Pixie Dust

See you later, Litigator!

2010-04-27T01:08:00.007+05:30

(Based on the musings of a certain friend employed in a certain organization ordered to participate in a certain seminar for the Ones With Potential. The name of the organisation has been withheld because I have a strong streak of self preservation).

I work so hard, I slave away
I'm at the grindstone everyday
I've reached the top, I am the best
I score an A+ when assessed
The BU leader writes to say
"Good show! You've done us proud today."
And yet things aren't quite what I
Thought they would be, I'll tell you why-

If I'm so good, if I'm so great
Should not my paycheque gain some weight?
Don't I deserve a little rest?
I am, you know, the very best
A holiday to some place far
Or just, perhaps, a brand new car.
But work well done is honoured by

A tougher job- it makes one sigh

For that's not all, 'cause now I'm told
That though I'm worth my weight in gold
I have to claim still yet more hours
I must attend these seminars
And juggling that with life and work
Might just drive a poor soul berserk
Take part in sharenets, sit through class

Hobnobbing with the top(most) brass

"Believe yourself and take control
Don't dally, now, just grab a goal
Fine tune your skills, fullfill you dreams"

But mine don't gel with work regimes!

I dream about the tropic sun
Of winter sports, of golf, of fun
A drink or two, a few cigars
Not slogging hard and clocking hours!

And yet... despite all that I've said
I love my work, my daily bread.
It's customary to complain
My boss is far from being my bane
He really is a splendid bloke
I'm quite sure he can take a joke
'cause if he can't, I'm really screwed
I hope this doesn't get me sued
I think I'll end this bit of verse
And place an order for my hearse. :(

Notre Dorm

2010-04-07T19:30:00.002+05:30

My life is sweet, and school's profound
I'll never drink or sleep around
The skylarks sing, the flowers bloom
I promise I will clean my room
I'll study hard, I'll eat my beans
And skip all those explicit scenes
I'll... help... all... those... poor... souls... in... need...
Oh damn! I think I'm out of weed!

Disclaimer: This poem rests upon my observation of certain friends and various classmates. The only substance I abuse is chocolate.

The Quest For Pink

2010-03-31T22:58:00.004+05:30

You'll note, the picture above is of a heart. A pink heart, to be precise. The keen observer of the human race that I am has spotted two things;
i) Men seem to handle objects stamped with the image of a heart with the care and trepidation one would employ when handling substances of dubious nature bearing hazard symbols.
ii) Men are afraid of Pink. The manlier, the more.

Don't scoff. I give you three instances with the three male friends who inspired me to write this post.

The Princess: Do you like that jacket?
Male Friend 1: (blinks) It's... pink. (edges away)

The Princess: What do you think of the picture I've used?
Male Friend 2: Can't really say. It's... pink.
(Hovers between another set of ellipses, a shrug and a gun)

The Princess: Good Morning Sunshine. How do you like my new bedspread?
Male Friend 3: It's... so... pink! Pink. Does it have to be so pink? It's too early in the morning. Why pink? It's hurting my eyes. Pink. Make it go away! Aaaaahhh!
(runs away in blind panic)

The chart below lists various symbols in order of deadliness:

Men always ignore the first one, pay a modicum of attention to the second (never if it says BEER) and are suitably impressed by the next four. But the fifth? It can make even the slowest of slackers look like Usain Bolt. In fact, I suspect that the secret behind Michael Johnson's and Usain Bolt's speed lies in that inoffensive and pretty icon, which for some reason hasn't been listed a banned substance as yet. Whether they snort it or inject it into themselves is something I haven't quite figured out. Perhaps they have pink heart implants which are affixed to suitable corners of their mind.

Aside: The fact that Yahoo Messenger has detonated every single icon in her "Falling Hearts" imvironment doesn't seem to make any difference. Sometimes, it's easier nailing jelly to a tree than understanding the friends listed above. Male Friend No 1. in particular. He can battle spiders and drape himself with a REAL boa; but he simply refuses to log in if he thinks I'm going to use that chat-box theme.

Looking to my fellow girlfriends, I noticed that depending upon the colour of the heart on her t-shirt, the distance between the girl and her date varied. The pinker it was, the further away he sat from her. When red, the spacing was moderate. And when black... ahem. I wouldn't be much of a friend if I didn't give them some privacy, would I?
From this I do not conclude "Men prefer girls with black hearts because birds of a feather flock together" which I think is highly commendable since I'm fresh out of heartbreak. I conclude that... men prefer girls with black hearts because birds of a feather flock together.
Well I can't see any other way to explain it it, and that does fit. :P I think perhaps that black is just an antidote to pink, with power enough to make the heart's presence null and void.

Renowned artist Hans Hoffman once said "It is not the form that dictates the color, but the color that brings out the form." With the observation above to support this theory, I can safely deduce that what really terrifies men is not the heart itself, but the colour pink. I'm getting somewhere now.
Yet, why would the colour Pink stand for so many good things, if it frightens so many ~~men~~ people? If when you're full of laughter, you're 'tickled pink', and when you're hale and hearty, you're 'in the pink of things', why would you flee at the sight/sound of it? Pink, according to Aerosmith, is even the colour of passion.

Hunting for answers, I came across phrases which only served to confuse me further, something I would like to think is as formidable a task as sobering Jack Sparrow. There were several culprits in attendance and this one turned up the most.

Real Men Wear Pink

It also perplexed me the most. Are they trying to tell me, then, that the three male friends listed above aren't real? I doubt they're hallucinations, because all my girlfriends are able to see them. And incidentally, while they in turn try to see as many of my girlfriends as possible, they're seldom successful. They almost always come up against big, beefy, muscular boyfriends. I suspect that a pink-heart flag is all they'd need to get past those hefty hunks, but it isn't something that's occurred to them yet.
If only I'd thought of it before, getting Hans Grosse to hand over the master key on the final level of Wolfenstein 3D would have been a piece of cake. Killing people can be awfully messy and my German vocabulary limits itself to the phrase "achtung baby" which, come to think of it, would be a cool thing to say before you gun somebody down. I don't remember there being a secret panel with a stash of pink hearts behind it, though. I suppose it is just as well because they would have been as out of place in there as would my dad be at a rock concert.

Yes, I have seen men wear pink, but they've all been celebrities who landed the perilously fashionable role of being metrosexual. And you can't tell me that I'm out of touch with reality and it's the natural state of affairs now, because Microsoft Word's spellcheck refused to recognise 'metrosexual' as legitimate word, as didn't Mozilla's add-on dictionaries for Firefox.

