Monday, July 23, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Salman
"First in class and captain of the A team, how does he manage to do that?"
It was one of those painful times of reflection, that Salman endures every now and then. This time it was in the field, right after evening practice. The whole ground was swathed in a deep shade of orange from the evening rays bathing upon the brown gravel, vaguely reflecting Salman's state of helplessness as the sky was hinting early signs of blackness. The first of the semis was a couple of days away and the mid-terms, a week after. The ground was too empty for Salman's liking - he preferred a bustling field, so that he could drown in external confusion, momentarily forgetful of his internal doubts. But it was three hours into after-school time and the hostel kids had finished their evening snack and were back in the study rooms
"probably preparing for their mid-terms. It would be so much fun if I were in hostel too. I could do whatever I want. No permissions for anything."
It was time to get back home. His Hindi special class was over and he was heading back home - this was Salman's version of his daily evening itinerary when questioned by his mother, to accommodate his cricket sessions. As he was passing the primary corridor - behind which was the princi's office, the clock read 6:45. Looking at the clock Salman was covered with pricklies all over his body - the kind that you get when you jump into the cold waters of the swimming pool in a sweltering afternoon - goosebumps in the grown-up language; pricklies in Salman's. The clock needles looked like an evil fang bent at a weird acute angle. Salman was supposed to be home by 6:00. His Hindi special class supposedly lasts three hours - and he was 45 minutes into empty non-explainable space.
"Aio!!! I should have told mom that Hindi class was four hours long. I'm officially going to be one eared today. Mom's going to find out all my lies when she meets the Princi..."
Salman's heart was pumping like an auto rickshaw's exhaust pipe running at 35 kmph. His time was running short, soon he'd reach the bike parking space and in minutes he'll be cycling home. Salman was cursing himself for leaving his watch in his school bag while he was on the field. The watch was too precious for him - a remarkably surprising act of kindness from his otherwise stone-faced insolent father, for Salman's birthday that had passed three weeks ago. But that day, his dad was the last person Salman expected a gift from. Sometimes he would wonder why his dad behaved the way he did. Was he the same from the time he was born? But Salman had his doubts about the secret room where his father turns into a joyful and fun person.
"If only I had the watch on while I was playing. Wait a minute!!! Salman, you probably are the most brilliant in entire Madras da. I'll just change my watch to show 6:00 and act as if I didn't know all the while that my watch was wrong. Oh poor me...now I know why I was 45 minutes early for everything in school today. Perfect plan!!! Mom wouldn't know about the secret cricket, and I have saved the day for yet another tomorrow."
--arvind
It was one of those painful times of reflection, that Salman endures every now and then. This time it was in the field, right after evening practice. The whole ground was swathed in a deep shade of orange from the evening rays bathing upon the brown gravel, vaguely reflecting Salman's state of helplessness as the sky was hinting early signs of blackness. The first of the semis was a couple of days away and the mid-terms, a week after. The ground was too empty for Salman's liking - he preferred a bustling field, so that he could drown in external confusion, momentarily forgetful of his internal doubts. But it was three hours into after-school time and the hostel kids had finished their evening snack and were back in the study rooms
"probably preparing for their mid-terms. It would be so much fun if I were in hostel too. I could do whatever I want. No permissions for anything."
It was time to get back home. His Hindi special class was over and he was heading back home - this was Salman's version of his daily evening itinerary when questioned by his mother, to accommodate his cricket sessions. As he was passing the primary corridor - behind which was the princi's office, the clock read 6:45. Looking at the clock Salman was covered with pricklies all over his body - the kind that you get when you jump into the cold waters of the swimming pool in a sweltering afternoon - goosebumps in the grown-up language; pricklies in Salman's. The clock needles looked like an evil fang bent at a weird acute angle. Salman was supposed to be home by 6:00. His Hindi special class supposedly lasts three hours - and he was 45 minutes into empty non-explainable space.
"Aio!!! I should have told mom that Hindi class was four hours long. I'm officially going to be one eared today. Mom's going to find out all my lies when she meets the Princi..."
Salman's heart was pumping like an auto rickshaw's exhaust pipe running at 35 kmph. His time was running short, soon he'd reach the bike parking space and in minutes he'll be cycling home. Salman was cursing himself for leaving his watch in his school bag while he was on the field. The watch was too precious for him - a remarkably surprising act of kindness from his otherwise stone-faced insolent father, for Salman's birthday that had passed three weeks ago. But that day, his dad was the last person Salman expected a gift from. Sometimes he would wonder why his dad behaved the way he did. Was he the same from the time he was born? But Salman had his doubts about the secret room where his father turns into a joyful and fun person.
