Four walls and a ceiling

Imagine a small room. The

walls are plain and bare. Not

even a stray crack or a

renegade mark on the

uniformly white paint. A sole

window exists on one side

whose wooden frame blends in

with the walls by virtue of

its colour and yet, is as

bare as can be. No curtains,

not even a rod, it looks more

than just a tad bit unclad.

Sunlight tries to creep in

through the window but is

filtered by the blinds,

casting an ashen colour to

the walls opposite. Just like

the table that lies next to

it. Some shelves, mostly

empty, and an empty space

across from it, give the

viewer the feeling that a

piece of furniture may be

missing. Perhaps a sofa that

should be there and isn't. On

the other end of the tiny

room, lies a bed and next to

it, a little closet. The

closet and the drawers

together, bring in the only

traces of colour in this

closed world. But the colours

do not seem to be happy with

each other. As if trying to

out-compete each other, they

do not agree among

themselves. The blue and red

of the drawer contradict the

yellow-green of the closet

while the bare walls and

ceiling just look on.

In the middle of the day, not

a sound can be heard, not

even a faraway voice or

barely audible song. The door

is closed & the window is

shut. The air inside is dry,

almost bored. As if it wants

to escape but not to the

place that is outside.

Somewhere else. Where it

feels more human. An aura of

peacefulness and serenity is

projected by the the minimal

yet sufficient decor of the

room that is bathed in white.

But is that what I really

want?

What about the laughter I

should be able to hear, from

the kids playing silly games

outside my window? The

humdrum of everyday life, the

TV's incessant chatter, the

radio blurting out a random

song? The birds that coo and

chirp unstoppably until its

dusk again? The insects that

buzz around while someone

tries to sell fruits outside

on the streets by shouting

themselves hoarse? The din of

cars zooming past and the

occasional screeching brakes

that are as jarring as they

are curiosity-evoking?

Is there any way I could find

that here? At a place where I

don't hear my own voice for

the major part of the day so

that when I do, it sounds

foreign, belonging to someone

else? I don't know where the

answer lies.

Queen of Random-ness

I have reached the following logical conclusion after much deliberation, that all creative people must be slightly kooky. I mean, whenever I write something well, or express myself in a non-factual yet expressive manner, in writing, it is invariably at an odd time of the night. And this odd time of the night also usually correlates/contrasts with my being a complete day person. I don't think straight at nights. Its like a mild intoxicated state that I feel like I am in, whenever it is past 1130PM. Not a trance-like thing, don't be confused, neither am I actually intoxicated or...any such thing. But sleep, or rather the lack of it, does that to me. In an ideal world (that existed between the years 1987-2000 until I reached teenage) I would much rather prefer to wind up all my work by sundown and go to sleep as soon as its 10. Or 830, if its a dark wintery night.

Now let me supply you with some examples of the kooky-ment. (Kookiness you say? Bah! Humbug!). First of all, my sentences become much more flowery. Sprinkled with generous doses of incredibly overused clichés and medieval idiomatic expressions borrowed from the 18th century. (time travel...ooh..maybe some day I should write about that) I start thinking emotionally as well. (shudders! horror of horrors..) Being a student of the natural sciences, who studies things down to the gene level, to explain why some people are happier than others, this kind of an emotional train of thought slightly unnerves me. (My inner voice asks me to tell you this is bull-excrement, slight unnervation is the understatement of the centuries to come) And somehow, such thought is always tucked away into some remote corner of my brain and very unaccessible during the day time, yet comes alive like cinderella's pumpkin carriage every night around the stroke of twelve. Perhaps, if I let my geeky self indulge a bit, you could equate it to the genetic material which is partially packed loosely to make it more accessible to the rest of the cellular machinery, more active so to speak, while the rest is hidden away in a barely accessible manner,and activated only at certain other times, thanks to certain non-trivial signals.

I will take your (abrupt) leave at this point, since my eyes are drooping and self-inflicted torture is really not a very politically correct thing to do. Good luck with trying to understand this post. If you know me in the least, I hope you will appreciate my randomness as always.

Is being Indian not enough?

It's an interesting article I found in that pile of junk they call news on the Rediff.com website (let's ignore the bit about RSS here right now)...

Is being Indian not enough?

The whole Maharashtra situation is very disappointing, following the idea of 'divide and rule' on the country's own people...What do you guys think?

limericks...

Once upon a time, there was a girl

Who had enough light in her room

Then one fine day

Out of the blue, you can say

The bulb went kaput, boom!

Ever since then, she was left in darkness

Except for a little tiny lamp

Yet, a fter hours of squinting

and squirming while reading

the wrinkles made her look like a vamp

Days and weeks went by, she waited

but she couldn’t find a person to fix

the broken lamp in her room

she might as well use it as a broom

or light a fire by rubbing a few twigs.

Suddenly, her friend told her

On one very sunny and cheerful day

That lo and behold

Another friend had told

That to repair the lamp, come he may!

Suddenly one day