I decided to try once more, taking care to caution fellow blogger Confused and Baffled sufficiently. But not one to leave things to chance, I had both the smelling salts and tranquilliser ready. The last thing the blogosphere needs is a ~~crazed and deranged~~ baffled and confused blogger on the loose. Besides, I planned to lead up to the question slowly. With permission obtained before the informal chat-interview began, I reproduce the relevant passage word for word;

Me (softly and soothingly): ... and speaking of Aerosmith, do you like pink?
Sir Baffled (face blanches): depends
(through clenched teeth) not on myself
(expression softens) on scraps of cloth on certain women, yes
(forces smile) anyway
(leaps out of beanbag) must be off
(runs for his life) cya later

To give him credit, he didn't actually flee from the scene. He just left quickly, without a backward glance. A barely audible "Sorry, I'm running late" did come floating back to me via a text message, as if to say "I'm not running away. It's just that I have a dental appointment to keep." But his blood drained face said it all.

Entertaining though the chat conversation was, enlightening it was not. I suspect I may never know what the reason really is. Perhaps it's one of those deep rooted instincts that served humanity well when in its infancy. Man discovered fire, fashioned weapons out of stone, created the wheel and... was often prey to giant man-eating savage fuchsia flamingoes.

The Happiest Families

2009-04-30T00:09:00.001+05:30

For a long time, my parents (a psychiatrist and psychologist) co-wrote a column for the newspapers entitled 'Happier Families'. They discontinued the series shortly after my sister was born and though I've been told that there is no connection between the two, I can't help but wonder….

Last week I made the mistake of reminding them about it. And that's how the whole absurdity began. After an eternity of "Do you remembers…" my parents ridiculously concluded that our family isn't Normal. Now I've never professed to understand them all that much, but this was beyond even the most skilled of interpreters.

Though I know my sister would love to, neither of us belongs to a motorcycle gang, wears leather jackets, spiked wristbands, green eye shadow and fishnet stockings. Fishnet stockings are not Normal. The rest is just a personal opinion. But fishnet stockings? Definitely not. We dislike Mondays, detest cabbage and can't stand the cafeteria food. We adore Peter Pan, love shopping, and she's crazy about Prince William, which I've been assured is Normal. So what did he mean we're not Normal?

In a Normal family (according to my father), everyone dines together. They spend time with each other having fun. They have chores which they are expected to apply themselves to diligently. They pick up after themselves…. Well you see where he was heading? He's quite obviously in the wrong era, the kind with black and white TV sets and rotten plumbing. I didn't say that, though. What I did say was, "Great. Why don't we all watch a movie together?"

My dad was really happy, the poor unsuspecting soul. My mum was suspicious (and rightly so). My sister thought I was crazy. That feeling is mutual. But in one of those rare moments of chumminess, I confided in her. Dangerous, but then I always was the daring sort. Plucky, don't you know?

It was rather simple. My parents wanted to bond (as opposed to Bond, which is something I want). Oh we'd bond alright. It was one of the few occasions my sister and I found ourselves on the same side, but it was for a worthy cause. We decided to start with 'doing fun things together', because dining together involved green leafy vegetables that couldn't be smuggled out to the dogs.

Hollywood would have quite the effect we desired and it would be a brilliant way to start. So on Monday, we decided to watch 'The Princess Diaries' together. On Tuesday, my sister picked 'A Cinderella Story'. Wednesday and Thursday went the same way. Friday my dad had to work late. Saturday my mum had a terrible headache. Sunday, they said, is the day of rest. Being the Conscientious Christians they are, they refused to get out of bed. I'm glad. I was running out of (barely) tolerable chick flicks. I had 'Bend it Like Beckham', 'Freaky Friday', and 'New York Minute' lined up, and was beginning to wonder if anything could be worth 'I love Lucy' reruns!

We started 'picking up' after ourselves as well. In a moment of good will, I decided to pick up after my dad too. That's how his morning papers got mixed up with the Recyclables. Do you know how annoying it is when your mum goes into your room with The Feather Duster and cleans it up for you? You can't find anything anymore and the positive energy of the place gets disturbed. I call it Feng Shui. My mother calls it mess. I don't need to 'pick up after myself'. God never did anything about his cosmic dust. It's the generation gap, I think.

This "Let's do it together" drive fizzled out after one of our father-daughter outings landed my dad at a rock show.
Now my father is a brave man. He's climbed mountains, fought bears, and he's even killed a cockroach. No matter how vehemently my mother denies it, there was a cockroach in my house. Though if you plan to lead a long, happy and healthy life, I suggest you never bring the topic up. One of my friends wanted to start a cockroach farm ('Cockroach Clusters' says it all) and thought my house was an excellent place to start breeding them, but that's another story. He's now in hospital, with a few broken bones and a bundle of ominous threats to keep him company. My mother specializes in ominous threats. And broken bones. Oh yes, my father is brave. But the rock show left him a broken man. A rousing rendition of 'PINK is the colour of passion' was all it took.

My mother was harder to convince, since we actually have a few things in common. Shopping. She's a compulsive shopper, while I'm an impulsive shopper. That doesn't necessarily mean that her credit cards are safer with me. It only took a few shopping trips for her to realise that she really didn't mind me hanging out with the other scruffy mall rats as much as she thought she did. Enlightenment.

The problem with parents, is that they soon turn into groan ups. They might have been fun back in the days of yore, but parenthood brings along with it a certain type of amnesia. Oh if only I had a penny for all the times I'm certain my mother said "I'll never be like my parents", I'd be able to buy myself a new pair of Jimmy Choos. And then some. Parenthood is convenient. Growing up isn't, as I found out not so long ago. Because when it comes to responsibilities, I'm always "Old enough to handle them on my own", but if I want to do something fun, it's "Not as long as you live under my roof, young lady."
There's no justice in this world, I tell you.

Coming back to the narrative. Our plan worked great - our parents left us alone (just say "Aerosmith" and watch the haunted look spring into my dad's eyes). The Family was back to normal, a relatively peaceful state, as opposed to Normal, which is most tiresome and quite unattainable.

George Burns once said "Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city".

He has a point, you know.

Pie in the Sky

2009-04-17T08:11:00.008+05:30

I just took an 'all expenses paid' trip to Calcutta. By this, I mean I paid all the expenses myself. Now I'm just a student and not exactly working, so this little holiday hit me hard. My wallet looks a bit anorexic, that little lump under my mattress has long since disappeared and the sea(sick) green porcelain jar that my Aunt Mabel gifted me, hidden behind my wardrobe, doesn't clink anymore when I move it.
In other words, like Lucy Locket, I'm stony broke.

This normally wouldn't be anything to have kittens over because my parents being the nice considerate people they are, feed me, clothe me, and pay for my internet and phone bills. But I could hardly ask them to buy their own 22nd wedding anniversary gift now, could I?
Especially since that was exactly what my baby sister would be doing. The Minx in all her demonic innocence can get away with it. I can't.

The Minx: Mom, can I have [insert adorable amount] to buy you an [insert adorable gift] for your anniversary, please? [insert adorable expression]
The [duped] Mother: Oh aren't you a thoughtful little darling? Of course you can, angel.

