Demiurgic Notions

Cut my arm, let me bleed

Let the scarlet river flow

Paint the town red, more crimson

I feel the rush- I am mad.

Explode, ah, explode!

Let the fire burn, fill me up

The flames lick the edge of my consciousness

They crackle, and the four walls become mere dust.

I am free!

It’s Pandora, the world is paradise.

I see the lines of life gleaming

In skobeloff and pale carmine, cyan and Mikado-yellow.

The silver-shot amethyst sky

Bathes me with its soft glow

Gypsy fey peep from the tree hollows

I laugh; the few wisps of restraint vanish

We dance wildly in that wonderland

Circle going on circle, music flowing like water

My head snaps back, I breathe in deeply

Glorious beauty, I am filled with thee.

What’s this?!?

I gasp; I emerge

The easel stands proudly

The brushes droop, tired out

My head sags in defeat

What of the filled canvas?

It is but a swift reflection,

A mere ripple in the mighty sea

For the ambrosia I have just tasted

Is like the juice of goblin fruit

I am forever thirsty, I want more

And what I have glimpsed, is nothing compared to this quotidian world.

Haiku Hassle

So, I got bored with the conventional poem, at least, with the kind I usually write. After dancing around the rhyming scheme and making Thesaurus.com my best friend, boy was I tired of stanzas! A vague idea of writing haiku instead began floating in my head. The first time I’d read it was in the House of Night books (back when sexy Loren Blake wooed Zoey with his mesmerizing ones. Yum.), but I still had no clue what a haiku was. So, it was back to the ol’ Google search engine.

Basically, a haiku is a very short form of Japanese poetry, and by very short, I mean ve-ery short. It’s usually three lines or so, in three phrases of five, seven and five respectively. Despite its size, haiku are actually pretty complex, and there are three major elements involved-

 ‘It is impossible to single out any current style or format or subject matter as definitive. Some of the more common practices in English are:

1. §  Use of three (or fewer) lines of 17 or fewer syllables;
2. §  Use of a season word (kigo);
3. §  Use of a cut (sometimes indicated by a punctuation mark) paralleling the Japanese use of kireji, to implicitly contrast and compare two events, images, or situations.

While the traditional Japanese haiku has focused on nature and the place of humans in it, some modern haiku poets, both in Japan and the West, consider a broader range of subject matter suitable, including urban contexts.’

(DISCLAIMER: Yes, I copied and pasted that from Wikipedia. So, the information ain’t coming from me. Sue me.)

After I went online and did some research on it, I tried writing a few of my own.

The first one turned out like this:

Moaning, groaning, slimy

In a pool of pale blood

My lovely baby.

Eeesh. See what I mean? It’s quite difficult.

Eventually, I did manage to crank out a few, but I’ll let you be the judge of how good they are (I’m pretty sure that they aren’t haiku at all, just random lines. Ah, what the hellJ)

The moon is Mikado-yellow

Suspended against a night of veiled beauty

Dreams explode above.

A Muscat evening

Warm, with a hollow roar

A shrill screech and people die.

Basketball swishes

The net plunges; I scream

Only sleep is my witness

Mysterious night

Dangerous lovely, what would you have me see?

Only nothing. Death.

Scopic sky

Nostalgia drags my wings

Mother, why would you have me leave?

In short, haiku are simply the most beautiful forms of poetry I’ve ever read. They’re short and get to the point quickly, but at the same time, they have this air of mystery that puts me in mind of a cold, moonlit night under a pear tree, on a snow-capped mountain in Japan. Good stuff.

Oh, That Dumb Kid!

‘Twas the biggest party of the year,
Glamour, glitz, the whole sha-bang.
Hotties of both sexes, dressed to impress,
Beer would be served too, as the rumors softly sang.

‘Course the teenager wanted to go!
A chance to make the ‘IT’ list! The coolest of cliques!
Quick! A dress must be bought! Who could forget, heels AND a makeover!
And arm candy too, to make ‘em whisper for weeks.

Alas! Alack! The parents were to be considered.

A mean lot they were, too.
It hadn’t been her fault, good grades were hard to acquire,
After all, of what use in real life were Calculus and the knowledge of the Caribou?!

But the Fs glared at her, blindingly scarlet.

