Happy New Year All! :D

Turning over a new leaf!

"Many people look forward to the new year for a new start on old habits."

~Author Unknown

Once again, it's that time of the year when we all decide to turn a new leaf. When we leave behind an amazing experience of three hundred and sixty five days. Over the last fifty two weeks, we've all tasted success, confronted failure- we've laughed-cried, perhaps lied. We've hurt and have been hurt. But most importantly- we've all learnt something to take with us into another wonderful opportunity called the New Year.

Its it funny how we resolve each year to be better, nicer, kinder or stronger. Because I've tried it all- resolving to take out time to exercise, to work harder, wake up early, submit assignments on time or just help mum in the kitchen more often! But as you probably would have guessed- I got caught up with my routine all over again - and all these wonderful promises naturally took a back seat. I guess that's one of the reasons I stopped making resolutions a long time ago. Besides, it sounded ridiculous to wait for the end of the year to make amends.

But when I do think over it, the beginning of each new year gives a lot of us a chance to reassess ourselves and our lives- despite it being just another ordinary day on the calendar.

Either way- this year's been great with all those ups and downs, tears and smiles and much, much more! Because one thing's for sure, I'm all set to battle another year now and make the most of it too.

Happy New Year All!

Happy New Year !

If it didn't bring you joy
Just leave it behind
Let's ring in the New Year
With good things in mind
Let every bad memory
That brought heartache and pain
And let's turn a new leaf
With the smell of new rain
Let's forget past mistakes
Making amends for this year
Sending you these greetings
To bring you hope and cheer
Happy New Year!

Answer that!

“You know that children are growing up when they start asking questions that have answers.” –John Plomp

I swear it’s true. I’ve seen it during my babysitting days, when I watched over my niece, Aparna.

When she was six, she was closer to an automated machine gun than an ordinary human: questions would shoot out of her mouth in all directions, and before you can answer the first bullet, you see a volley of ‘em raining on you and you have no choice but to retreat.

“Tom died in the last cartoon, how come he’s alive now?”

“Why can’t I touch Jerry on the screen?”

“What are those black and white dots?”

“Why are they dancing like that?”

“Why’s the sofa softer than my bed?”

“Can’t God change that?”

“Why is Arvind younger than me?”

“Why can’t I grow backwards?”

“Can YOU grow backwards?”

“Can Mumma grow backwards?”

“Can plants grow backwards?”

Enough said.

Honestly, I love inquisitive kids: they’re a sign that creativity and imagination still thrive in this crazily sane world. When you’re faced with a downpour like that, however, you’d sooner shoot yourself than face them all.

But what’s worse is that sooner or later they’ll stop asking questions like that. As she grew older, Aparna’s questions were more knowledgeable; true, but they lacked any depth, wonder or curiosity. It was just another thing to be known, not absorbed or admired.

“What’s the capital of Cuba?”

“Why do we water plants early in the morning?”

“What’s f***?” (Goodness, she scared the hell out of me with that! And I don’t even remember my answer!)

Soon enough, she stopped asking questions altogether, as she preferred to Google them up.

“Yeah, I read that on Uselessfacts.com”

“Oh yeah, there was this blog on that…”

Well, at least she has questions, I tell myself. But I miss the “Why’s the sky blue?” and “Where is God?” that every little child utters at some point or the other. I wonder what he/she thinks when they get their answers…

Care for a drive in Hyderabad?

I consider myself a safe driver-honestly. In the very beginning, just to be sure I wouldn't run into anyone I drove consistently at 20kmph. That was until my mother told me, "Darling, I really don’t see the use of driving a car when you're going to go at that speed." Hmmm...she did have a point there…so I moved on to about 40kmph. Of course it's getting much faster now that I’m getting the hang of it (Dad, please don't read this!) .

I do not overtake, because I was specifically instructed not to when I was taught and I do not shift lanes randomly (except for a rare now and then perhaps ;-) ). Moreover, my fastest reflex is braking- I can brake anytime, anyhow and anywhere. I've learnt a little bit of swearing along the way too (it helps in the slightly tight situations). So I really do believe my driving to be rather safe. However, I cannot assure you either a completely safe or happy journey- only because I drive in Hyderabad.