I have just two options. Go through the pockets of everybody's clothes in the house or (shudder) work for it.
After a couple of hours though, I have to accept defeat. I think it really unfair that my family chooses to be so meticulous over things like emptying their pockets, but so lackadaisical when it comes to emptying the trash bins. The sofa cushions have nothing to offer either.

I suppose I could work for it. Being a writer is nothing like being a pilot, but with the recession reigning in all it's glory....
I thought of positioning myself on a busy city pavement in the hope that I would be able to save an eccentric old spinster from being jostled off and run over- but those hopes of mine refused to roll out of bed, citing a justified fear of heights. My eccentric old spinster would probably only remember me in her Will with her family heirlooms in mind five years into the future one stormy night, and that would hardly help me with my parents anniversary, which is a week away.

I can imagine it perfectly. The lightning bolts slice through the air, outstripping their thunderbolt cousins easily, laughing at their futile efforts to keep up. The great trees struggle valiantly against vicious winds that demand utter submission threatening to uproot them as they do lesser foliage. The rain comes down in torrents, driving the moon back into the clouds and I sit by the fireside with a steaming hot mug of cocoa writing letters.
Somebody beats a frantic tattoo at the door. It is mysteriously cut off. I run to aforementioned structure and open it on instinct, stepping aside immediately to avoid being hit by the body that falls to the floor. It is a man named Boris, stabbed in the back. I drag him to my couch. He tells me that the old lady, a Russian countess in exile, has remembered me in her Will. He tells me of the cursed ruby necklace, his breath growing shallower with each moment that passes. He warns me of danger, but a racking cough makes the words hard to decipher. A piece of paper covered in blood slips out from his pocket and flutters to the floor. And in my living room, dies Boris of the Bloody Handprint Brotherhood.

But that would be a story for another post, another day. Back to my parents anniversary. I forgot my mother's birthday last year and the memory of being passed over when it came to dessert -for a week- is one that is still fresh. So you can see why this is so important. It's the sort of torture that can only be lived through once. Kittens? Heck, I'm having tiger cubs. It's going to be apple-pie next week.
I think I'll bake them a cake. I love baking and they love cake. It would make everybody happy and suit my wallet perfectly.
Oh glorioski. There's pie in my sky. And cake, too.

In Which The Early Bird Gets The Squirms

2009-04-03T21:18:00.008+05:30

Warning: This post contains language some people might find disturbing and/or offensive. Readers are therefore requested to exercise their judgement and proceed with caution.

The language of love has very many dialects. Some are of the forbidden sort, the likes of which Pixie Dust shall never carry.
No, I do not refer to raunch and lewdness. Some words need to be criminalised, these merit a beheading. These are words that terrify even the hardiest (or especially the hardiest) of men. Loathsome words, like 'diddledums' and 'cweampuff'.
Love has a language of it's own, and Baby Talk is it's most revolting dialect. An observation made only after a break up, true, but a valid one nevertheless.

There is nothing that can make you feel as queasy as being confronted with old love letters conducted entirely in baby-talk, first thing in the morning.

And there is nothing as depressing as realising that while you can delete the offending emails at your end, they're probably still alive and frolicking at the other.

I heartily endorse methods used in Ye Brayke Upse of Olde, when at the dissolution of the relationship, one was expected to return all love letters, lockets of hair, framed photographs and perfumed white lace handkerchiefs to the rightful (and mortified) owner. Now I don't really care about the lockets of hair and there is no dearth of white lace around here, but those squeamish words will never fade, not as long as the hard copies live.

It's tremendously frustrating, for none of my friends who possess the necessary skills are willing to help me- and I'm positive it's against the Hackers Code to refuse to undertake a mission. It's an oxymoron of sorts. A principled hacker, a warm hearted murderer, a charitable thief.
And don't you drag Robin Hood into this. He ran no risk of the sweet nothings he whispered into Maid Marian's ear ever coming to light, I'm sure. The Merry Men would never have followed a man whose vocabulary they suspected included terms like 'Honey-pye' 'Sugar-cayke' 'Tryckle-tarte' and other such confectioneries. You can see why they are referred to as sweet nothings, though. They are so sickeningly sweet, that ~~single~~ sensible people want nothing to do with them.

Those letters have been weighing on my mind like sumo wrestlers in training and I live in constant fear of them coming to light once I'm famous, a day for which all moments of indiscretion wait with unholy eagerness. I have no wish to go down in history as the woman who eroded the word 'Honeylamb' (which incidentally, is the speciality of the Chinese restaurant down the road) into nothingness.

Love affairs back in Ye Days of Olde were such straightforward things, weren't they? If the man you were betrothed to in your infancy turned out to be incapable of writing you soppy love poems -oh the horror- and hadn't the sense to hire someone to do it for him, you had a splendidly obliging and fearless knight to (honourably) knock him off his horse before (gallantly) sweeping you off your feet. Assuming you weren't a feminist extremist/born into a tragedy, which was all the vogue back then. The latter, not the former.
I reach out to Guinevere who upon learning that she was being bundled off to Arthur asked these poignant questions;

"Shan't I have the normal life a maiden should?
Shall two knights never tilt for me, and let their blood be spilt for me?
Shall I not be on a pedestal, worshipped and competed for?
Not be carried off -or better still- cause a little war?
Shall a feud not begin for me?
Shall kith not kill their kin for me?
Where's the knight pining so for me
He leaps to death in woe for me?
Oh where are the trivial, harmless, convivial joys of maidenhood?"

Where are the simple joys of maidenhood? I ask you! Women had it much easier back then- as far as love and romance went. True, they couldn't vote. But democracy hadn't been installed yet, so it didn't make any difference. Besides, love and romance was what life was all about.

That Queen, unlike this Princess, had sense enough not to stoop to 'Sugare Lumpe' or 'Plum Puddyng', though.
Or 'Chocolayte Puddyng' or 'Krysmys Puddyng' for that matter- we would have heard about it, if she had. Perhaps she dabbled in 'Roaste Boars' and 'Wylde Pygs', but those sound manlier and a lot more accurate.

Aside: It's impossible to fall into genuine archaic speech without bringing Love into it. You can pepper your conversation with Thee's and Thou's, you can prefix your sentences with 'in sooth' and 'verily', and suffix them with 'in accordance with the ancient prophecy' but your mediaeval accent will never be considered authentic unless you've invoked the spirit of Love and called for the essence of Life a few hundred times.

