thinking in general. For its too easy to dismantle, but really difficult to undo a dismantling.
But I managed to do it, because the whole thing was organized properly after I had dismantled the stuff. The last of the things assembled, and I switched on the stove. And yes, success. It worked again. The coils were glowing orange.
Now I forgot to do one thing. I had used oil to loosen the rusted screws. I forgot to wipe the oil off. Now the coil was burning because of the oil. Dumb as I was, contrary to the dexter I had been during the past hour, I poured water on the flames that were growing. And you know what happened? I got an electric shock, and the fuse went off. No power at home!
Then I had to change the fuse in the main fuse carrier, then wipe the whole stove clean of water and oil, and then I made rice, then I made a spicy curry. And at 4 am, I was feasting on some well-deserved food!
So I wouldn’t agree as a fact that I am not good at anything. Just that I take the time to do things that I think I am good at. For the others, I just don’t take the time. An idiot is lazy, to think. A fool is someone who thinks he cannot do something he wants to do.
I have this electric stove at home. It has heating coils, which heat up when the power is turned on. It suddenly stopped working last month, I did not know why. I really felt like cooking and having homemade food, but was forced to eat out.
Last night I couldn’t sleep. I was hungry, and I had to do something about it. So I decided to repair the stove. I have a decent set of tools at home, though I never use them.
The whole underside of the stove was rusted and the screws were all jammed. I first oiled them, found the right spanner and screwdriver, and slowly opened it. It was after all a very simple apparatus. It just had a connection leading from the plug socket to the heating coils.
I carefully opened the socket, which had a lot of small screws and nuts. I made sure that I put the nuts and the bolts together after taking them out, lest I should lose them. I took the coils out, which were wound around a base of non-conducting material.
And I found that a soldering had gone off from one of the end terminals. If I put the coil in contact with the end terminal, the stove would work again. I don’t have a soldering iron at home. So I open the end terminal and I just tied the coil’s end around the screw.
Half the job was done. Now I had to put it all together. This is the most difficult part. Now you have to remember, and also use common sense and a lot of thinking in general. For its too easy to dismantle, but really difficult to undo a dismantling.
But I managed to do it, because the whole thing was organized properly after I had dismantled the stuff. The last of the things assembled, and I switched on the stove. And yes, success. It worked again. The coils were glowing orange.
Now I forgot to do one thing. I had used oil to loosen the rusted screws. I forgot to wipe the oil off. Now the coil was burning because of the oil. Dumb as I was, contrary to the dexter I had been during the past hour, I poured water on the flames that were growing. And you know what happened? I got an electric shock, and the fuse went off. No power at home!
Then I had to change the fuse in the main fuse carrier, then wipe the whole stove clean of water and oil, and then I made rice, then I made a spicy curry. And at 4 am, I was feasting on some well-deserved food!
So I wouldn’t agree as a fact that I am not good at anything. Just that I take the time to do things that I think I am good at. For the others, I just don’t take the time. An idiot is lazy, to think. A fool is someone who thinks he cannot do something he wants to do.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
The Complexcess!
I have seen many people, wonderful, intelligent and charming and so much more, being cowed down with various inhibitions. And the worst among them is that about the body. It is awkward, but the easiest to overcome, because it is merely about something physical.
This feeling gets deeply etched in the mind when people who we depend on, like our parents or siblings reinforce the compliments made by the rotten souls.
It takes a lot to see beauty. And it takes a lot more to appreciate it. Believe me, there are a lot of inhibitions to appreciate beauty. We may sometimes feel that we are compromising ourselves in the eyes of others by calling something beautiful that we think is so. So to buy a shirt of red color, I have to be brave! To go out with someone, I have to be bold enough. The world thinks it is entitled to make opinions. So much is at stake, for this is Vanity Fair.
The gorgeous displays at the shop windows, parlors and boutiques, they all seem to reflect the perfection that man can create. But there is another dimension too to this. They seem to symbolize the symmetry that man is not endowed with bodily. Such things can be shopped, and made to adorn us. Such as fancy phrases, fancier clothes, anything that seems to elevate our pride.
Whence came this need to satisfy, and gain approval? What else is at stake but our vanity? Is this vanity so powerful that it will stop us from being our own self, for some assumed identity?
Yes, this thingy is powerful, especially since we have seen to what extent people will go, the things they could do, the words they could use, the airs they could throw, the level to which they can stoop, to gain approval. To be seen as “cool”. Liposuction. Piercing. Tattoos. Anorexia nervosa. Fuck man. Hey Dude. A lot of other nonsense.
