Here's my poem, published in the December issue of the magazine Spark. Their theme for the month was 'Time Machine'. I took a slightly different view of the time travel aspect - essentially making Time a companion, accompanying it in its travels, as it travels with me.
In deference to the request that the Spark team has, to ensure enough and more people see their magazine, here's a link to the poem. Please visit the link below to read it.
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=2847
Monday, December 05, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Collateral Damage
The old gift became a martyr
In a lover’s tiff.
A mug, shattered to pieces,
That once shared, a message in ceramic,
“Love Endures”
In a lover’s tiff.
A mug, shattered to pieces,
That once shared, a message in ceramic,
“Love Endures”
Friday, November 25, 2011
Hum Intezaar Karenge
It was the late hours of the evening, where the professed time of sleep for my son had arrived. I was due to perform that duty, reading a set quota of books to him, written by authors I have never heard off. I fired up my trusty Windows smartphone to see what the score might be. On the other side of the world, near the shores of the Arabian Sea, a diminutive giant of a man was heading towards a statistical Everest. Flurries of boundaries as well as an upper cut over the ropes were showing up in the twitter-like commentary that the mobile version of the site was providing. In due deference to the moment that was to arrive, I asked my wife to drop whatever it she was doing and take over my task for the night.
I was an ‘I was there’ moment for me that would translate into an ‘I wasn’t there’ moment for my son; but I am sure he’ll understand when he grows up.
I rushed down to the hall downstairs, switched on my laptop, headed to my list of streaming sites that I trust to bring me the telecast, and cozied myself into my sofa seat, ready for the inevitable. Since updating my Facebook status while cricket goes on has become a regular habit since the World Cup, I posted the following: “I have nails to bite and I am biting them. He has 99 centuries and he is on 94. Hmm, 99.94 :)”
I have enough cricket-crazy friends on my Facebook list to not have to explain the significance of that number. I wrote that, clicked enter, and shifted to the window with the live feed. Ravi Rampaul, the one who produced a brute of a delivery to get Tendulkar’s wicket in the World Cup game, played a similar hand. Ball pitched just short of length, and bouncing just a tad more. Tendulkar, who had batted beautifully until then, decided to hit a trademark backfoot punch. Wrong choice of shot. The celebrations of Rampaul and Sammy would not have endeared them to Indian fans, but hey, they had every right to rejoice.
One mistake and the interminable wait extends. With Tendulkar out of the ODI series against the Windies, the onus shifts to MCG and the Boxing Day game. I know that Australia is one of Tendulkar’s favorite opponents, but a tour of Australia should not have had this landmark to contend with. More drama added to this tale.
I frequented some news articles on the missed opportunity, and as with any Tendulkar article, you realize that he is damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. People, who would scarcely score a run in gully cricket, call him selfish and playing for records and hogging place in the team; never mind that he still remains one of the top scorers in the team. People who don’t know in swing from out swing believe that he remains incapable of scoring another ton, never mind that he has scored 99 before this. 99! If your mind doesn’t jump everytime you read that statistic, it is simply because nothing Tendulkar does will ever be good enough. He sets a benchmark and keeps excelling it. That single-minded pursuit of greatness, without losing his humility is a very rare cocktail, one which has brought him thus far.
When will century no. 100 happen? I don’t know. At the start of the World Cup, I had posted on Facebook that my dream was that Tendulkar would score a century in the final at Wankhede; his 100th, and then India would lift the cup. That came very close; yesterday was very close, and perhaps there are a couple more heartaches along the way. Nonetheless, watching the man play is a blessing that we should enjoy, without getting lost in the absolute numbers. Sometimes, a straight drive hit right between the stumps and the bowler, is worth its weight in gold. Century no. 100 will happen. Until then, ‘hum intezaar karenge!’
I was an ‘I was there’ moment for me that would translate into an ‘I wasn’t there’ moment for my son; but I am sure he’ll understand when he grows up.
