Category Archives: What they said!

Lemon- Lemonade Situation!

“When life throws you a rainy day, play in the puddles.”

 

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But what if it’s a rainy season? And it prolongs to a rainy winter?

 

Or it’s fine with me if you are the lemon and lemonade type of person too just don’t bother with the rainy season then because yo have so many other hilarious options. Really, you do. See for yourself:

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They forget that you probably don’t have that kind of money for the surgery!!

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Okay, this one I probably agree with them 😀

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Again, I never learnt how to bail exactly. If I knew I’d be dodging those lemons in the first place.

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So, it all comes back to square one. What do you do?

As I said, I’d rather prefer the rainy day situation, since I am such a nature person. So when life gives me that rainy year, what the hell am I supposed to do with it. I am drenched to the core now!!

 

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An Old Playhouse!

The last time I was here I told you that I was reading Indian literature, and in that somewhere I lost track of what exactly I needed to read and what I wanted to read. You know there is really a very thin line between these two and I seemed to have crossed that route. So somehow I started with Sarojini Naidu, Aurobindo Ghosh, Henry Derozio, and eventually I landed up on my most favourite, (honestly just for the sake of reading her, I mean if it’s literature and I cannot and will not finfish without reading her) to Kamala Das. And of course I started with my most loved piece of hers which is An introduction. From there it went on to her other works including The Sunshine Cat, Summer in Calcutta, In Love, my Grandmothers House, the Stone Age and so on. My first thought was to share An Introduction here with you guys but then I remembered I had already done it, not once but more than twice, and I know not all of you are obsessed with her. So then I decided that it’s time I share something more and beyond that one poem. Which brings me to this poem.

I hope you love this piece as much as I love her.

You planned to tame a swallow, to hold her
In the long summer of your love so that she would forget
Not the raw seasons alone, and the homes left behind, but
Also her nature, the urge to fly, and the endless
Pathways of the sky. It was not to gather knowledge
Of yet another man that I came to you but to learn
What I was, and by learning, to learn to grow, but every
Lesson you gave was about yourself. You were pleased
With my body’s response, its weather, its usual shallow
Convulsions. You dribbled spittle into my mouth, you poured
Yourself into every nook and cranny, you embalmed
My poor lust with your bitter-sweet juices. You called me wife,
I was taught to break saccharine into your tea and
To offer at the right moment the vitamins. Cowering
Beneath your monstrous ego I ate the magic loaf and
Became a dwarf. I lost my will and reason, to all your
Questions I mumbled incoherent replies. The summer
Begins to pall. I remember the rudder breezes
Of the fall and the smoke from the burning leaves. Your room is
Always lit by artificial lights, your windows always
Shut. Even the air-conditioner helps so little,
All pervasive is the male scent of your breath. The cut flowers
In the vases have begun to smell of human sweat. There is
No more singing, no more dance, my mind is an old
Playhouse with all its lights put out. The strong man’s technique is
Always the same, he serves his love in lethal doses,
For, love is Narcissus at the water’s edge, haunted
By its own lonely face, and yet it must seek at last
An end, a pure, total freedom, it must will the mirrors
To shatter and the kind night to erase the water.

-Kamala Das

PS: The featured image is chosen intentionally with the review!

Self-Portrait.

I am reading Indian literature these days and I come upon so many interesting things to read that I am running out of time. I truly am, but come on when am I not running out of time?

So here I am, reading, writing and analysing, or to say trying to analyse the great works of some really great writers, when I fall on yet another piece which I relate to so much, it is like a spitting image, a thought stolen form my mind, and yet I know I am the thief here!

I share here a very, very short poem by A.K.Ramanujan, which played with the strings of my mind today.

Self-Portrait

I resemble everyone
but myself, and sometimes see
in shop-windows
despite the well-knownlaws
of optics,
the portrait of a stranger,
date unknown,
often signed in a corner
by my father.

So yet again the problems of a modern world, problems relating to identity crisis, problems pertaining to knowing yourself, and what not!

Am I the only one, though?

The Author’s World!

“What if we are all just characters in a novel…. And when we forget what we want to say. It’s the author backspacing?”

 

I read this today and now all I am wondering is, really? What if? I mean what if we are all just fictional? What if everything that’s happening to us is a dream or an illusion?

 

Come to think of it we are merely those characters, handled by an unseen source, whose stories are edited and rewritten without anything being done on our part.

Ever Thought Of This?

“Until the lion learns to write, every story will always glorify the hunter.”

 

Why is it so difficult for us to just try and see the other side of the coin? Why do we always have to glorify the one that need not be glorified? Why do we not notice the so obvious? Why indeed do we not listen to the silence?

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Living In An Illusory World.

Writers and readers are hopelessly romantic. They live in a fictional world, and tend to be unacceptable to the real world. They immerse themselves so much in a world, which does not exist that they deviate and forget that they live in a world, which does exist. They seek pleasure in something, which is unreal, and shirk their responsibilities towards reality. They live in denial; they live with indifference. They do not live in actuality. Myth engulfs them so strongly that pragmatism and logic become their adversaries. These writers and readers do not know how the real world works.”

This, my friend, is an allegation on me today. But what can I say to this?

May be I am irrational. May be I don’t think practically. May be I shed off my responsibilities, may be I do live in too many worlds at a point of time. May be I am hopelessly romantic. May be I do live in denial. May be I live in a fictional world, and may be I really do not know how this “real world” works?

But does anyone actually know the difference?

All I got to say about this is,

“I have lived a thousand lives and I have lived a thousand loves. I’ve walked on distant worlds and seen the end of time. Because I read.” –George R. R. Martin.

Yes, I read and I write and most of the times I immerse myself so much in these two things that I forget the real from unreal. I can barely make what was true and what was a dream. I forget the real world in the process of making a beautiful world for myself where I can live. And many a times I don’t want to come back from there, well, most of the times. And what’s more? I can’t. I can’t just do that. I have to come back.

So is that not enough? Is it not enough that I have to come back, and I do come back into the so-called real world and try to live in it.

Is it not enough that I live a life, which I don’t want to?