In this fair of sorts, it takes a lot of character to be actually beautiful. It takes a lot more of character to actually feel beautiful. Such people are the gentle giants among us. Who are the grace that shines on our brows. They bring forth the smiles, and the happiness. Whose mother is not beautiful? Whose best friend is not the most handsome? Isn’t a girl that the guy loves the most beautiful woman in the world?
Vanity so sickens us thatg we all want to be the handsome or the gorgeous. Wanting to seem beautiful for a few people is healthy. But wanting to be omnipotent in charm and agreeableness is sickness. I would rather be me.
This feeling gets deeply etched in the mind when people who we depend on, like our parents or siblings reinforce the compliments made by the rotten souls.
It takes a lot to see beauty. And it takes a lot more to appreciate it. Believe me, there are a lot of inhibitions to appreciate beauty. We may sometimes feel that we are compromising ourselves in the eyes of others by calling something beautiful that we think is so. So to buy a shirt of red color, I have to be brave! To go out with someone, I have to be bold enough. The world thinks it is entitled to make opinions. So much is at stake, for this is Vanity Fair.
The gorgeous displays at the shop windows, parlors and boutiques, they all seem to reflect the perfection that man can create. But there is another dimension too to this. They seem to symbolize the symmetry that man is not endowed with bodily. Such things can be shopped, and made to adorn us. Such as fancy phrases, fancier clothes, anything that seems to elevate our pride.
Whence came this need to satisfy, and gain approval? What else is at stake but our vanity? Is this vanity so powerful that it will stop us from being our own self, for some assumed identity?
Yes, this thingy is powerful, especially since we have seen to what extent people will go, the things they could do, the words they could use, the airs they could throw, the level to which they can stoop, to gain approval. To be seen as “cool”. Liposuction. Piercing. Tattoos. Anorexia nervosa. Fuck man. Hey Dude. A lot of other nonsense.
In this fair of sorts, it takes a lot of character to be actually beautiful. It takes a lot more of character to actually feel beautiful. Such people are the gentle giants among us. Who are the grace that shines on our brows. They bring forth the smiles, and the happiness. Whose mother is not beautiful? Whose best friend is not the most handsome? Isn’t a girl that the guy loves the most beautiful woman in the world?
Vanity so sickens us thatg we all want to be the handsome or the gorgeous. Wanting to seem beautiful for a few people is healthy. But wanting to be omnipotent in charm and agreeableness is sickness. I would rather be me.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Apathy
I was in Vizag last week on work. I had just had a sumptuous lunch, and was standing outside the restaurant with a colleague.
We saw a group of children ambling along the platform, dirty and ragged. There was much commotion among them because the eldest and the tallest among them, a kid of about 6-7, leading an infant monkey by a leash. The leash itself was not looking inviting to be tied up with, made of very coarse material. The neck of the primate was bruised and red from its bondage.
The child was being admired for having such a plaything, by the other younger children. And the child was no exception at getting carried away. He tried to lift up the monkey by its leash. The monkey was choking. So it grabbed the child’s leg, refusing to let go, in mortal fear.
The boy construed this as disobedience, and seemed to be angered. He grabbed a stick, a sort of plywood, and started hitting the monkey on its head. Of all places, its head. The head itself was as small as a cricket ball. To hit it. He was doing it with the sharp edge of the weapon.
The animal started squealing. It was like an appeal for help. I could not hold it longer, and advanced menacingly toward the boy, scolded him for being cruel. He got scared, and tied the leash to a fence and got busy with some other amusement.
The monkey itself was contented to be left alone. Nobody would know when it had been given something to eat.
I was feeling pretty disturbed by this scene. I could not still understand why somebody would injure something so harmless and delicate.
A few minutes later, the whole troupe of the people started begging to people who were coming out of the restaurant. The watchman at the hotel started asking them to go away. They wouldn’t. An argument started between the watchman and a young woman with an infant.
She was dark, very lean, and probably not more than 25 years old. She was starting to shout at the watchman, and he hit her on her face. She never backed off, and the children of the group were raising a din over the whole thing. Other families that engaged in begging somehow managed to take the woman and the children away. The woman did not cry, but was enraged and wounded, and still had the pride not to break down at her destitution.