Alas and alack! The folly of youth. Wisdom wherefore didst thou abandon me in mine hour of need? Were thee not aware of mine plight? That Love hath laid claim to mine soul and sensibility was secret to none (and likely amusement to all). I implore thee, that thou shalt never again abandon me to her clutches. Perchance thou knoweth of a way to rid this loveforsaken world of those unwholesome, nay, abominable utterances? Or doest thou wish me to call upon Amnesia to minister to my wounds with her bidirectional mindwipe? Verily, I say to thee; with thy negligence thou hast inflicted so grievous a welt, that a mere mortal such as myself can scarce hope to recover. For how dost one quell the dishonour 'pwitty-pwincess' brings with it in retrospect? Horror of horrors!

You think I exaggerate my woes? Well, have you ever conducted one hour long phone conversations in which the letter R was permanently retired, allowing the letter W to take over? I've always prided myself upon my ability to converse with babies and puppies normally, without switching to sing-song infantile speech, but it's a talent that doesn't seem to extend to certain men.

Sigh. If you happen to know of an unscrupulous hacker, send him/her my way, won't you?
(Snugglebunny? Pumpkinpie?! What was I thinking?!)

Disclaimer: All the person in this post and I have in common is the fact that we have both, on occasion, rid ourselves of the letter R to make place for W. That's all. Nothing else. Magnification is a perk when you're a part of the Wordsmith's Guild. I've never been horrid -or soppy- enough to label someone my 'hunnybunny' or 'sugarcake' or 'creampuff'. Ugh.

Ragtime

2009-03-16T00:41:00.022+05:30

I apologise for the string of romantically inclined posts. One has (in response to various protests in the form of smses, blog posts* and emails) magnanimously decided to provide relief in the form of a set of tags that go halfway to Nowhere, before turning left at Nothing.
The title I'm afraid, is misleading. It's Tagtime we're now at.
*I hesitate to link you to the post in question, for I am referred to as a 'little heartbroken puppy'. I mean, really. What's wrong with kitten? But the fifth comment in the comment section more than makes up for it, so there you go. :P

How did it all begin?
I've been spring-cleaning draft boxes all week and was only a few minutes into the one over at Blogger before the deplorable state of affairs sat up, wagged it's tail and begged notice. My draft box has been playing hostess to a (shocking) number of long overdue tags, the taggers of whom I have no recollection; though I can safely put most of them down under Amey and Priya Iyer.
I cleverly (Modesty called in sick) thought of lumping them all together in one post breaking the monotony of love and romance that seems to have set the mood for this blog while ridding both my draft box and Writer's Conscience of them at the same time. Yes, the Board issues all its members a Writer's Conscience once they've earned their Wordsmith's License. I do not condone pelting birds (or anything that isn't the Trevi Fountain), but I seem to have done just that with this post. I warn you though, that unless you're hell bent upon knowing more about the blogger which is what most tags are about, you're going to find it deadly dull.
But do leave me a comment before you ~~flee~~ go- I love them ever so much.

Being kind, considerate and lazy, one has decided to do this in parts.
So. In this one, we address the 5 times 5 Tag, and The Picture Tag.

5 things you would find in my room.

a) A life sized teddy bear, christened Diggory by my Harry-Potter's-Number-One-fan(atical) sister, without my permission. Unfortunately, the name has stuck. It refuses to budge and despite the many 'middle names' I've bestowed upon him, Diggory he's remained.
b) An oriental dagger encased within an intricately carved wooden sheath. I tried sleeping with it under my pillow for a week, but some things make more sense and feel more comfortable in super spy novels.
c) The Royal Throne, in it's latest incarnation; a newly stuffed beanbag.
d) My Alice blue hairbrush that's currently valued the moon, and a portion of Venus (the recession being what it is).
e) My bag.

5 things you would find in my bag.

This was slightly tricky. Which bag? Well, at any given time, my handbag carries;
a) A mirror. It doesn't talk or show me (misleading) snippets of the future, but is an indispensable companion all the same.
b) A notepad which often serves as a sketch pad, accompanied by a black ink pen or pencil.
c) My cell phone, which has never failed to let me down in my hour of need, and has put me through enough that I've almost decided to make up my mind to replace it.
d) A novel, currently the Andromeda Strain.
e) My wallet.

And 5 things you would find in my wallet.

a) A picture of someone special who no doubt is wondering just how I managed to get hold of it and is trying to tell himself with little success that he isn't the one in question. :P
b) The key to my heart, which is where the home is. Which is to say, my house key.
c) My college id card.
d) A ring of certain significance which comes complete with a mysterious and romantic past. It tells a tale of passion and a tale of woe. But then, which self respecting ring doesn't?
e) Money. That always manages to be enough, but only just.

One more to go.

The Picture Tag
The picture tag requires one to do a google image search using one's answers as keywords. One is then expected to pick a picture from the first page that best expresses the answer and put them up. This tag was put together a year ago, so some of these pictures have moved off the first page. Here we go.

1) The age I will be on my next birthday.
I''m going to be putting two and two together.

2) A place I'd like to travel to.
Easy as pie- Africa. Head hunters, witch doctors, skull caves, crocodile-tooth necklaces, voodoo dolls, wooden masks and the Phantom! What’s not to crave? :P No, I am seldom serious.

3) My favourite place.
Under a leafy shady tree. Any tree will do.

4) My favourite food and drink.
Oh now this is a tough one. Chaat and Maaza- my staple. But the fruit terrine looks so delicious, I had to stick it in here. Meet tomorrow’s dessert.

5) My favourite pet.
I refuse to have favourites, but putting up the results for Brandywine, Miranda, Scampydoodle, Scamper, Max, Pongo, Jenny, Benny, Punch, Judy, Betsy and all the rest would be a bit much. So I give you the first three. Or rather, their namesakes. Brandy, Scamp and Mandy.

6) My favourite colour combination.
Blue and white. Most of my clothes are blue and white, followed closely by purple and black. Two combinations which make up 90% of my wardrobe.

7) My favourite piece of clothing.
Answering this one isn’t any easier. Perhaps my white Romanian gown. It's the loveliest thing in the world.

8) My all-time favourite song.
Honestly. This tag is impossible. I pick the Dolannes Melody. There. Surrender your soul.

9) My Favourite TV Show.
The only show I've ever followed- Roswell.

10) Full name of my significant other.
Prince Charming.

11) The town in which I live.
Elysium.

12) My nickname.
Princess.

13) My first job.
Writer. I’m tempted to say ‘martyr’, but that’s more in the way of being my current designation.

14) My Dream Job.
Singing with the Celtic Woman. Preferably at the Slane Castle, Ireland, in a deep red gown.

15) My worst fear.
Going to Hell. Really. In Heaven, you get to wear wedding gowns every day. In Hell, you're forced to wear spangly red catsuits and work out on the treadmill for an hour every morning.
- shudders ostentatiously. At the treadmill, not catsuit-

16) My worst flaw.
Hmm. An ill-timed flair for drama. It’s frustrating. I don’t really have anything against drama- it can be fun. But it’s terrible, trying to be serious and sounding dramatic instead. It’s unfair. I can’t help leading a soap opera life, can I? So I give you my worst flaw - being a Drama Queen. But it's unintentional!