"If only I had the watch on while I was playing. Wait a minute!!! Salman, you probably are the most brilliant in entire Madras da. I'll just change my watch to show 6:00 and act as if I didn't know all the while that my watch was wrong. Oh poor me...now I know why I was 45 minutes early for everything in school today. Perfect plan!!! Mom wouldn't know about the secret cricket, and I have saved the day for yet another tomorrow."
--arvind
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Salman
“The mid-terms are just a couple of weeks away”
his mother announced – hoping to get him to start studying.
“So is the semis of my cricket tournament”
he thought to himself. Of course, he never dared to speak up to his mother. No one spoke out against their mothers – at least not around this place. That's like trying to juggle eggs using a badminton racquet – the damage is already done even before you try. In fact the tournament's deciding matches were earlier than the exams. This situation would usually mean only one thing – axe the sport.
“Is cricket going to feed you? What will I tell my neighbors – my son plays for a living. I'd rather die than see that day.”
This is the pep-talk kids get, when they dare to mouth their interests about playing a sport seriously or taking it up as a career. Opinions counted more than anything – first the neighbors', then the obscure uncle who lives in Dubai – making trips once a century to meet his relatives and distribute athar to everyone, then comes the grandfather's - perennially camping on the couch swapping between cricket and masala news on T.V, critiquing about the sad state of Classical music and the sugar in his filter coffee , and finally comes the opinion of the father – which really is a mere reflection of the enlightened view-points of the former entities. They were entities indeed, for Salman – in fact they were ghosts of the most alien form, whose importance is as good as a kid's tricycle in the main roads of madras – yet their influence...their stifling influence. Salman often chose not to delve into that line of self-pity. He obviously didn't deserve it, and he is not going to be bogged-down by it. Why would he, for he is the janaab of the streets. If he couldn't handle this, what good is he being a madrasi?
“They'd stop me only if they knew about it.”
He would conquer the mud-field first and then the papered–field. Simple.
“Where would I find time to study? What big of a problem would it be, if I skip exams? I'll fail in the mid-terms. Report cards would get uglier. Mom would have to meet the princi. I would be skinned.”
Salman was reflecting some exciting prospects in case he chose the shortcut.
“Aa-ha. This is how the nawab of madras would think. Salman, if your thinking runs at this level, you would become the president of madras one day da.”
That was Salman's way to self-reward, whenever he cooked up great ideas.
“I'll bribe the postman. Intercept the report card. Forge dad's signature and turn it in the next day. Problem solved!”
The last time Salman was this euphoric, was when he had won the Lemon-on-Spoon race in fifth grade. Madras was Salman's world, the cricket field his heaven and the classes; a little south of it.
--arvind
his mother announced – hoping to get him to start studying.
“So is the semis of my cricket tournament”
he thought to himself. Of course, he never dared to speak up to his mother. No one spoke out against their mothers – at least not around this place. That's like trying to juggle eggs using a badminton racquet – the damage is already done even before you try. In fact the tournament's deciding matches were earlier than the exams. This situation would usually mean only one thing – axe the sport.
“Is cricket going to feed you? What will I tell my neighbors – my son plays for a living. I'd rather die than see that day.”
This is the pep-talk kids get, when they dare to mouth their interests about playing a sport seriously or taking it up as a career. Opinions counted more than anything – first the neighbors', then the obscure uncle who lives in Dubai – making trips once a century to meet his relatives and distribute athar to everyone, then comes the grandfather's - perennially camping on the couch swapping between cricket and masala news on T.V, critiquing about the sad state of Classical music and the sugar in his filter coffee , and finally comes the opinion of the father – which really is a mere reflection of the enlightened view-points of the former entities. They were entities indeed, for Salman – in fact they were ghosts of the most alien form, whose importance is as good as a kid's tricycle in the main roads of madras – yet their influence...their stifling influence. Salman often chose not to delve into that line of self-pity. He obviously didn't deserve it, and he is not going to be bogged-down by it. Why would he, for he is the janaab of the streets. If he couldn't handle this, what good is he being a madrasi?
“They'd stop me only if they knew about it.”
He would conquer the mud-field first and then the papered–field. Simple.
“Where would I find time to study? What big of a problem would it be, if I skip exams? I'll fail in the mid-terms. Report cards would get uglier. Mom would have to meet the princi. I would be skinned.”