Now I seemed to understand the cruelty of the child. He was seeing his mother being beaten up, and for what? A notion called Opulence. He was trying in vain to defend her, by shouting. And no good man was there to say a favorable thing in their defense, when even a monkey had seemed to move one.
Why did I not help the woman? Why did I defend the monkey? Is it because I am an animal lover? Is it because animals are more helpless than humans? Is it because I don’t sympathize with humans?
I am not talking about myself. How many of us would try to save a dog that is being stoned for pleasure? Very few. How many of us will try to help a lame beggar who has tripped? Very very few.
We seem to get scared to touch others. Animals seem less disgusting? No, helping a human is more difficult. If I had helped the woman, I would have to answer the society on a whole, which disapproves of begging. So a beggar can be hit, humiliated or killed. Nobody seemingly needs to question. Compassion takes a back seat to the norms laid by God knows whom.
Whereas think about this. I ask the boy not to hit the monkey. He stops. He ignores it. I am satisfied. People think good of me. I go away. Does the hate in the boy go away? It will come back at what will not retaliate.
Misplaced revenge is cruelty.
So there I was, watching the forgotten monkey, till work called me away. I could have taken away the monkey. I did not. I could have bought the boy a chocolate, and told him to be a good boy from now on. I could have intervened when the man was slapping the woman. I did not. Well, nobody did anything.
They walked away, with their loud and vulgar outbursts.
We all walk away with Apathy.
We saw a group of children ambling along the platform, dirty and ragged. There was much commotion among them because the eldest and the tallest among them, a kid of about 6-7, leading an infant monkey by a leash. The leash itself was not looking inviting to be tied up with, made of very coarse material. The neck of the primate was bruised and red from its bondage.
The child was being admired for having such a plaything, by the other younger children. And the child was no exception at getting carried away. He tried to lift up the monkey by its leash. The monkey was choking. So it grabbed the child’s leg, refusing to let go, in mortal fear.
The boy construed this as disobedience, and seemed to be angered. He grabbed a stick, a sort of plywood, and started hitting the monkey on its head. Of all places, its head. The head itself was as small as a cricket ball. To hit it. He was doing it with the sharp edge of the weapon.
The animal started squealing. It was like an appeal for help. I could not hold it longer, and advanced menacingly toward the boy, scolded him for being cruel. He got scared, and tied the leash to a fence and got busy with some other amusement.
The monkey itself was contented to be left alone. Nobody would know when it had been given something to eat.
I was feeling pretty disturbed by this scene. I could not still understand why somebody would injure something so harmless and delicate.
A few minutes later, the whole troupe of the people started begging to people who were coming out of the restaurant. The watchman at the hotel started asking them to go away. They wouldn’t. An argument started between the watchman and a young woman with an infant.
She was dark, very lean, and probably not more than 25 years old. She was starting to shout at the watchman, and he hit her on her face. She never backed off, and the children of the group were raising a din over the whole thing. Other families that engaged in begging somehow managed to take the woman and the children away. The woman did not cry, but was enraged and wounded, and still had the pride not to break down at her destitution.
Now I seemed to understand the cruelty of the child. He was seeing his mother being beaten up, and for what? A notion called Opulence. He was trying in vain to defend her, by shouting. And no good man was there to say a favorable thing in their defense, when even a monkey had seemed to move one.
Why did I not help the woman? Why did I defend the monkey? Is it because I am an animal lover? Is it because animals are more helpless than humans? Is it because I don’t sympathize with humans?
I am not talking about myself. How many of us would try to save a dog that is being stoned for pleasure? Very few. How many of us will try to help a lame beggar who has tripped? Very very few.
We seem to get scared to touch others. Animals seem less disgusting? No, helping a human is more difficult. If I had helped the woman, I would have to answer the society on a whole, which disapproves of begging. So a beggar can be hit, humiliated or killed. Nobody seemingly needs to question. Compassion takes a back seat to the norms laid by God knows whom.
Whereas think about this. I ask the boy not to hit the monkey. He stops. He ignores it. I am satisfied. People think good of me. I go away. Does the hate in the boy go away? It will come back at what will not retaliate.
Misplaced revenge is cruelty.
So there I was, watching the forgotten monkey, till work called me away. I could have taken away the monkey. I did not. I could have bought the boy a chocolate, and told him to be a good boy from now on. I could have intervened when the man was slapping the woman. I did not. Well, nobody did anything.
They walked away, with their loud and vulgar outbursts.
We all walk away with Apathy.
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