Right from the parking to the navigating, driving in Hyderabad is a unique experience- one of a kind! To begin with, because of the utter lack of space and the slightly inconsiderate parking of the bigger cars, my poor blue little car has to be parked at an awkward 45° between a concrete pillar and the bumper of another car. After a right, left and another right reverse, we're finally out. Out of the gate, and into a bus stop that is. A lot of arduous honking later, you finally make your presence felt to the great many people who, oblivious to the perils that you may pose to them, slowly and reluctantly disperse.

Then comes the tricky part- multitasking between the bumpy roads, whizzing autowalas and the buswalas who forget- intentionally- their huge size, and compete with the autowalas at whizzing between the cars. I strongly suspect that the autowalas fancy themselves as some kind of heroes or Formula One champs, hence, the rules of the road obviously don't apply to them. (Sigh)

The motorists try playing smart by utilizing every direction they find available. And the pedestrians, well of course, they don’t fear for their lives-"Police toh carwale ko hi pakadh ti hai na!" So they prance- literally- across the streets. And there I am- in the middle of them all- still trying to learn and appreciate the art of navigating in Hyderabadi traffic- and pondering on one of life's greatest mysteries - "Whoever would have issued licenses to All these people !?"

Intent vs. Deed

I would say the reason behind this post is this particular time in the year that Muslims around the world are observing. I wanted to keep my post for this week on the lighter side and not turn into one of those soul searches. Yet as I searched my mind today about what I wanted to say I found that there was a certain conclusion that I had come to which I wanted to share.
What I want to say has, I suspect nothing really to do with religion, neither mine nor yours. It only helped me discover a simple fact and what impact it can have on our lives.
The thing is that Muslims around the world are observing the 10 days of Moharram. These are days marked in tribute to the great sorrow and the terrible times that befell those we hold in high respect in our hearts and minds. The event's significance is hard too describe and even fathom many a times. As the tradition has built up we observe these days with special reverence and indulge in religious activities or devote more time to learning about our histories and our faith.
It was in these circumstances that I learnt about the importance of intention over the deed. Its the feeling that counts and not the actions. If we are doing anything that does not come from within then it may serve the purpose for the time being but it does not amount to anything of consequence at all.
Both the intent and the deed have to dwell together for intent and no deed serves no purpose and does no good. While the deed without the intent is just a sham.
It sounds like a simple rule. But its not so simple to implement. The clean conscience and a firm mind are hard things to cultivate and I am still struggling with the journey.

The vicious (?) circle of the scarcity of “Indian” Literature for children in English and the lack of “Indian” Literature in English.

“I remember reading Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart when I was nine. I didn’t realize at the time but I know now it made me understand that I didn’t have to write about white people”- Chimamanda Adichie, Nigerian novelist [1]

The excerpt is from an interview I read this August in The Hindu Magazine and it somehow stuck in my mind because it furthered some of the ideas I had regarding the impact of children’s literature in the English language, particularly in former British colonies, on the kind of literature the country produced.

Like most middle class children growing up in the 90’s in India I went to a school where the medium of instruction was English. Beginning with nursery rhymes and fairytales I moved on to Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl & Dr.Seuss followed in quick succession by Judy Blume, Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys. I remember R. L. Stine’s Goosebumps being quite the rage before J. K. Rowling finally made her entry. Looking back, Anita Desai’s, A Village by the Sea which we did in the 8th was probably our only encounter with Indian literature in English and one we actually enjoyed (even then it took us all of seven minutes to figure out that “crystallized chunks of marrow” was nothing other than “petha”). Somehow we all managed to elude any significant exposure to Indian literature for children.

Incidentally standard “Indian” literature for children including Panchatantra and the Jataka tales among others was featured in the “Amar Chitra Katha” which we avoided like the plague because our teachers vehemently disapproved of its shockingly awful English whereas Indian books in English like Malgudi schooldays, approved of by all involved, belonged to a rare category, so much for Indian literature for children in English. As for the non-English Indian literature, we found it boring because the textbooks in our mother tongue were outdated and no match for the kind of reading we were doing in English at the same level. Moreover nuclear families deprived us of grandma storytelling sessions and the rich oral tradition of Indian literature in vernacular.

