Diary

A name and a number
A birthday to go with it
Alphabetically arranged;
Alphabetically forgotten

Accomplices and partners
Acquaintances and friends
The ones you played with;
And the ones who played you

Nostalgia rises up
A distant ache to go back
To memories;
That time has helped fade

It elicits a smile
It elicits a croak
Brings up a mourn;
Chokes your throat

Acts as a window to your past
A simple name – scribbled;
Connected to something vast
A memory that shall, now,
Forever last

Time helps forget
A diary helps foster
More memories to gather
And to, one day, look back upon…

Haiku Vol. 2

This is my second attempt at writing these little haikus. Constructive criticism from last time helped a lot, hope there’s more where that came from!

I wrote the final two with a sort of peaceful mindset that somehow brought up memories of good ol’ rainy days when school would be off, or when it wasn’t time consuming to stop and smell a rose or two.

——

“Can I go play now?”
“Don’t forget your knee caps;
And your gas mask”

(A little “environmental commentary”, if you will! πŸ™‚ )

——

Cup in hand
Kettle on the stove
The skies pour

——

Daffodils sway
Windswept fields
A silent noise

——

Thank You.

Haiku

I came across a beautiful form of poetry I didn’t know of before. Thought I’d give it a couple of shots.

I am a novice at this, suggestions are most welcome and most appreciated! πŸ™‚

——

Look into her eyes
I Search for a future
But see the past

——

The smell of rice
Imagined as if were true
My stomach bellows

——

Near the deep end
Of a river too fast
Feet slip away

——

Ant crawls
Grain of sugar on its back
The fit survive

——

Thank you.

Severus Snape

We have all seen Harry Potter 7. If you think you haven’t or can’t recall something, no reason to worry. You will still know what I am talking about here.

A scene from the movie which struck me the most and is embedded in my head is the one with Snape solemnly confessing “Always.” Quite a tearjerker.

And that, when I don’t cry easy in movies. Generally, it’d take a dying guide dog trying to comfort a fatally injured bed-ridden blind kid to make me go *sniff*…. I am kidding, of course. Just the dying dog might be enough – Images from “Marley and Me” cropping up in my head already 😦

But, back to the point I was trying to make. Snape loved Harry’s mother, but unfortunately, wasn’t Harry’s daddy. (Except for the times he’d kick Harry’s ass at freestyle rap and go “Who’s yo daddy now, beyatch?”)

Jokes aside, I truly felt for the guy. He loved a woman who he could not ever be with, a fact that he knew well. His was a hand that reached out, forever waiting for another to hold it, and to make him complete. No matter what the odds, he gave off a sense that he genuinely felt that there was always hope around the corner. It was a love you don’t see of too often. His was also a love that one wishes one would feel for someone or have someone feel for one, some day in the not too distant future. A feeling so intense that it would transcend not just space and time, but the barrier between life and death, a feeling too powerful to be explained or to be grasped, so as to be able to let go of it. Snape loved like no other, and no other could love like Snape.

It would be the epitome of the word “love”, no doubts, but it begs a question. Could it be that it was so because it was simply undisturbed by the tribulations of reality, of an involved relationship?

10 minutes – Vol 2

Hello, this is the second installment in a series I hope will persist *Fingers crossed*. It’s supposed to be random 10 minute thought experiments about a topic which currently (and by currently, I mean the current moment plus-minus 15 minutes) plagues that biggish thing up-top. β€˜Ere goes –

Beauty is so subjective.

Some time back, I chanced upon a music video online, where the beauty of the singer didn’t strike me in particular at the outset. But as the lyrics flowed, without another look at the person throughout the song, I had a changed view of the woman. The innocence in her words added a beauty to her whole persona that I didn’t know existed, till the feelings seeped through the musical fabric. It made me wonder, then, do I like “innocent” women? (to put it very crudely)

The query answered itself in a minute, albeit negatively. It wasn’t the innocence per se, but rather, the association of a characteristic so strongly and beautifully expressed that enhanced the original view. If, say, it was a woman singing about mature sexual themes, some other sense of beauty would have definitely sprung up. To test the theory, I resorted to certain means and let’s just take my word for it as I solemnly swear that the theory has been irrevocably QEDed.

Beauty’s quite amazing. Not just because it is in the eyes of the beholder, but also because of a pleasant lack of knowledge on our parts, about what all events/characteristics might actually change the way we see it in surprising ways. Every little turn on the road could be a factor to alter the beauty of the beholdee. Beauty ages like fine wine, then, maturing into something that transcends a mere tri-dimensional view of a person. Another reason for long and happy marriages, perhaps?

10 minutes – Vol 1

Hello, this is a post which I hope would be one in a series *Fingers crossed*. It’s supposed to be random 10 minute thought experiments about a topic which currently (and by currently, I mean the current moment plus-minus 15 minutes) plagues that biggish thing up-top. ‘Ere goes –

I feel at home with the strangers. I feel at home with the weirdos. At the outset of writing this little 10 minute piece, I think I assigned it to be one of the self-pity ones.
Like, I am so depressed I try to seek the rung of society no one else would, and that I am so attention-starved all of a sudden that the simplest, easiest form of attention would be doing me a solid. But I think a new light, this must be looked under. A fresh pair of perspectives and a dash of positivity could lift this article.Β 

So yes, I think strangers and freaks are cool. People like the ones you see on the street, not begging, but prancing proudly about, singing loony tunes, walking funny, making you suspect their state of sobriety, yet giving one a twinge of longing for the kind of freedom the loony guy seems to be having at the very first glance. Then of course, and rightly so, enters a more rational realization of the person’s situation and you decide to rather be where you are than the once-coveted alternative.

But these people fascinate me. They make me question what is it that the person is truly feeling and how. Is it happiness? Is it carelessness? Is it a life of recklessness driven by desperation?What was it that this guy used to be? How did he get here? In a single query – What’s the back story here?

For instance, I look at a eunuch and I see the creepy exterior. I see the way that people on the train or in auto-rickshaws get scared, disgusted, downright repulsed even, and I try to imagine the response to these reactions of the eunuch begging for the alms. Correction – “practically demanding”. What strikes me most is the pride. A beggar could probably not choose to be a chooser or otherwise, but a eunuch would be damned if he/she isn’t! I have seen them downright rejecting offers of paltry sums that one would probably spend haggling with a vending machine, with a snide, and admittedly funny, remark. The body language and the face reflect a confidence. Where it stems from, and what infinite sink sustains it has intrigued me quite a bit in recent times.

Just to mess with a eunuch once, I gave him/her a not-quite-indigenous chocolate a friend had got me. Curiosity had overtaken me by the time said eunuch had worked through the train compartment I was traveling in, at the time. What would be the reaction? What would be the retort? Nothing too complex came out of it, except for a pleasantly surprised smile and a small conversation regarding the whereabouts and what-nots of the offering. What made the deal slightly sweeter was the slightly aghast stares from the fellow passengers (*smug smile*)

I think, in conclusion and in repetition, that I seek out the weirdos in a place because I feel at home. No matter how much it might be a creation of my mind, and no matter how much of it is probably me trying to imagine a plightful situation for myself to justify the vacuum I feel that I live in, but home’s home alright.