17) What I would do with a billion dollars?
Buy a chocolate cake, of course.

18) Something I wish to do before I die.
I don't understand this, but – there you go. Probably the result of having a multitude of nieces, nephews and baby cousins thrust upon me. I’m too young to have maternal instincts of my own. Something must have rubbed off. Residual effects, yes that's it....

The End. Whew!

Grapes of Wrath

2009-03-03T03:27:00.010+05:30

Warning: Contains Elements of Violence. Parental Guidance Therefore Discouraged.
As my previous post stated, I broke my own heart. But I did not do so unaided.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and the last month has brought to my attention the limitations of the English language- calling someone a heartless hateful hurtful beastly boorish barbaric brute can be immensely satisfying the first few hundred times, but it loses its bite soon after.
Added to which, there are only so many times one is allowed to repeat oneself while describing somebody before the Board feels compelled to step in and threaten one with the suspension of one's Wordsmith License.
Adjectives, they believe, abound aplenty with enthusiastic availability, and if one were only to lower one's pride for a moment and pick up a Thesaurus, one might just discover that one has not exhausted all possibilities as one appears to think, that there are more than 182 applicable adjectives in existence and that one can comfortably employ them to describe the individual in question.
Tsk. Well, I don't need a thesaurus to know that none of those words would feel right. They don't look right, they don't sound right- they just don't fit.
One is also -they think- perilously close to wearing out the words one uses to describe one's turbulent feelings. But then, there are only so many phrases that indicate profound sorrow and unappeasable fury, and not one that manages to convey both at the same time.

Thankfully, English is a creature of versatility; I'm able to invent words that appease all senses quite satisfactorily. My sense of violence, sense of drama, sense of... sight, sound etc. Which is to say, the words look right, sound appropriate and feel more than adequate; my Wordsmith License has not been revoked.
On the contrary, I hear that The League of Lover's Scorned has plans to include my terms of exdearments in the next edition of the Poxford Inflictionary. It will be published with a detailed pronunciation guide, for some words don't sound half as furious if you don't roll the R's or as sharp if you don't bite off the T's.
(I did wonder if he would rather I just swore, and described him in a few impersonal lines that apply to most of malekind and have been used by most women at least twice in their lifetime, but I decided to show him I really cared by expressing myself more thoroughly in those fiery conversations- I'm thoughtful that way).

The Writer's Board wasn't the only entity that objected to my wrath. The Gmail Team asked me to turn the vehemence down, pointing out to me that their network wasn't fire proof. They also cautioned me that their emails weren't equipped to handle the levels of acidic content my words held, but they needn't have. Fury is draining and telling him exactly what I thought of him soon subdued the volcano within. Though I wouldn't be surprised if the poor chap's inbox was in flames once I was done.
Unfortunately, the internet is the only medium available for he's left the continent. I would like to say he 'fled' the continent, but honesty compels me to admit that he was leaving anyway. I can take credit for the (Beaufort-scale grade 10) sigh of relief, though.

(Incidentally, I've mastered them. Useful things, sighs. They come in all shapes and emotions. Sighs of relief and sighs of contentment, sighs conveying disappointment and sighs of longing. Sighs of resignation, sighs of tiredness... and sighs rated PG13.
Well, I've mastered some more than others. There are some things family friendly blogs do not carry and while I'm not sure how many friendly families I have reading my posts, my mother is in full possession of my url. So we shall pass over those sighs discreetly. And over various incidents involving mistletoe. That thing hanging above my door? It's a Nargle detector, honest).

Postal letters aren't as effective and phone calls never work. The sound of his voice, I've discovered in the past, diffuses my temper very inconveniently. It has never failed to do so and I've learnt that if I have a bone to pick with him, the telephone is an extremely unhelpful instrument. Though that is neither here nor in Timbuktu (no, he isn't in Timbuktu).

But there is a positive side to everything and some good did come of this unfortunate love affair. It gave rise to a desperate need to update The Royal Torture Chamber.

Now I'm sure he'd be the first to tell you that I don't need a torture chamber to flay a soul within an inch of his life -for indeed, most of my inmates are likely to be male- but all the same, I'm getting the blueprints sorted out. For if ever I were to do the place justice, it would be in my current hell-hath-no-fury mood.
And 'hell' says it all. I plan to model the first level after Hades, looking to Dante's Divine Comedy for guidance. It shall come complete with hyperactive grapes, levitating swords and mouldy boulders.
Thumbscrews, hooks and racks are messy, unimaginative and hard to procure. And so for the second level, I plan to have a shopping mall installed, done in various shades of pink. The customary sewer rats shall be replaced with their doubly horrendous cousins, the mall rats. The offenders in question would be required to spend six hours every day waiting outside the catsuit trial room thinking up convincing replies to the inevitable 'does this dress make me look ...'
Oh I can hear the cries of anguish already.

Actually, I think this merits a post of its own. Some women pine away, some prefer to call upon Nemesis. Not many are fortunate enough to have a Torture Chamber of their own and I plan to spend the next few days perfecting mine. Yes, I am a cold, cruel, callous, calculating woman. But a confused one, to boot.
Can you love someone you want dead? Apparently.
Can you daydream about strangling somebody you love with all your heart? Evidently.
Can you actually strangle... sigh. I wish I could find out. I don't mind if I could, I really don't.

10th March '09
Note: I apologise to the various commenters whose observations I've had to delete. I appreciate the words of encouragement, am grateful for the empathy expressed, and agree with (most of) you wholeheartedly, but I'm the only one who is allowed to pelt him with nasty words.

Life is a Vineyard

2009-02-14T09:41:00.012+05:30

Valentine's Day is upon us, and the jaded young woman heading towards spinsterhood is not entirely sure whether she wishes to celebrate her freedom, or go into mourning. She is keenly aware that the former would be a case of Sour Grapes, but still; she declares that she does not believe in Valentine's Day. 'It's a commercial thingummybob', she firmly maintains. 'A marketing gimmick. An excuse for chocolate. A reason for pink'. And don't sour grapes make the best wine?

A friend protested, pointing out to me the inconsistency of the feelings expressed. 'These are not sentiments that can fall easily into place besides Pixie Dust's previous post', he said, surprised.

Well, I'd like to point out that the post in question was written two months ago. I managed, in those two months, to break my own heart with ease and thoroughness that leaves one awed.
How did I do that? Take a bit of this and add it to a lot of that. Simmer for two years while stirring continuously, bring to boil and BANG! A recipe for deep-seated, prolonged, poignant heartbreak.

Suddenly, I feel wiser. Older, harder and wiser. Disillusioned, but enlightened. Have you noticed how most people in love think themselves authorities on the subject? Have you noticed how most people with broken hearts are convinced that they hold all the secrets of the universe?
Since I have the necessary qualifications, I've been granted access to that highly coveted window of insight, and I'm utterly flummoxed to find that all the universe has to tell me is what I've been saying all along; Loving someone is its own reward.