The story of my generation and the successive ones is important because of the link between reading and writing. If you were to read a story written by the average Indian child there is an overwhelming possibility that the protagonist, the plot and the setting will have nothing to do with India. The fact was brought home at a Young Authors contest I participated in where a ruffled jury pointed out our unconscious exclusion of all things Indian. Of the sixteen national finalists only one had set her story in India, two had used Indian names and the rest of us had a rather eclectic choice of locale ranging from Africa to Mexico to Palestine and the list of names included Alice, Ryan, Mark and Iris to name a few.

While I don’t think there is anything wrong about writing about other places and people there is something troubling about the fact that we are unable to express what it means to live in India. We did try to consciously write about India or even use Indian names but there was an air of artificiality about the whole exercise and ultimately the writing seemed rather forced and trying too hard to be Indian, much like our English grammar textbooks which after decades of using names like Jane and John made the odd attempt to use Raj, Sita and Ahmed much to our amusement, being rather ridiculously in your face.

Moving on from author to audience one comes to the intriguing question of why we read. While the charm of reading largely lies in its ability to enable the reader to transcend his immediate surroundings, at some level the reader seeks comfort in identifying with what he reads. Incidentally it seems that young Indians as readers seek at some level in Indian literature in English the other with which whom they can identify. Having said this it is obvious that there is an immense void in Indian literature in English to which writers like Chetan Bhagat owe their success. That the quality of their work leaves much to be desired is itself further proof of the desperation of English speaking Indians.

Speaking of “Indian” literature in English I would like to define it by emphasizing literature that portrays the essence of being Indian or more appropriately literature that conveys the experience of living in India (as defining “being Indian” is in itself an endless debate). Coming to the existing corpus of “Indian” literature in English I must confess my ignorance about early Indian writers in English whose works I have hardly read such as Tagore. On the other hand, having read a lot of the work of “Indians writing in English” one realizes that most exclusively concern themselves with the immigrant experience and few, Amitav Ghosh, Arundhati Roy, Rohinton Mistry & Aravind Adiga for instance, actually write about living in India. While there is an ongoing debate about the label of “Indians” writing in English itself, which in no small part accrues to the fact that most writers tagged with the label don’t live in India at all, I would like to state that “Indian” literature in English has little to do with the “Indianness” of its author. In fact one of the few works that succeeds in its attempt to portray life in India is Englishman E.M. Forster’s brilliant novel, A Passage to India.

In conclusion I would like to go back to the title. Adding a question mark after the word vicious clarifies my opposition to the view that children’s literature in English westernizes and corrupts Indian culture and morality, whatever that is. I merely wish to draw attention to the fact that not having enough exposure to Indian writing as a child hampers one’s ability to effectively express as an adult what it means to live in India and in terms of identity and figuring out how one fits in, leaves one neither here nor there.


[1] Krithika, R. (2009, August 09). "I’m a happy feminist". The Hindu: Magazine, p. 2

Nerd? Jock? Geek? WHAT?

Well, my Sem I marks came out a few days ago…and I’ve been officially branded a nerd. Or is that supposed to be a geek?

Fine, both. I never got the difference, anyway.

So that’s what I’ve been pondering about: stereotyping. It happens everywhere: school, college, at work…everywhere you’re labelled as a walking-talking specific brand of ‘human’.

It’s funny how quickly we classify people into these ‘categories’ when we first meet them…many times at first sight, even before talking to them! Flirty, muscle-bound hunks are dropped into the Jocks section for girls to drool over; pretty girls with three layers of make-up and expensive accessories are bound to hog the spotlight as the Popular Chicks; the socially-awkward science whizzes who top almost every class and are Presidents of language or chess clubs are dubbed the genius Nerds/Geeks; and everybody else who doesn’t fit into any of these categories is forced into a separate selection of categories in the observer’s mind.