I rushed down to the hall downstairs, switched on my laptop, headed to my list of streaming sites that I trust to bring me the telecast, and cozied myself into my sofa seat, ready for the inevitable. Since updating my Facebook status while cricket goes on has become a regular habit since the World Cup, I posted the following: “I have nails to bite and I am biting them. He has 99 centuries and he is on 94. Hmm, 99.94 :)”
I have enough cricket-crazy friends on my Facebook list to not have to explain the significance of that number. I wrote that, clicked enter, and shifted to the window with the live feed. Ravi Rampaul, the one who produced a brute of a delivery to get Tendulkar’s wicket in the World Cup game, played a similar hand. Ball pitched just short of length, and bouncing just a tad more. Tendulkar, who had batted beautifully until then, decided to hit a trademark backfoot punch. Wrong choice of shot. The celebrations of Rampaul and Sammy would not have endeared them to Indian fans, but hey, they had every right to rejoice.
One mistake and the interminable wait extends. With Tendulkar out of the ODI series against the Windies, the onus shifts to MCG and the Boxing Day game. I know that Australia is one of Tendulkar’s favorite opponents, but a tour of Australia should not have had this landmark to contend with. More drama added to this tale.
I frequented some news articles on the missed opportunity, and as with any Tendulkar article, you realize that he is damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. People, who would scarcely score a run in gully cricket, call him selfish and playing for records and hogging place in the team; never mind that he still remains one of the top scorers in the team. People who don’t know in swing from out swing believe that he remains incapable of scoring another ton, never mind that he has scored 99 before this. 99! If your mind doesn’t jump everytime you read that statistic, it is simply because nothing Tendulkar does will ever be good enough. He sets a benchmark and keeps excelling it. That single-minded pursuit of greatness, without losing his humility is a very rare cocktail, one which has brought him thus far.
When will century no. 100 happen? I don’t know. At the start of the World Cup, I had posted on Facebook that my dream was that Tendulkar would score a century in the final at Wankhede; his 100th, and then India would lift the cup. That came very close; yesterday was very close, and perhaps there are a couple more heartaches along the way. Nonetheless, watching the man play is a blessing that we should enjoy, without getting lost in the absolute numbers. Sometimes, a straight drive hit right between the stumps and the bowler, is worth its weight in gold. Century no. 100 will happen. Until then, ‘hum intezaar karenge!’
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
A Look Back, As We Look Ahead
I spent a few hours watching the documentary series called ‘The Story of India’, by PBS. Those hours were worth it, because it was good to really reiterate what we already know, but mostly gleam upon – the rich history of India through the ages, the sinusoidal path that the country’s fortunes have followed through the millennia, the meaning and origins of what pervades life in India today. We often lack the ability to maintain a perspective beyond the short term. It is easy to see India as a growing democracy, book-ended by thriving IT sectors and Bollywood; a narrow minded view of the burgeoning global middle class. But people and places don’t just come about in a day. There is a long tail of events that leads to an explanation of who we are and why we are the way we are. How often do you think of the modern secular democracy as being based on the principles that Asoka espoused or the influence that India has had on the food in the Roman empire, and in turn, modern Italy? Where do the scientific prowess of the ancients fit in and how do we factor the influence that western invasions wield on our self-confidence as a nation?
The documentary itself is as comprehensive as can be made when trying to describe a five thousand year history in six hours. It is over-romanticized at times and it is often amusing to see a westerner romanticize it thus. But I’ll take it - I’ll take his waxing over Chandragupta Maurya and Madurai, his gloating on the greatness of India’s past and relevance in the world. As India strives to seek its place at the top in this modern world, it is good to know where we came from and what really makes up our DNA. Our surge towards modernity and progress is simply building upon our rich foundations.
The documentary itself is as comprehensive as can be made when trying to describe a five thousand year history in six hours. It is over-romanticized at times and it is often amusing to see a westerner romanticize it thus. But I’ll take it - I’ll take his waxing over Chandragupta Maurya and Madurai, his gloating on the greatness of India’s past and relevance in the world. As India strives to seek its place at the top in this modern world, it is good to know where we came from and what really makes up our DNA. Our surge towards modernity and progress is simply building upon our rich foundations.