Salman was reflecting some exciting prospects in case he chose the shortcut.
“Aa-ha. This is how the nawab of madras would think. Salman, if your thinking runs at this level, you would become the president of madras one day da.”
That was Salman's way to self-reward, whenever he cooked up great ideas.
“I'll bribe the postman. Intercept the report card. Forge dad's signature and turn it in the next day. Problem solved!”
The last time Salman was this euphoric, was when he had won the Lemon-on-Spoon race in fifth grade. Madras was Salman's world, the cricket field his heaven and the classes; a little south of it.
--arvind
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Darkness
Skipping stones, near government hospital backs amidst dead floating on-lookers
Searching smashed-flat insects on windshields of forgotten cars
Hopping across remnants of branches, blackened by the winter
Breaking pollen residues on top of used bleaching agent barrels
Listening for that out of sync blare from the police siren
Blindfolded against contemporariness, blinded by simplicity
These pleasures - too small, too dark, too itchy for sophistication to ponder
True it is - requited joy comes with the loneliest tag.
Searching smashed-flat insects on windshields of forgotten cars
Hopping across remnants of branches, blackened by the winter
Breaking pollen residues on top of used bleaching agent barrels
Listening for that out of sync blare from the police siren
Blindfolded against contemporariness, blinded by simplicity
These pleasures - too small, too dark, too itchy for sophistication to ponder
True it is - requited joy comes with the loneliest tag.
--vind
Monday, March 05, 2007
Router, The
forwarded stripped packets
with no regard for crimson four-twentys
or transparent twilight liquids
the expressionless reaching-outs with
inanimate siblings from my rear,
through metallic tails perennially kissing the walls
blind munching of random bits
at the whim of these tissued ignorants
blissfully behind the comp
winking existential LEDs randomly
to please the educated few
peering into me shamelessly
not any more
"this one was working fine just a moment ago"
but after the surge I still blink
to deceive those dimwits - what-joy
in finding the pill, finally to cure the ulcer
no more wires for this wireless....
with no regard for crimson four-twentys
or transparent twilight liquids
the expressionless reaching-outs with
inanimate siblings from my rear,
through metallic tails perennially kissing the walls
blind munching of random bits
at the whim of these tissued ignorants
blissfully behind the comp
winking existential LEDs randomly
to please the educated few
peering into me shamelessly
not any more
"this one was working fine just a moment ago"
but after the surge I still blink
to deceive those dimwits - what-joy
in finding the pill, finally to cure the ulcer
no more wires for this wireless....
--vind
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Lanka
Goodbye dear land, the shores sprinkling
sacred blood on broken doorsteps
The beetle leaf forests...the pigeon holes, would
our strands be your roots and your twigs again?
The smiles within our pink
graves safely buried, now we meander this
rigmarole as empty shells -- once home
Tattered as it may, would I attain bliss
in the maternal lap again?
Yellow bicarbonate bombs, smoke-stealing
the blessed sundays and the purple sunsets
Our lost song
deafened by the wail of a motherless child
Soil once born behind the veils
of a solitary tear, here is one for the last time
sacred blood on broken doorsteps
The beetle leaf forests...the pigeon holes, would
our strands be your roots and your twigs again?
The smiles within our pink
graves safely buried, now we meander this
rigmarole as empty shells -- once home
Tattered as it may, would I attain bliss
in the maternal lap again?
Yellow bicarbonate bombs, smoke-stealing
the blessed sundays and the purple sunsets
Our lost song
deafened by the wail of a motherless child
Soil once born behind the veils
of a solitary tear, here is one for the last time
--me
Monday, January 29, 2007
cliched notebook...
bounded covers, bunch of papers
a margined some, a crumpled others
scribbled centers, washed corners
with just raindrops?
treasured randoms, bookmarked halves
love letters and suicide notes
sharing the same left edges
just words for the reader?
famous quotes, funny notes
phone numbers and emails
some in bold and some strikedthrough
to cling to, or to stay away?
the ink may fade, the bind may fall
pages flipped, some will tear
some may fetch a penny or two
is that all that’s left behind?
a margined some, a crumpled others
scribbled centers, washed corners
with just raindrops?
treasured randoms, bookmarked halves
love letters and suicide notes
sharing the same left edges
just words for the reader?
famous quotes, funny notes
phone numbers and emails
some in bold and some strikedthrough
to cling to, or to stay away?
the ink may fade, the bind may fall
pages flipped, some will tear
some may fetch a penny or two
is that all that’s left behind?
–vind
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