Well! I can die happy, for I go to the grave knowing that I have experienced what many people do not; true love. Real love, pure love. Rich love. 100% natural, no added colour or artificial flavouring- but no. That would be bottled mango juice.

This doesn't mean I'm likely to sail through the 14th with anything approaching grace and dignity. Three years ago, a few of us old maids, (a year short of two decades), decided to celebrate the freedom Singlehood had so thoughtfully bestowed upon us by going on a (what else?) mega shopping spree. It didn't quite have the expected therapeutic effect though, for all our favourite haunts were decked out in depressing, gloomy colours that did nothing to boost our spirits; pink, red and white. Gory and disturbing depictions of innocent couples slaving away under the tyrannical rule of Cupid were plastered everywhere. Cloying ballads rent the air with their torturous wails and powerless teddy bears held in captivity laboured under onerous messages forced upon them. It was, to be frank, a disaster of nightmarish proportions.

Being single on Valentine's Day doesn't do much for your sense of perspective or your levels of tolerance, I've noticed. It's definitely not something I'd recommend any woman between ages 18 and 29 attempting, not unless she's armed with a two pound box of cherry chocolate liqueurs to see her through the day. Come to think of it, Valentine's Day doesn't do much for the single woman's waistline either.

I wish they'd put the 29th back in and take the 14th out. The year would still have it's 365 days and bachelorettes world over would be spared.
Sour grapes aside, I don't think I would really mind if the day was to waltz off my calender altogether- which is an odd thing to say, considering that I've always thought it to be one of the nicest days of the year. But Valentine's Day (like Lord of the Rings once was), is perilously close to losing it's charm by the awful way it's being commercialised. It's becoming more about reservations at voguish hotels and boxes of over-priced chocolate, and less about romance and love. It's swinging away from affection and is moving towards affectedness- and that's just horrid! Love is worth so much more than a cut glass bottle of designer fragrance (this doesn't mean I wouldn't accept a bottle of Dior's Poison with anything short of rapture).
I think that dinner at the Taj could never be as special as a home cooked meal; though that could be because the last three men I've dated have been cordon-bleu-type-chefs.
Hmm. I hope it's a coincidence- or I might accidentally spawn a line of 'Love me for myself and not my toque' T-shirts. Or aprons, in this case.

Have you noticed how flowers smell so much nicer in books?
Gifting someone a bouquet of red roses might be high up on the list of romantic gestures, but as symbols of love go, floral arrangements don't do much.
I've noticed that a lot of love poems start out with "My love for you is like this Rose" and I've seen even more cards titled thus.
Roses don't last very long, do they? And once they lose their beauty, you trash them. To quote something I stumbled across on a popular website, it's like saying 'my love for you is transitory, and based solely upon your appearance'.
Is your love really like a rose? Are you really drawing the right parallel? Think again, do.
Why don't you try potatoes, instead? Potatoes last forever. If you leave a rose alone, it rots. If you leave a potato alone, it grows- by itself. And no matter how misshapen the spud may be, everybody loves potatoes. And people always will. Now if that's not a brilliant way to symbolize eternal love, I don't know what is.
Note: Before you try this out make sure that;
a) Your girlfriend has a sense of humour.
b) You're wearing your Kevlar vest.
c) You've taken out a life insurance policy.
d) You've seen to your last will and testament.

Perhaps I can say that I'm not celebrating Valentine's Day because I'm protesting against the price tag tacked onto Love. It wouldn't fool anyone, but it's much nicer than having 'Cry Me A River' on repeat, isn't it?

And there's always next year; singlehood and spinsterhood aren't synonyms.

Of Love and Life

2008-12-12T20:02:00.008+05:30

Pixie Dust is going to be fairly dusty the next month and a half. Which is to say, this blog is going to lie dormant until some time mid February. The reasons are too dull to list out, and too convoluted to explain. But I'll be back. :)
Huggs and Sunshine,
Princess Stefania

Tagged by Amey. This one was tricky. In turn, I tag the first six people to read this post.

If your lover betrayed you, what would your reaction be?
Ultimately? Forgiveness.
But right now?
-sharpens claws-

If you can make a dream come true, what would it be?
Brilliant.

What do you do when your love is unrequited ?
Write poems about it.

What would you do if you had a billion dollars?
Educate the world about the importance of metre and rhyme, eradicate poverty and buy a chocolate truffle cake.

Would you ever fall in love with your best friend?
Cupid never asks before he strikes, does he?

Which is more blessed, loving someone or being loved by someone?
A lifetime loved is a lifetime blessed, but a lifetime spent loving, is a life complete.

How long do you intend to wait for someone you really love?
As long as I have to.

If the person you secretly like is already attached, what would you do?
Write more poems about it.

What captures your heart the quickest?
Chivalry.

What would you be, ten years from now?
31.
Ye gods and little fishes, now that's a dreadful thought.

What do you fear?
My sister's cooking. And her wrath. So hush.

What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?
Bartimaeus in disguise.

What's the first thing you do when you wake up?
Burrow further into my quilts, and go back to sleep.

Would you give all in a relationship?
Are we including my billion dollars here?

If you love two people simultaneously, who would you pick?
What really galls, is that I wouldn't have to. They're both taken.
I lead a very complicated life.

Would you forgive and forget, no matter how horrible a thing that special someone has done?
Scroll up to Point 1.
-files teeth into sharp points-

If you get to go back in time and fall in love all over again, would it still be with the same person?
:)

Princes, Princesses and Time Travel Paradoxes

2008-11-01T17:36:00.002+05:30

(A sequel to Princes, Princesses and Parallel Dimensions.)

I'd like to think I've always been a level headed soul,
A woman rich in sense and wit, who's always in control.

A pillar of unbending strength, a girl whose heart and head,

Have always been two different things, not muddled up instead.

"So how on earth," you ask of me "Did you turn out this way?"

"I've never known a creature to be so in disarray.

You laugh, you cry, you fret, you fume, without apparent cause,
Your volcanic impressions deserve two rounds of applause".

I wish I had an answer that would sound more dignified,
A reason not as silly, that would soothe my ruffled pride.
For though I think it natural, my 'pinion well could be,
Quite biased -long past hope and help- for I'm in love, you see.

He has my heart which ought to make it easy for my mind
To rule in peace but thinking clear is twice as hard, I find.
But that's not what has really got me in this awful mess,
For life is seldom straightforward, and love? But I digress.

He's pledged himself to someone else, and this should make it clear,
That if I had an ounce of sense, I wouldn't linger here.
But loving to the point of madness, thus which madness be,
The only way to love and live (well, that made sense to me).