Monday, September 05, 2011
Yaksha Prashna
My poem, published in this month's issue of the literary magazine Spark. Their theme for their month was wealth/money. My work is inspired from an old tale from the Mahabharata.
Read on: http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=2393
Read on: http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=2393
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The Poet
He sits with his
blue thumb
pressed to his forehead.
Those smudges of ink
are residue
from the act of creation.
Like dried clay
in a sculptor’s hand
once the wheel has stopped spinning.
blue thumb
pressed to his forehead.
Those smudges of ink
are residue
from the act of creation.
Like dried clay
in a sculptor’s hand
once the wheel has stopped spinning.
Friday, August 05, 2011
Non-Resident India
My article, published in the August issue of the Spark Magazine. Their theme for this month was 'India Decoded'. I took it upon myself to decode the India that I am currently residing in - the non-resident one! Read on.
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=2151
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=2151
Thursday, August 04, 2011
The Seven Year Glitch
This space celebrates its seventh birthday today. Sometimes, little endeavors can surprise you in big ways with their longevity.
My tiny yet loyal group of readers; those who choose to be silent and those who let me know what they feel - thanks for sticking by! Onwards then!
My tiny yet loyal group of readers; those who choose to be silent and those who let me know what they feel - thanks for sticking by! Onwards then!
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
The Witnesses
My poem, published in the July edition of the magazine Spark. Their theme for the month was weddings. I have tried to bring forth a slightly different perspective on the topic. Read on.
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=1987
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=1987
Friday, June 24, 2011
Spellbound
Your words remain
Well-spent at
Twenty rupees a letter
Shining on the board
In an unknown font
By an unknown artist
Don't blame the painter
He doesn't know enough
To know what is lost
In the games letters play
Don’t fret, we’ll understand
We are used to the quirks
As your shop proudly proclaims
‘India is Grate’
Well-spent at
Twenty rupees a letter
Shining on the board
In an unknown font
By an unknown artist
Don't blame the painter
He doesn't know enough
To know what is lost
In the games letters play
Don’t fret, we’ll understand
We are used to the quirks
As your shop proudly proclaims
‘India is Grate’
Friday, June 10, 2011
Dinner
They met each night
In honor of
Etiquette
Elbows off the table
Silverware in its right place
The food treated
With frosty reverence
Dysfunction was no excuse
To sacrifice
Civility
In honor of
Etiquette
Elbows off the table
Silverware in its right place
The food treated
With frosty reverence
Dysfunction was no excuse
To sacrifice
Civility
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Mere Paas CineMaa Hai
Please find a link to my article on the online magazine Spark. Their June issue was dedicated to the theme of cinema, so I wrote up this short essay on the influence of cinema on India. A thousand words is a small limit to work against, but I gave it an honest shot. Glad to have found this resource for online publication - they seem to be doing a very fine and sincere job with Spark.
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=1847
http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=1847
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
Resume. Reload.
And because the sun has finally shone
And the dark under the sky’s eyes
Has been obliterated by the
Golden energy of the yellow globe
It is time for the warriors to appear
To march on, to the posts of battle
Meeting head-on, the challenge of modernity
Without a shield till the sun retreats again
And the dark under the sky’s eyes
Has been obliterated by the
Golden energy of the yellow globe
It is time for the warriors to appear
To march on, to the posts of battle
Meeting head-on, the challenge of modernity
Without a shield till the sun retreats again
Friday, May 20, 2011
A Bit Too Much
Computer programs
Can generate
Poetry now
I doubt if they ever will
Do well at puns
After all, binary is too absolute
For double meaning
Can generate
Poetry now
I doubt if they ever will
Do well at puns
After all, binary is too absolute
For double meaning
Friday, April 08, 2011
Heaven And Earth
The wind was gentle but persuasive. The curls of her hair gave up their obstinacy within moments of the breeze touching her face. They fluttered ever so slightly, parting away the gentle clouds covering her ears. The face in the window that the city now beheld was holding a smile beneath. From the second floor of her building, from a narrow window that overlooked a busy street, she surveyed a throbbing slice of the metropolis. The world was playing out its own agenda. Vendors were busy trying to sell their wares with a mind cast back to their hungry families. Kids were playing a game of cricket with a chair as a make shift stump, and with little license to hit on anywhere other than a straight line. The honking of cars was less indicative of an urge to move on, but more suggestive of carrying on a mild conversation in blaring tones.