Personally, I hate these tags. And by the word ‘hate’, I mean in the extreme.

Every person has a mixture of qualities and characteristics. One or two of these may be more dominant than the others, but that doesn’t mean that the person should be identified and classified (with crude taxonomic tags) as a specimen showing one particular characteristic feature.

Though some people enjoy having a tag on them, I feel that, in the end, the tag causes a negative effect on the individual. The popular girls are always considered academically weak and treated accordingly; soon enough, they begin to BELIEVE that they are no good with studies and don’t make an effort…even worse, they blame their stereotyping for their academic failure.

Nerds and geeks are always the centre of ridicule, and hence tend to stay away from social arrangements for most of their lives…they lose their self-confidence, and are under the belief that they are boring and ugly individuals, incapable of attracting anybody’s attention. They were unable to explore their other interests or likes, since even a mention of taking dance classes or the like would cause an instant onslaught of jokes, making them embarrassed. And they would eventually drop the idea and stick to their circle.

People don’t often break the stereotype barrier; it usually takes a lot of determination, courage…and cotton plugs to stuff the ears with. But most of all, it takes a different environment, where he/she’d like to start over with new people and with a clearer view of their own identity. Then they’d be allowed to indulge in other activities without having the pressure to stick within their ‘limits’.

Speaking of which, I NEED to shake off this geek image everyone’s got of me right now. Perhaps a dance contest would do the trick…

A Glass of Sprite- it's all a matter of perspective!

One man's meat is another's poison- it's all a matter of perspective. While that jumble of lines and random brush strokes may be 'contemporary modern art' for some, for others it will remain a jumble of lines and random brush strokes- an attempt by the artist to con them. So if you do look forward to thanksgiving each year, try looking at it from a turkey's point of view too.

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When I shot this image a while ago, people asked me, "Errr…what is it?"

"A glass of Sprite, " I replied, eagerly waiting for an appreciative response.

"Ummm…it doesn't look it. Why did you shoot it this way?"

Well, I didn't have much to say to that because I believe it is possible for a hundred different people to find a hundred different ways of looking at the same thing. Art, music, literature- these are just a few examples that prove it. How many great masters have painted, composed or written about love or nature? Yet each painting, each composition and each piece of writing seems so unique- each one making us look at an entirely new aspect of the subject.

For me, perspective is a rather complex topic. Because a man is, the way he looks at things. Be it an optimistic, broadminded outlook, or a not so optimistic, perhaps a limited one. Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder after all! A person's way of looking at things probably explains why some of us overcome the hurdles that life throws at us, while the rest of us succumb to them. Or why one man is more creative or successful than another- it is probably his ability to visualise things differently. But here again, I'd like to contradict myself- no man is more creative than another- its only our perception that he is.

Very often, in class, we're told- 'Perspective is a vast, complex topic; it takes years to completely understand and master it'- Of course, we were being told about perspective in the context of art, but nevertheless, it can be applied to our perspective on life, and people too…then again- this is just my perspective ;-)

Pondering the way ahead...

I had scribbled these lines in class on one of those really long mornings when I was stuck in class. The thought that comforted me was the fact that they were nearly on end.

It's nearly time now to say my goodbye,
To leave this place with a releived sigh,
Remembering those long long mornings past,
Who knew three hours could so long last.

Cursed clocks, and too little sleep
Awake minds, an effort to keep.
Will this labour or our bear fruit or not?
Hardly questioned, once thrown in your lot.

Its all to become the persons we want to be,
All to acheive that goal, only we can see
Its not anout what the others see or say,
Its to try and do justice to myself, if I may.

When the way gets hard and the going gets tough,
When my vision blurs and things get rough,
To find the path again and rise to the task,
For strenght, dedication and foucus, I now ask.

I shall look within to find for a start,
A resolute mind and a passionate heart,
If given a wish you are given power too,
For dreams do come true, for dreams do come true.

The Air that we Breathe...