Crocodile tears, hollow promises would not cajole or soften,
She was grounded till Judgement Day,
Or, at least, until her grades were less rotten.

Pah! Of what use was that?
The party was that very night!
A plan, a conspiracy was to be made,
One that could put the Duke of Wellington’s to shame (see, she did study a mite).

A sullen, constant reply was recorded and played on a loop,
A dummy was placed under her cavernous sheets.
The door was locked, the key safely tucked into a discreet pocket.
She escaped from the window into a car, very proud of her exigent feat.

Ah, what exhilaration! She threw her arms up,
And danced into the dead of the night.
Wall-to-wall stood teenagers of every shape, smoking, kissing,
Laughing and screaming, the boys in loose pants and the girls in tight skirts.

But all good things must come to end,
In this case, a drunken brawl did it.
A massive brawl! A bloody brawl! Glass and noses
Were broken alike, everybody kicking and punching as they saw fit.

A police siren screamed. The alarm!
A hundred boys and girls created a stampede on their way out.
Some collapsed on the streets, others at their friends’ place,
Many instantly arrested, with nothing to do but drunkenly shout.

Scared and humbled,
Bruised and scratched,
She scrambled into a car headed home,
When she arrived-oh horrors! - the front door was open and unlatched.

Her dad did not shout, her mum did not scold.
Bundled into a blanket, with a hot drink and a soothing hug,
She could not, would not meet their eyes,
Conscience now raised its wise head and gave her heart a guilty tug.

Her apology was halting and feeble,
But Sincerity rang true in every syllable.
They did not punish her; she had been punished enough,
By an experience both traumatizing and terrible.

For now she knew how they had tried to protect her.
She had failed them now, but her mind fiercely resolved
She would work and please them immensely, she would, she would.
And she now realized how much, for the better, she had evolved.

We blaze through life with little thought for the consequences.
But only, when faced with the toughest and most terrifying
Do we realize, that our parents, strict and severe,
Unyielding and annoying as they may seem, are right.  About everything.

The Bird of Paradise Only Pecks the Hand of an Idiot

Or

I Hate Parrots

It was one of those weekends, you know, where you appreciate the fact that you can enjoy the night without having that cold realization that you’re going to have to go home early and sit down to glare at the ghastly textbooks filled with useless garbage that  only sadists can write and course book toting professors can understand. At any rate, I was elated. The exams were over, the new James Franco movie was out, and right now, a delicious dinner of lasagna oozing with tomato sauce and mozzarella was awaiting me at Pizza Hut. As a result, I didn’t even bothering listening to the rumble my stomach gave when my brother suggested a detour to a nearby pet store. Entertainment before dinner.

Consequently, I found myself in a small, but bright pet shop, with gleaming white walls and cute wall-hangings. It was filled with cages that housed white rats and hamsters that resembled those small, warm, butter-colored cookies you’ d find in a prosperous supermarket in Oman, sniffing at the cage door or cozily burrowing in a bale of straw and snoozing away peacefully (how I envied them!). In the corner of the shop was a storeroom with a glass door,where miserable puppies lay in their respective pens, their tails barely wagging when they saw us and their round, brown eyes full of unspeakable longing and suffering. Trying to curb the impulse to wrench open the door, grab a handful of heart-wringing, furry sweetness and vamoose, I turned to the man behind the counter, and found a beautiful Sulphur-crested cockatoo perched on his arm.

It cocked its head at the people gazing at it, allowing its bright-yellow crest, almost insolently curved at the end, to dip gracefully at the side of its pristine white head. Everybody oohed and aahed as they tentatively stroked its lovely plumage, while it clicked its shiny black bill impatiently.

I watched, as the man offered the bird his finger. It began nibbling the end of the fingernail gently, almost affectionately.  Thoroughly fascinated, I extended my finger, and was overjoyed when it began doing the same to me.

‘Look, Ma!’ I cried, gesturing wildly at her. ‘The bird likes me!’ Later, when I looked back at what happened after that, I realized that calling it a “bird” was probably not the best thing to have done just then. The cockatoo, after all, seemed like a feathery egotist- His Highness probably did not appreciate being given a common, lowdown name like “bird”.