She saw all this and smiled. She scanned the street with her eyes but took care not to tilt her head to the left. She did not want to let him know that she had seen him. He, of the wiry frame, the thick glasses, and the intense expression, was present as usual. The sun could have set its clock looking at him. Never once did he pick another place. Always seated at the base of the old tree that people did not allow to be cut due to quasi-religious sentiments, always sipping a cup of steaming tea from the chai-wallah he so thoroughly patronized, always sketching away furiously on a piece of paper, always the observer of life’s little accidents. He, on the other hand, did not shy away from a tryst. He knew that fifty feet away, his muse had shown her face. She, off the delicate expression and the large rounded ear-rings. For months now, this wordless exchange had continued. She would come and silently observe the world beneath her, ignoring her co-observer of worlds. He would ignore the rest of her world and set his sights on her. His hands would furiously animate his expression of admiration on paper. The collection of portraits he made of her were enough to publish a book.
He made no attempt to hide his love, but kept a respectful distance. An artist’s hardest quest is that for a muse, and nothing would be worse than handing over the reality back to an illusion. The delicate balance could not be disturbed. And so the fifty feet were never bridged by him, though he harbored a fleeting hope that some day she would turn around and see him, that some day she would descend from her private heaven and meet him.
She spent her routine thirty minutes at the window. She knew his rhythms, knew how much time he needed to draw a new version of her, and she gave him that time. She wondered what it would take for him to venture forth, to walk those fifty steps, to leave the world for a while and join her in her isolation. She dared to dream the dream and castigated herself immediately. Nothing would be worse than handing over the illusion to a reality. She turned back, scanned around her heaven, and with gentle arms, pushed her wheelchair back into the house.
She saw all this and smiled. She scanned the street with her eyes but took care not to tilt her head to the left. She did not want to let him know that she had seen him. He, of the wiry frame, the thick glasses, and the intense expression, was present as usual. The sun could have set its clock looking at him. Never once did he pick another place. Always seated at the base of the old tree that people did not allow to be cut due to quasi-religious sentiments, always sipping a cup of steaming tea from the chai-wallah he so thoroughly patronized, always sketching away furiously on a piece of paper, always the observer of life’s little accidents. He, on the other hand, did not shy away from a tryst. He knew that fifty feet away, his muse had shown her face. She, off the delicate expression and the large rounded ear-rings. For months now, this wordless exchange had continued. She would come and silently observe the world beneath her, ignoring her co-observer of worlds. He would ignore the rest of her world and set his sights on her. His hands would furiously animate his expression of admiration on paper. The collection of portraits he made of her were enough to publish a book.
He made no attempt to hide his love, but kept a respectful distance. An artist’s hardest quest is that for a muse, and nothing would be worse than handing over the reality back to an illusion. The delicate balance could not be disturbed. And so the fifty feet were never bridged by him, though he harbored a fleeting hope that some day she would turn around and see him, that some day she would descend from her private heaven and meet him.