My Biotechnology practical was rather exciting: we were finally learning how to grow white spongy masses of bacteria in Petri dishes. The class was warned a little more than a thousand times about how clean and septic the environment around us had to be: washed with 67% ethyl alcohol, swabbed by cotton pads, etc., and we were really starting to get restless.
Finally, my teacher led us to a room…above it a sign, in bold and ominous letters: THE INOCULATION CHAMBER.

The minute all twelve of us were inside, the metal door was slammed shut, bolted and locked from the outside by the lab assistant.
We were trapped…and doomed (though we didn’t know it then).

My teacher clicked a few switches, and a huge one called HEPA (Highly Efficient Particulate Air). And she calmly continued to demonstrate the cleansing process.

With every passing minute, I felt my head get heavier: my stomach churned, my vision got blurry, and I felt the room spinning. As I leaned against the cold tile wall for support, I noticed one of my classmates nearly sinking to the floor. All of us were either clutching our stomachs or our mouths, as if we were going to throw up.

Soon enough, my teacher could no longer ignore the groans and moans that were now echoing in the huge chamber. Her face surprisingly bore a rather amused expression, which angered us slightly; the situation was far from funny.

When the door of the chamber (read: DUNGEON) was finally opened, we properly resembled a stampeding herd of wildebeest as we rushed out, gasping for air. We collapsed onto stools, clung to cupboards, and clutched tables as the colour slowly returned to our faces.
Our teacher followed us out calmly, like she had gone to collect a book and had just come back. She settled down at her desk, propped her elbows on the table, and leaned in to take a look at all of us.
“You were in just for ten minutes…the air wasn’t even properly purified then. For your information, that was the quality of the air in the 18th and early 19th century. You’ve all been exposed to polluted air since you were born…you can’t breathe air that does NOT have all those pollutants.”

Well, that’s something.
Hurray to polluted air!

Birthing Beans

Yesterday I was ripping beans apart. Not fancy French beans. Plain broad beans (which by the way sound fancier in America: “Fava” beans). Twasn’t the glint in the eye greedy relish act of ripping but the rather tamer restless violence born of sheer boredom. With deft surgical precision and patience Grandmother had prepared the beans for C-sections. Already removed the taut wire like thing at the side of the beans. They lay in a heap of springy spirals by the beans side. An average of four sometimes more, the twins popped out of their oddly elongated wombs- brothers and sisters one by one (can’t be too sure of the sex though). Future sibling rivalries were foretold. Some beans being shinier and slimmer. Heftier beans gave birth to plumper baby beans that seemed to have burst an artery somewhere. Under pressure. Purple slowly seeping through the lime green. A hole in the heart maybe. And then Suddenly (No I didn’t wake up and it wasn’t a dream) I jumped. Womb revealed a wriggly ugly worm. Sorta spine chilling. Lulled into security, settling into the humdrum ripping. Stillborn bean then.

Do The Daft !

Does creativity have any limits? Doesn’t the word “limit” itself kill the true essence of “creativity”. I had once read someone quote that a creative person can never become ‘famous’. This, he argued, was because; in his view the world does not accept a new idea very easily. And that is exactly what a truly creative person does. He creates. He creates an idea, a concept, and a whole new line of activity. “Creation” is a whole new beginning and it often results not from a complex calculated procedure but most often just results from some extraordinarily imaginative human thoughts.

A lot of times, I believe, creativity remains just where it’s born- in the mind. One may not express it through ones words or actions or through any form of art ..
However since creativity itself has a great number of inconceivable means of expression, the process of “expression” often acquires an equally important role as the creative idea itself.


Here is something I recently stumbled upon. I was fascinated by the idea that went behind this concept. Music entertains me in its own way and creating our own composition here, though, would not qualify as a truly creative activity but it is only a means of expression.
“Tutored” expression I may say :) So go ahead ..rap on!

http://www.dothedaft.com/idaft/

Battle at Kruger

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU8DDYz68kM

I'd really like to share this fantastic video with you this week- it fascinated me no end! Every wildlife photographer waits a lifetime, or perhaps more, for a capture like this. But here's a real-life drama that an amateur stumbled upon rather unexpectedly. Even the National Geographic Channel made an almost hour long documentary on this 8 minute clip which definitely has the makings of a blockbuster film…literally! :)

While a lot of people conclude the video by taking a moral standpoint- 'Good over evil', 'Unity is strength' or even 'All's well that ends well' - I think its just amazing to watch the behavior of these magnificent beasts, which at some points almost has a human touch. However, in the area of behavior- I believe humans still have a long way to go...