Anyway, I turned back to the bird. The nibbling increased in fervor. Lulled by the rather pleasant sensation, I missed the baleful glare the cockatoo gave me, and the next moment, it clamped down on my finger, boring a hole with its sharp beak.

I let out a yell that had the lifeless dogs howling for the dead, the fish bumping into each other in their tanks and the little guinea-pigs squeaking with terror in their baskets. ‘Ow-ow-ow-ow! Lemme go, you stupid excuse for a parrot!’ This had the cockatoo biting my finger again, and the owner finally had to yank it away from me, lest I broke one of the window panes with my sonic screams of pain.

Nursing my poor finger, which was spouting so much blood that it looked like Old Faithful at Yellowstone Park, I was ushered out of the store by my parents who were laughing so hard (my own flesh and blood, no less!) that they were bent double, my brother who had gone into hysterics at the sight of the blood-filled crater in my finger, and an extremely apologetic shop owner (who promised a 25% discount on all pet birds if we ever wanted to buy any. I was never coming near his store again, let alone contemplate buying anything from it).

As I was sat down in my car, with assurances of Band-Aids (I loved Band-Aids with Winnie the Pooh patterns) and rocky-road ice-cream positively melting with chocolate sauce and marshmallow, I turned back and narrowed my eyes at the cockatoo. It stared back very innocently for a second, and then turned its back on me, but I could have sworn, if the door of the store had opened just a little wider, that I’d heard a very distinctive, rasping chuckle.

The Ennui of Being Studious

There’s still time,

It’s ages away

There are things to do, places to be,

As long as the sun shines, I’m going to make hay.

I have not changed; I don’t see the need,

Why is everybody in such a rush?

The future cannot be foreseen, it is not ours to map out,

Let’s enjoy the scenery, while it’s green and lush.

I’m going to make every moment count,

The days may trickle away, like sand in an hourglass.

But I don’t care, I won’t care,

I’m still a kid; I’m going to remain as I am and as I was.

Maturity will come when it will come,

Why won’t people stop nagging me?

So what if I’d rather sleep than study, play than plan?

Time will not leave me behind, just you wait and see!

I want to laze around and stare at the clouds,

I want to count the curving petals of a daisy, to toss a Frisbee with my dog,

I’d love to wrap myself up cozily and watch a movie, anytime, anywhere.

Is this desire to be free so wrong?

The deadline is but a speck in the distance,

I’ll be ready when it’s in clear sight.

When the future arrives, I’ll surpass them all.

But I want to wait. There’s still time for me. Right? Right?

Who are you, and what have you done to my parents?

Gone are the years when your dad and mum were the loving, jovial parents you knew them to be. When they willingly allowed you to do what you wanted without a word of dissent, laughed and immediately forgave and forgot when you screwed up and took you out for chocolate ice-cream by means of consolation.

Now they seem to channel the spirit of the Fuhrer himself, yelling at you for no good reason, questioning you as though you're some kind of runaway prisoner when you go out, and restricting you from anything and everything.

Yeah, you're probably right: your parents have been replaced by evil alien clones of themselves. And millions of kids are probably going through the same thing right now. In fact, there might as well be a full-scale invasion of the normal people (that's us) on Earth by the Dark Forces (the parents, or rather, their villainous replacements).

The good news is, you still have a chance of getting your real parents back. You see, putting aside all the alien replacement jokes, the real reason your parents act like the twins of Voldemort is because of a very simple thing- you're a teen. And your parents realise that this is the time you start acting out, and because they expect you to do so, they begin all the scolding and restricting early. For example, an innocent outing with a guy friend will have your dad assume the position of a stern headmaster, and a return home just a minute after your curfew will have your mum cut off all your TV privileges for a month.

Despite all this, you know your parents love you, and do all this because they have your best interests at heart. So, in order to restore peace to the household, you must use the healing and diplomatic power of compromise. Start by explaining how you feel to them, because, (hard to believe, yeah?), they have gone through the same thing. Be patient and emphasise your point clearly, there's no reason to get all worked up over nothing. For example, if you want to come home late from an outing, list all the valid reasons for doing so, wth a promise to be safe, not wander and to always have your phone with you. After all, parents are suckers for the whole maturity act. 

Rein in your protests when they say no and listen to their side of the argument. Your parents may turn out be right in the end. You don't want to be on the other side of the "I told you so!" lecture, do you?