She spent her routine thirty minutes at the window. She knew his rhythms, knew how much time he needed to draw a new version of her, and she gave him that time. She wondered what it would take for him to venture forth, to walk those fifty steps, to leave the world for a while and join her in her isolation. She dared to dream the dream and castigated herself immediately. Nothing would be worse than handing over the illusion to a reality. She turned back, scanned around her heaven, and with gentle arms, pushed her wheelchair back into the house.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The Blade Of God
The fiend runs in
Thunderbolt in hand
Legs pumping
Arms extended
He hurls it at the
Stationary figure
Serene among the chaos
In a zone of his own
A billion hearts skipping
A collective beat
As the ball hurtles down
At lightning speed
When victory is de facto
And defeat is unacceptable
When a game ceases to be
“Just a game”
When matter of “life and death”
Isn’t just a phrase
In that fraction of a second
When all I said was true
The brute released
A torrent of questions
Then the feet moved
The toes went off the ground
The arms lifted the heavy bat
The cut unleashed on an
Unsuspecting ball
As it sailed into
A jubilant crowd
The ball carried with it
A message clear as day
Mortals won’t win today
For God has taken guard
Batting at number one
For India
P.S> In case it is not obvious, this is an ode to THAT upper cut that Tendulkar hit off Shoaib in the World Cup game in 2003
Thunderbolt in hand
Legs pumping
Arms extended
He hurls it at the
Stationary figure
Serene among the chaos
In a zone of his own
A billion hearts skipping
A collective beat
As the ball hurtles down
At lightning speed
When victory is de facto
And defeat is unacceptable
When a game ceases to be
“Just a game”
When matter of “life and death”
Isn’t just a phrase
In that fraction of a second
When all I said was true
The brute released
A torrent of questions
Then the feet moved
The toes went off the ground
The arms lifted the heavy bat
The cut unleashed on an
Unsuspecting ball
As it sailed into
A jubilant crowd
The ball carried with it
A message clear as day
Mortals won’t win today
For God has taken guard
Batting at number one
For India
P.S> In case it is not obvious, this is an ode to THAT upper cut that Tendulkar hit off Shoaib in the World Cup game in 2003
Friday, March 25, 2011
Chained
Was Houdini the greatest,
Or do we all surpass him,
as escape artists?
Is a five lever lock
any tougher to break
Than the vice-like grip
of tedium?
Or do we all surpass him,
as escape artists?
Is a five lever lock
any tougher to break
Than the vice-like grip
of tedium?
Friday, March 18, 2011
At Your Service
Madam, utterly respected
If you are even mildly discontented
And believe we roll in excess bureaucracy
Let me assure I mean no hypocrisy
To hear you, this grievance form I thus demarcate
Just make sure you do fill it up in triplicate
If you are even mildly discontented
And believe we roll in excess bureaucracy
Let me assure I mean no hypocrisy
To hear you, this grievance form I thus demarcate
Just make sure you do fill it up in triplicate
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Hum Jawaab De Chuke Sanam
The quiz is done and dusted and it has gone rather well. Not as huge a turnout as last year, but from the feedback we received, everyone who came enjoyed it. I wonder if I can add QuizMaster to my skillset in a resume. Does that add to much? I definitely do enjoy being one, despite the time and energy that is required to set a quiz up. This year's highlight was a Kaun Banega Crorepati styled round, with theme music, revolving logo, lifelines et al. To add to the drama, it all came down to the last team needing to get all the questions right to win the quiz.
I have put up the files here for anyone wishing to attempt the quiz: http://cid-c3fa92574d313fc4.office.live.com/browse.aspx/Bollywood%20Quiz%202011?Bsrc=EMSHYH&Bpub=SN.Notifications
I have put up the files here for anyone wishing to attempt the quiz: http://cid-c3fa92574d313fc4.office.live.com/browse.aspx/Bollywood%20Quiz%202011?Bsrc=EMSHYH&Bpub=SN.Notifications
Friday, March 04, 2011
Jawaab Bhi Do Yaaron
In case you thought where I was - well, it is that time of the year. I am busy preparing a sequel to last year's Bollywood Quiz that I conducted.
This year again, our quiz club is collaborating with Ekal Vidyalaya, an NGO, to host this quiz in Seattle on the 13th of March. I get to set the quiz (which is something I love) and the NGO benefits from it (which is something they'll love). Last year was a big success and a lot of people enjoyed the event. We are hoping to do better this year.
If you are in and around Seattle, please do attend (and please register on this site before that). If you are not from Seattle, but know someone who is, please encourage them to participate.
Come support a good cause.
Come support the QuizMaster :)
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