raining words

I know I am missing something, but I don't exactly know what!

If constructive criticism is given in a destructive way, is it still constructive criticism?

Jelaluddin Rumi

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,

there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,

the world is too full to talk about.

Ideas, language, even the phrase each other

doesn't make any sense.

I feel restless distressed disturbed

The big dark void moves closer
And all I can see is black
Not the black found underneath blankets and inside closed eyes
That which goes away with one swift motion
But the black you see outside your doors and windows
That which like quicksand
Envelops and preys on you.

food for thought

The Summer Day by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

young and restless

Turning 23 is not a big deal, says my wise friend.
So I explain to him how when you are 22 you are closer to 21 so random acts of craziness are permitted.
But at 23, you are closer to 25, so you have to under any circumstances, act MATURE.
I hate that word. And the fact that my colleagues think I am an 'ageist'.
I have completely stopped writing here. Maybe because my work involves so much of writing. I like it. I am learning a great deal.
And I have been forced to come to term with the fact that I don't really know it all.
There is a deadline at work this month, extreme deadline.
So I haven't had a proper weekend to rest.
On the brighter side, my closest friend has come back to my side of the town, so there will be many meet up!
Yesterday at work, I was listening to Satisfaction and couldn't help wondering what if I simply unplug my headphones and let the speakers blare, my wise friend replied that if it were a musical, my colleagues would join me in the chorus, but mostly I would be reprimanded. So I guess it's a pity my life is not a movie.
There is a lot of negativity at work these past days. But I try not to get affected by that.
Thank god for small mercies. Being with my family and meeting my friends probably saves my life in some way.
I watched Inception last week. I always liked these dream-reality-alternative world movies, Matrix, for that matter or Constantine.
I wish I could hide the dull ache in my heart every time I read you. The only thing that reassures me is that I didn't dream or imagine it. And there won't be a going back because comfortable is a nice place to be.

The Last Song of Dusk

Just read Siddhart Sanghvi’s The Last Song of Dusk.

Somehow, his good looks and elegant clothes made me very expectant about his book. So young and his eyes already so serene and writing books at this age about big big things!

Ah! But then, looks are very much deceptive. Now, after reading his book, he appears to me as the male counterpart of Jhumpa Lahiri. Much-hyped, less-delivered types.

His novel didn’t make sense to me. His characters were inconsistent. His wit forced, so was most of the plot. Bad play with surrealism and magic. A climax that was too quickly delivered, not like a good and strong final blow, but more like things were made to end as if for a lack of time or pages...

There were some hints of genius, a couple of lines, an expression, but not enough to last the entire book.

Nothing prosy about his style. And more annoying was his use of uppercasing for words like Hope, Fate, Quietness!

Arundhati Roy and Salman Rushdie influenced?

Maybe his only other book (he has given up writing for good) The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay will be a better read.

All in all, I have at least realized my 18 year old self was as lost in crushing on Sanghvi, as he was in trying to write a book on half baked ancestral stories.

And if I already didn’t know he was gay, after reading the book, I would have been certain.

There is this way with which he describes the male body… Something only a lover could do so well.

Talking about gay writers, I dreamed of Vikram Seth last night! If my dreams get any more crazy, I am going to have to write a book about them!

Anyway, next up on my reading list is The Moor’s Last Sigh. Now there is an original psychedelic read.

Raindrops keep falling on my head

It’s been four months of scorching restless summer since I last posted here.

There are times when I can’t write, either because I am too happy or too sad. It was the former these four months.

It’s raining now, and my wordless happy season is ending too. There is something about monsoon. It makes me want to run away somewhere far, maybe Khasak, if it actually exists.

Last week I got completely drenched looking for a rickshaw back from work, took a cab and paid 4 times the normal fare and all this was after the first horrible day at work in my latest company.

I think I should quit and get back to studying. There are so many things waiting to be learned.

Clarity where art thou?

raining words

I know I am missing something, but I don't exactly know what!

Jelaluddin Rumi

I feel restless distressed disturbed

food for thought

young and restless

The Last Song of Dusk

Raindrops keep falling on my head

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