P.S- Do read the viewer's comments once you finish watching :)

That thing called Life.

"Life is one of those races in nursery school where you have to run with a marble in a spoon kept in your mouth. If the marble falls, there is no point coming first. Same is with life where health and relationships are the marble. Your striving is only worth it if there is harmony in your life. Else, you may achieve the success, but this spark, this feeling of being excited and alive, will start to die. ………………."

I read these lines today and wanted to share them with you. These are limes from a speech made my Chetan Bhagat.
The thing that made me read these lines once again was the fact that the idea he was discussing is quite the opposite to the attitude of the times that we are studying and working in. The emphasis is on being the very best. Academically excellent and stategically brilliant at our careers. We all enter this rat race knowing what we what in the end and what we have to give us to acheive that.
And here is a person , one of the many, who once again reminds us the exhorbitant prices we pay for our 'success' in terms of personal and physical ends. It is ironic that we have more people today who have to remind us that we need to work at our relationships than our books. More people who will recomment stress relieving workshops than those who will advise for academic programmes.
I am caught in this trap, are you?

Whoops. Its Friday!!!!!

Dear fellow bloggers profuse apologies for missing my appointed date. Moving on here are a couple of things I wish to discuss:

• How are we going to write? This is rather silly because ideally we should all have the freedom to write however we want. However things are getting rather haphazard and I feel we are slacking and need to write more "professionally". By professional I do not mean to say we should get rid of the personal themes in our writing (for example Faiza's interesting post "The Making of a Masterpiece") for we do draw a lot from day to day life.
• What I am suggesting is more "structure". In the sense that most of the posts are very loosely written with no introduction, body, conclusion (not that I am saying all posts have or should have an introduction, body and conclusion ).This is where how we write comes in. While poetry posts are simple to classify the others seem to be more or less general ramblings or random jottings in the form of (essays, articles?) or notes and posts! Im finding it quite funny that I should be talking of "structure" when I am utterly clueless about the differences (in actual writing not theory) about essays, articles and stories and how any attempt of mine at one transforms into another. But Ive hit upon what I want to say at last: Im simply pleading for more thought, more effort and more craft (even in random jottings). I agree that some of the best blogs are all about general, random and everyday musings, thoughts and ideas but they are also as I wrote before, quite well written and even more well thought out.
• Is our blog something like a journal? Everyday a thousand things go on inside our head. Some of them are things we wish to share. But often they are bare skeletons and need more flesh - posting something in its infancy is not something Im really keen on and would like to ponder over it more and if required read and research more. In short work on that piece of writing for a longer period. However it would be fantastic to have a forum to discuss, brainstorm and thrash ideas out before we finally post something so maybe we should post it anyway but that would create more clutter and less clarity. Maybe we can create two separate heads. Maybe make that three. After a gap of two to three months we could revise/rewrite the post in question including comments, revisions, new ideas, leads and links. What say?
• Speaking of a longer duration to work on the posts I would like to suggest we revise our timetable. Let everyone post something whenever they want. The pressure to post something on a particular day results in half-hearted attempts and half-baked posts to meet the deadline. However lets make it a minimum of three posts per person in a month. But I agree that the weekday concept is good in making us write regularly which after eighteen years I have realized is extremely essential in developing writing skills and hence happens to be extremely difficult to do too. In fact from whatever most authors seem to say writing "daily" and not regularly is the key to success. Still I feel we should maintain pen and paper daily jottings and later pick up particular themes we want to develop and evolve them into posts.
• Returning to the point about "structure". It was essentially to point out that more effort was required and that posting something for the heck of it should not be encouraged. Further, what exactly are our rules on plagiarism? Here I don't want us to go academic with citations and references and the whole nine yards but to me at a glance certain works, particularly the more "informative" article types seemed to be slightly cut,copy,paste (no offence to anyone). Informative works are certainly welcome particularly those that are compilations involving in depth and detailed research and more importantly analysis with multiple perspectives.
• Okay I just realized I sound as always what people call "serious". I have no qualms about that label and do not believe in the compartmentalization of things into spheres called serious and non. Life while not too complicated and complex should not be subject to such simplifications either. So do I wish for "serious" writing when I talk about information, research, analysis and the like? Nope not at all. If you actually look at it you do all that and more even when you write about anything including daily life. There is no earthly reason why people should really give a damn about poverty and climate change and communal riots let alone writers. I am all for every kind of writing from interviews and book reviews to journal like random thoughts and the more typical essays and articles. Stories and poems of course should never be too typical. But as I say again and again let it be well thought out and well written whether it is about something one would call serious or light hearted or whatever.