So keep calm and fight your way out with a straight face. Get your normal parents back while you still can! :-)

Travel to Tirupathi

Travel to Tirupathi

An unpleasant surprise sprung up at me, late in the evening of the 5th of this month, when my mum told me that we were leaving for a day's trip to visit Sri Venkatachalapathy's temple in Tirupathi. The surprise was particularly unpleasant for me, because the last time we went there (I was about eleven years old) we’d had a bad experience. In fact, whenever the word 'Tirupathi' was said in the vicinity, I had blurred visions of shaved heads screaming and pushing us in their eagerness to get close to the Lord.

Nothing, however, could be said in protest when my parents made their minds up to go. The following morning saw us getting up at the crack of dawn, sleepily and reluctantly bathing and conducting various morning duties, then travelling by car to our destination, which was located on the border of Andhra Pradesh.

Upon reaching, we had a tasty breakfast, courtesy of the Bhimasena restaurant and decided to continue our drive uphill. However, my mum, who seemed to have a penchant for giving me nasty shocks that day, wanted to travel by foot up the Tirupathi pedestrian path, which she had never tried before. This suggestion, nay, command, was unanimously seconded by my traitor of a brother, my dad and my dad's friend, while I silently seethed in the background.

Ironically, I turned out to be the one who enjoyed the climb the most. The Tirupathi pedestrian path consists of around 3500 steps, through the hill. It is widely believed that if one mounts these stairs with the Lord’s name on their lips, all their wishes are fulfilled by Him. The weather was favorable for us as we walked up the stairs- not too hot, and not too chilly. Thousands of devotees were our companions, ranging from men in sweat-soaked cotton shirts, dhotis and the occasional pair of jeans to women in pastel colored saris, carrying baskets and children. Many people brought turmeric powder soaked in water and kumkum, which they dabbed on the front of every stair they climbed. Stalls hawking refreshments like cool drinks, chips, bhelpuri, coffee, etc. lined the border of the path, often the only things separating us and the mounds of grass and rock on the other side.

The journey was long, but mercifully not too tiring. Our driver was waiting for us at the top and took us to a restaurant where we had some questionable food for lunch. Then, as it was getting late, we hurried to the area outside the temple where hundreds and hundreds of people had already lined up.

The queues to the shrine of the Tirupathi are the worst places to wait in. The people are so excited to be so close to prostrating before Sri Venkatachalapathy that they jostle, push, prod, poke and do anything that is humanly possible to make others in the queue feel as uncomfortable and at times, as scared as can be.

That is precisely what happened to us. I, in particular, had to endure three whole hours of short women nudging me painfully in the back, men giving hoarse yells of “Govinda, Goooooovindaa!” (At one point, my dad joined in as well) and an annoying kid who made it his business to wail and sob every five seconds.

Thankfully, three hours went by pretty quickly, and after much shoving and pushing, we found ourselves in front of the Lord’s shrine. I have visited Tirupathi only once before, and have no memory of ever glimpsing the idol of Sri Venkatachalapathy, so this was my very first sight of him. And what a sight.

He was smooth obsidian black, dressed in new silk robes and ornaments that shone and glittered beautifully in the soft light of the lamps, a mysterious figure at the far of the shrine. For a moment there, he looked almost...alive. Caught in the moment, I quickly bowed my head, and said my prayers, resolving firmly that I would be a better person to make Him proud of me, before being swept away by the priests.

We did our pradarshan around the temple (which is said to be more than thousands of years old. Although a few modern mechanisms have been added, the basic foundation consists of smooth cool stone and weathered figures carved on the walls), collected our prasadam, the famous Tirupathy ladoos, and began our journey downhill towards Chennai. As we clambered into our car, I thought about my day at Tirupathy. Sure, I’d had a long day and tiring day. After an arduous climb of around 3500 stairs, having food that would probably not pass the test for consumer approval and being tossed around in a crowd of extremely agitated devotees like heedless insects, I was understandably exhausted and more than willing to return home. But, as my grandmother said, it was all for Him above, who protected and watched over us lovingly. And after what I’d seen in the shrine, I sure agreed with her.

Imagine scores of these bobbling up and down, a sea of turmeric-painted eggs.
It can scar you for life.