I wish I had a time machine to take me back two years,
If I can get the worldlines right, then he'll be mine, not hers.
Technology though, has not gone that far, or so they've said.
Perhaps I'll hitch a ride upon a tachyon instead.

I'd race against the speed of light, I'd get there well in time,
I'd change things 'bout so I would never need to write this rhyme.
But if indeed I do succeed (or so that would imply)
I wouldn't have to go back and so needn't ever try.

Yet if I didn't try to make things right, they'd still be wrong ,

And I'd still have to scurry back (as I'd planned all along)

But once we are together, as I'll make sure that we'll be,
I'd never need to make that trip, 'cause he'd be here with me.

There might be other ways I s'pose, to free me from this trouble,
I could, perhaps, create a clone and leave her with his double.
For I know I'm his sweetheart, as he's mine and so I'll wait
Until my Prince makes up his mind and so resolves my fate.

I dedicate this poem to Shiny Butterknife, for being a wonderful friend and bearing the full brunt of aforementioned volcanic eruptions, hurricane impressions and thunderstorm impersonations unflinchingly.

Homo Sapient?

2008-10-04T00:00:00.009+05:30

Today I saw a little girl in skirts of polka dots,

No different from our leopard here- if Leo had pink spots.
And since I had naught else to do, I pondered for a while,
Upon peculiarities that seem the human style.

You humans are a funny lot, especially at the zoo,
You tremble so when tigers yawn, yet smile when kittens do.
You make fun of the poor baboon and his red derrière,
When yours is just plain awful as it's quite devoid of hair.

When grizzly bears have aching heads, you think their roars are fierce.
You use it as a metaphor... you think there's nothing worse?
You should have been around my mum when her banana split
Was stolen by the chimp next door (he's now a wiser git).

I've watched you do the foxtrot and you make it seem a dance,
I've seen them creep, I've seen them slink, but never seen them prance.
Your actions are oft puzzling, you have the strangest views,
You run away from rats and skunks yet seem to like Tom Cruise.*

You pride yourselves on being the most astute species about,
But Hollywood and MTV put that in serious doubt.
Reality-type-TV shows- now they must be destroyed!
I've seen them kill braincells faster than Beta Amyloid.

I knew all hope was lost when Eragon began to thrive,
From what, then, if not 'sapiens', does 'sapient' derive?
If Darwin is to be believed, you humans (no offence)
Are just advanced versions of us, and that makes little sense.

My cage is not quite cosy yet I'm loth to be set free,
Into a world where P.C.'s long since passed absurdity,
To think that you've banned Santa Claus from saying "Ho Ho Ho"
What will you creatures think of next? I hope to never know.

*Apologies to Tom Cruise. Minority Report was nice, but I'm on Psychiatry's side.

Strength in Elysium

2008-06-09T23:55:00.005+05:30

Lost and Lonely girl, is this your journey's end?
The path you're on was long, you never need pretend
You've no cause now to stay, you have but naught to lose,
There's nothing left behind, but which road will you choose?

You loved them did you not? The feeling still runs deep.
But when you've finally left, you'll have no cause to weep
Still look within yourself, does what you seek exist?
Or do you live a dream? Whose call you can't resist...

Perhaps there's still yet time, perhaps it isn't late,
There might still be for you, a more deserving fate
How did you face the world, alone and last so long?
They've often thought you weak, but I say you were strong.

Lost and lonely girl, the peace you crave is near
And soon you'll rest you heart, but not within this sphere
Delve deep into yourself, you'll find your journey's rest
A world save few do know, a world that's loved and blessed.

There was nothing back here, and now you've realized
That what you thought was real, was what you'd fantasized
Elysium is close, the torment now has ceased
Your turn has come at last, your spirit is appeased

And even though you think you lived your life in vain
You did what most could not, you gladly bore their pain
You gave your life in hope, but listened to your heart
You knew that you had lost, you knew it from the start.

The answer to questions Endless Night never asked.

Just One?!

2008-02-07T23:53:00.002+05:30

Tagged by Kyra over at Smoke and Mirrors. The book tag was extremely difficult. I've tried to make my list as different from hers as possible. I haven't mentioned Enid Blyton because I could never choose just one of her books. I've read all of her creations, very many times and she's an author no one can ever hope to touch. For those reasons, I haven't mentioned Charles Hamilton of the Billy Bunter series and P.G. Wodehouse.

A book that made you laugh:
Reaper Man- Terry Pratchett
It's all about death. And not morbid. Humourous Fantasy.

A book that made you cry:
The Love Story- Erich Segal
Unbearable in it's beauty. Not the sort of book I generally read, though.

A book that scared you:
Endless Night- Agatha Christie
It disturbs me as much each time I read it.

A book that disgusted you:
Eragon. By Paolini.
And the only Danielle Steele/Jackie Collins I've ever read.

A book you loved in elementary school:
The Secret Garden- Frances Hogdson Burnett
I read The Lost Prince much later. Charm that the authors of these times fail to capture.

A book you loved in middle/junior high school:
Mirror Dreams, Mirror Wakes- Catherine Webb
Fantasy. Uniquely appealing.

A book you loved in high school:
Expecting someone taller- Tom Holt
Humourous fantasy, brilliantly written.

A book you loved in college:
Wheel of Time- Robert Jordan
High Epic Fantasy, a series of thirteen. Not to be ventured into lightly.
When I read the Wheel of Time, the rest of the world seems misty and crude.

A book that challenged your identity:
Kirith Kirin. Dark fantasy.
No comment.

A series that you love:
The Belgariad- David Eddings
Fantasy again, a series of five. I feel like I've shut away an important part of my life, every time I put the last book down

Your favourite horror book:
Almanac of the Uncanny- Readers Digest
Not to be browsed through at night. Which is of course when I inadvertently pick it up.

Your favourite science fiction book:
Timeline- Michael Crichton
It's as hard finding a favourite science fiction book, as it is finding a favourite fantasy book. Timeline is one of the few books I've come across that actually portrays the Mediaeval period as it was.

Your favourite fantasy:
Lord of the Rings- Tolkien
A book that needs no introduction.
As much as I like Orlando Bloom, and while I admit Peter Jackson and Howard Shore did a remarkable job, I wish it had never been turned into a movie. A masterpiece near ruined by the way it was commercialized.

Your favourite mystery:
Death on the Nile- Agatha Christie
Agatha Christie's magic lies in the characters she creates.

Your favourite biography:
While I've never actually read a biography, I'm extremely fond of this clerihew.
[clerihew: a two couplet satirical biographical verse]

George the Third
Ought never have occurred
One can only wonder
At so grotesque a blunder.

Your favourite "coming of age" book:
She- Rider Haggard
I'm not quite sure what would count as 'coming of age' But I liked the book a lot, so I'm sticking it in here.

