Sunday, August 9, 2009

A Breezy Ruse to Muse

A soothing zephyr flits around,

Untamed and free, no burdens weigh it down

It skips and skirts the flowers, the trees

Till finally its time for the evening to bow

And with its heavy ware of memories

Crouches in dusk

“No time for the youth to flit and fly,

Sleep off, zephyr”,

The ageless wind sighs

It moans wistfully and caresses the leaves

Stirs sepia silences, whispers sweet nothings

Runs a finger through forgotten strings

Discordant notes echo through the stillness,

Strike against empty walls of the heart

Reverberate, resonate, retrieve

-from remote recesses,

Forgotten losses, forgiven pains

Desires pined for, guilty gains

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Making the cut for LSD

LSD, as used here, stands for nothing more than the innocent 'Literary, Speaking and Debating' society.

For the fear of dampening the culturization of potential MICANs, (who might be desparate enough to visit my blog for nuggets of information :D - I am a hopeless optimist!), I will not divulge the details of this ever so mysterious society. Suffice to say that I tried to be endearingly creative. I don't know if I endeared myself in any way, but I made it through to the GD round (yeah, GDs don't just stop at the admission procedure!).

Dear parents, please pardon my using you for selfish ends. Continue loving me inspite of it :) (after all, you've loved me inspite of my incessant chattering for two decades now!).


Copy-pasted from the original ppt, for the purpose of ARCHIVING.

About me -

The fluctuations of my public speaking career.


-P.D.


The inception


Some people are born public speakers.

Some attain the art of public speaking.

And some have public speaking thrust upon them.



If I were to apply the Shakespearian thought to my life, the last certainly applies.

The ‘thrustees’ being my ever-encouraging parents’ vested interest in preserving their ear drums.



In the honeymoon period of doting parenthood, you’ll find bright eyed, just turned mom and pops encouraging their child to speak, “Bolo Beta, Bolo!”
But every parenthood has an initial 3 year itch when you face an irresistible urge to gag your seemingly angelic child, who bombs you incessantly with decibel bombs, 24X7 and then they plead, “Bas Beta, Bas!!”
Being blessed with a child, exceptionally talented in the use of her vocal chords, my parents’ woes were exacerbated, especially since discouragement flew off my skin like paper bullets off rhino skin.
Public speaking seemed the only route to dull my chattering and hence, push came to shove and with their passionate support I walked up on stage, to create history.

The grand fiasco
Failure, they say,is the stepping stone to success.
Your future success being directly proportional to the embarrassment generated by your present failure.
You would need similar optimism after debuting in a nightmarish public-speaking experience in which you say “Good Morning!” and then stand gawping open-mouthed at the audience for eternity and finally mumble “Thank you” and stumble out in a zombie trance, to the glee and whoops of a thrilled audience.
In the highly awkward and susceptible teenage years, this could scar a fragile psyche for life. But my parents were in too desperate a situation to give up right then.

So, there I embarked one year later, with nothing to lose, to create more history.

Status quo
And this time I won.

-----------------The Happy End----------------

The presentation does not end so abruptly, but the post must, or my paeans of self-praise would leave me with no claims to modesty. And the lousy, indentation (the editor has a will of its own) makes self-congratulation rather inappropriate right now :-(



Monday, August 3, 2009

All we need is a little love

We can walk through all our days frivolous, half-loving, stopping-by-the-doors-and-never-staying. But what do you do in these dark, dismal, funereal times?

Do you continue with a charade of happiness, drowning yourself in a mix of happy-movies, happy-songs, happy-times?

Do you put up a fa├žade of strength and break down inside? Why am I expected to cope – does coping mean shutting out death and narrowing down to MM assignments and QT tests? Am I expected to be insensitive to this?

Why can’t we drown in collective grief? We all feel the oppression, the weighing down – it’s right there. And yet we escape – malls, diners, movies – does it help?

Why can’t we confront and be weak, isn’t it but human – our last heartfelt tribute to him who’s left to never return. Yet it’s so uncomfortable to broach.

Why can’t we focus on the passing away. Why get entangled in the how’s and why’s and we-don’t-understand’s? What is a death anyway – another statistic of who-what-how-why and the blame games about irresponsibility? Does it make death less heart rending?

Do you think of all the times you invited death and she refused? To be struck by her cold, unforgiving visage when she turns up uninvited? When you beg and plead and she refuses to leave? And then takes you along with her.

Why can’t someone just tell me it’s alright to think. To cry. To acknowledge.

Perhaps I am just sick and delirious and raving mad.

Perhaps. Immune and vulnerable. Not the usual stoic, impenetrable fortress. That you think I am. But then am I normal or are you? I, who cannot get back to my books. And you, who remain unaffected and think of it as an academic holiday. Perhaps I envy you. For your insensitivity and immunity.

And this is when I want to go back to childhood. When sickness was not so much about medicines. It was about a loving caress. A loving voice that reassured you that all will be well. Strong arms that enveloped you and told you it’ll be fine. The warm, intrusive curious eyes of a sibling that never left you alone. About the miles travelled to heal you with warmth.

Is it too much to ask for it all now? A little bit of love in harsh times? As I swing between a need for solitude and companionship, to find a sense of belonging in mutual grief? For understanding and warmth. Peace with silence, and hope with words.

And it’s in times like this that we realise. There’s nothing to replace human contact. All we need is a little love, and we’ll be fine. This should be my catharsis. I wish you yours, soon.


Note : After reading this, please don't try and tell me I need to talk to people rather than 'vent' it on a blog. As if I don't talk to people or something.

If that is all you can say, you are the nth person to say so and lose the whole point. I can only say that you don't understand 'why' people write. It is not simply a vent or a rant. What writing really is, is not for me to tell, but for you to feel and find out. And if it feels like a non-cathartic chore to you, DONT GENERALISE. It's my poison. Period. No discussions. No sermons.