Looking forward to lots more reading, writing, discussing and revising.

some concerns....

fellow opine-makers

lets critique ...honestly and positively( or negatively!)...we are not revisiting the earlier posting...most of our reactions are one of one and that too based on the content of the written ...eg

we say ...love the thoughts/poem...why do i like it? what is the linguistic merit? could some of the verse lines be exchanged...could there have been other words used?does this remind me of something else i have read or thought?

lets start this...otherwise this will be a mutual admiration society!!!

twist in the tail...some thoughts on short stories....

The short story allows us in a short space of time to understand huge things, huge dilemmas. Short stories pull us into their world and shake us up.

A short story is a small moment of belief. Hard, uncompromising, often bleak, the story does not make things easy for the reader. It is a tough form for tough times. If the novel sometimes spoon feeds the reader, the short story asks her to feed herself. A story asks the reader to continue it after it has finished or to begin it before it began. There is space for the reader to come in and imagine and create. There is space for the reader to think for ages, to mull the impact of a story over, to try and recover from it! The short story is such a perfect form, you should really be able to lift it up and carry it into a huge cornfield, and it should still glow.

A reader can contain an entire story in her head and read a story in a single sitting. The story often makes a reader aware of what she is not being told. What doesn't happen in a short story is as important as what does. Like pauses in music; it is impossible to think about the short story without also thinking of its mysterious silences.

Perhaps the thing I love about stories most is that they give the appearance of space of length, so that when you return to them you are amazed at how the writer has created that effect. A whole life in a few pages.

Some of the ones that make excellent reading....

· Guy de Maupassant - 'The Necklace'

· Jack London - 'To Build A Fire'

·
Flannery O'Connor - 'A Good Man is Hard to Find'

·
Joyce - 'The Dead'

·
Roald Dahl - 'Twist in the Tale'

·
Ray Bradbury - 'The Veld' and 'The Playground'

·
William Sansom - ‘The Vertical Ladder’

·
Doris Lessing - 'Through the Tunnel'

·
Arthur Porges - ‘The Ruum’

·
Graham Greene - ‘The Destructors’

· Any story in Raymond Carver’s What We Talk About When We Talk About Love
Speaking with the Angel, featuring a story by Nick Hornby called ‘Nipple Jesus’

· Pigs is Pigs by Ellis Parker Butler

The Making of a Masterpiece!

I'm beginning to believe that great art is less about possessing great inborn talent or artistic skills, and is more about making the best out of the worst available. Whether it’s the materials, their prices or the workplace (studio) - there always seems to be a compromise.

Take my 'studio' for instance- which was initially my bedroom that I share with my sister; because of her constantly re-occurring allergic reactions to my paints, I was forcibly and firmly thrown out :-( After insisting that the drawing room balcony was not going to be my workspace, we finally settled on the dining room (sheesh, I know!) So this is how my portable studio somehow works- for the sake of natural daylight, my easel is positioned near the windows, however, it's not as simple as that because it also competes for space with the fridge door- hence, every time someone needs to use the fridge, there's bound to be some readjustment in the easel's position. During mealtimes, my 'studio' is disassembled and packed up, and promptly reassembled when I'm ready to paint after a well deserved meal. Since the dining room isn't exactly a private enclosure, I quite often have to put up with live audience (which I don't quite appreciate)- particularly in the form of my old cook, who seems to have the brightest suggestions for my work (and people ask me how I have so much patience!).

Workspace apart, art material can be a great nuisance…if you don't have the right paper, it takes nothing short of an intricate surgery with a paintbrush to make sure that the paper doesn’t wear away. And when you're at a position when you're not exactly either good enough or rich enough like me to splurge on the best there is, it's best to shut up and work at it till you're both better and richer.

Of course, there are other innumerable obstacles too, but if I start cribbing about it I will probably forget how much I love what I do! So I do suppose it's all about the struggle- it's all a process of learning, improving and moving towards perfection. It is a struggle, that I'm certain, is not fruitless. Because, if you're able to create something commendable, despite the chaos, commotion and the other shortfalls- indeed you're an artist!

Pictured

I lil' too excited I was about our blog.....

The Shade of Swords

"The shade of swords is not an invitation to kill ; it is an invitation to die."

Thus starts boldly the book by M.J. Akbar 'The Shade of Swords'. I am currently in the perusal of this controversial book which catalogs the birth of the concept of jihad and the spread and effect of the same, the misinterpretation and the undue advantage taken of a religious duty by presenting it in a convenient light. It talks about the age old conflict between Islam and Christianity and traces it though the entire stretch of history.

I use the word controversial with a purpose. Every time we talk about religion in this country we create a controversy. And when you read a book with tends to call a spade a spade , it does get a little hard to digest. One will always be biased towards the faith one has believed in. Religious sentiments of the people are easily abused and used to meet ends. And to fuel the fire of misgiving we are aided by the many many interpretations that tend to divide us further.

Faith has always be a special subject for me. That's the reason I wanted to read this book. I would recommend it for anyone who wants to learn correct facts regarding the history and politics of two major religions in this world. Or anybody who has wondered about the concept of jihad and its hold upon the people.

M.J.Akbar is a pleasure to read. The language is precise and firm. The flow engaging. And as Seymour Hersh says ; An unbelievably sophisticated work that is terribly daring.'

Wireless Connections

This is an over view of a speck of thought
under which lies a string of untold words
its a play of emotions
which the heart and the mind master...


It sure isn't a mystery
its what makes us so
complete in all its complexity;
and its worth a lifetime of understanding

Wireless connections are
made at birth
grow as we do
alter with circumstances
and strangely, don't die at a burning pyre


One of the few things I've been particularly fascinated by, all my life, is relationships; and how they work. How they weave their way, through time and its affairs, steadily forming a part of our lives.

Enriched with emotions;
new relationships excite,
old relationships stabilize.

We make them
We break them
we love them
we hate them
We're surrounded by these ties,

some bind us
some blind us
some quietly refine us
but this,after all, is where the magic lies..

The Shadow

It's great to see that all of my fellow contributors have posted their first blogs with a brain full of ideas.
My brain is more or less empty...but here it is.

From the dawn of birth, by the hand of death;

The shroud that clings to my being,

Never leave me be still.

From the first step in the sunshine,

To pale corpse under frozen light,

Will it follow me to my last breath;

Shifting colours grey-brown,

Blurred bright around the edge,

But yet with a heart so black.

It observes without emotion,

As I walk the world of colour,

With a laugh, a frown,

A thought, a song,

A dream, a life;

Then what have I to fear,

The dark veil upon my visage,

Sewed strong into my skin,

That hides a heart so black?

With every twitch of hand,

The shroud repeats with deeper motive;

As the eye darts in fevered glance,

It casts its being in hollow waves,

To hide, to blind, to end all peace,

Of mind and soul to its deepest depths.

And yet the lips purse, the eyes close,

The soul walks with doom in its trail,

Cast by a heart so black.

And so, with every step I take,

The shadow creeps across my face,

And hides behind my clear eyes,

Clouding them in hope and fear;

A hope that I could hold it back,

In fear that the world could see it there,

Ripping to shreds the image I formed,

Unclothing the truth that I couldn’t belong,

With a heart, my heart, so black.