Your favourite classic:
Little Women - Louisa May Alcott

Your favourite romance book:
Gone with the Wind- Margaret Mitchell

Note: This was a tag. Not a request for a literary masterpiece. I stand by the excuse most firmly.
In turn, I tag Amey and Priya, book lovers like myself. Just Me, for the interesting list she's sure to have, and anyone else who'd like to give it a try.

Acknowledgements- The Great Bloggers

2008-01-24T11:52:00.007+05:30

This month marks the first anniversary of Pixie Dust. A birthday post is customary, but I'm going to skip the grandiloquent observations, and get straight to the Oscarian thankyouses. A great big thank you to the most splendiferous blogger of them all, witnwisdumb. The genius who created Pixie Dust, the mastermind behind blogchaat and a wonderful friend- the kind you read about in books but never believed existed.
A thank you just as big to Shiny Butterknife, who ran me through every emotion possible, thus making Pixie Dust an even, well rounded and fully developed blog. He made me laugh, he made me cross, he made me happy, he made me mad, and he introduced some really alien words and phrases into my vocabulary. Some best not used at the dining table, which of course is when they usually surface.I'm most grateful to my fellow bloggers- Amey and Priya. They never let Pixie Dust stay dormant for more than a few weeks. And because of their encouragement, pointed comments and sneezes (yes, I said sneezes) I promise to be a more active blogger this year.
I've met a lot of interesting people in my life, but Kyra and Moonshadow are unique. If I were to step through my mirror tonight and find myself suspended in a land of perpetual twilight, ruled by powerful sorcerers and fearsome dragons, I know I'd meet them there.

Priya Iyer, Rusty Neurons and Just Me, for their inspiring posts. Gorrilla Bananas for leaving me my first comment, ever. Farcenal, for the invigorating experience of being flamed. No, he didn't do anything, but it was over at his blog. The evidence has been deleted, unfortunately.

I must thank Christopher Paolini. This post about his terrible plagiarizing is largely responsible for the impressive number my stat counter displays.
And finally, the spamments. I do love it ever so much, when people say nice things about my blog. Even when the compliments are automatically generated.

The Fourth Magi

2007-12-21T02:51:00.000+05:30

Oh little children as you place the star upon your tree,
Remember why this day is spent in joy and harmony.
For very many years ago there came unto the earth,
A little babe in manger small, the reason for our mirth.

But since you know that Christmas tale, there's one yet I can tell,
Of three wise men, a story from the very first Noel.
So gather 'round the fire while I sing this song to you,
And put aside your tinsel for a minute while I do.

Three men there went in songs of old, to Bethlehem that night.
Upon their stately jewelled mounts, they were a glorious sight.
And gifts they brought to give the child, the King of Kings they said,
Of frankincense, pure gold and myrrh to place beside his bed.

But be there yet a fourth there was, though none save few do know,
A wise man who had seen the Star and also wished to go.
He sold his house and all he had to buy a lustrous pearl-
A humble gift to give a child who'd someday rule the world.

He set out on his journey with the Star to be his guide,
When he did find some people who'd been robbed and cast aside.
And though he wished to stay and help, the time he couldn't spare,
Until he heard a voice say "But you know you're needed there".

He guided them to safety and he tended to their pain,
And gave them of his own food, e'en though he had naught to gain.
And only when they'd grown to health did he move on at last,
For he could see in despair that the star was fading fast.

He hurried out into the night, he knew his path was long,
'til one day he did chance upon a sick and wretched throng.
And being a healer he knew that there was indeed a cure,
Yet they could ne'er afford it, for it's price was much too dear.

Again he heard the voice say soft "You know what you must do"
He gave the pearl, his precious gift to buy the healing brew.
He now had naught to offer up, he couldn't see the Star,
He'd lost his only chance for it had moved on, much too far.

And though he'd filled the ones he left behind with love and joy,
He cried out in despair for now he'd never find the boy.
And suddenly he heard the voice say "Dear one, you are wrong."
"Wherever goeth love do I, I've been here all along."

So little children know that when you go to bed this night,
You're not alone, you'll never be, He has you in His sight.
Though Christmas is of many things, of sparkling trees and toys,
Above all else it is of love- I wish you Christmas joys.

The Queen B.

2007-11-25T12:00:00.000+05:30

Rejoice and be glad, oh ye faithful readers. The comeliest of sites, the resplendent Queen B. has returned in all her glory. Much sorrowed were you, that narry a farewell did she depart from the Realms of Virtual Reality. But grieve no more, for I have proclamation to make. Ere the twelfth stroke of midnight be gone, our beloved blogchaat shall but again grace us all with her presence. I bid thee well my fellow bloggers, and hope to chance upon you, should fate permit, at her doorstep.

It’s almost a year since I wrote this rhyme,
And blogchaat’s a star still well in her prime.
She’s lived and she’s loved, she’s lost and she’s won,
She’s laughed and she’s cried, she’s worked and had fun.

She’s whisked us away on trips to the past,
And told us of love, so true and steadfast.
In science she tells of kissing and rain,
In history - a post on beauty (and pain).

A brush with the law, the Spirits of Night,
Philosophy put in terms of a kite.
A story so real, of sweethearts and fate,
A post that explains why we love to hate.

The woes of a writer, alas oh so true,
A sinister death, unraveled for you.
Solutions to problems dodging our State
Of childhood adventures, an author narrates.

A detailed account of one man’s close shave-
The tale of a hound, is tragic but brave-
Explosives and fruit, an eerie spectre,
There’s toilets and rats, (yes we’ve got them here).

We’ve coffee and cats, we’ve students in need
We’ve aliens and babes, we’ve bus trips and speed
What else can I say? There’s so much to write.
But this I foretell - You’ll bookmark the site.

The Animorphs

2007-11-06T19:44:00.000+05:30

Wouldn't it be lovely if you could explore the mysteries of outer space? If you could travel past the stars and learn the secrets of the universe? Would you want to take up the hunt for intelligent life? What would you do, if you found aliens, right here on Earth? What would you do if they didn't turn out to be friendly? What would you do if they were trying to take over your world?

Katherine Applegate tells the story of five young children, and a young alien prince, who are engaged in a battle against secret, hostile alien forces on our planet. Jake, Marco, Rachel, Cassie and Tobias: five ordinary children, all with one extraordinary talent, the ability to morph into any animal they come in contact with. There's a war going on in our universe, and evil is winning. When Elfangor, an Andalite Prince, crashes his spacecraft on earth, he passes on the task of fighting these Yeerks to the five children.

The Yeerks. Don't be fooled by their hapless, slug like forms. These evil creatures are parasites that, once within, can control their hosts to do their bidding. And, of late, they seem to be taking a great deal of interest in humans.

Every day is a battle won for the Animorphs, but the war never seems to end. Thanks to Cassie, whose parents are veterinarians, the children have access to very many animals. But it takes much more than the ability to morph to fight these creatures and still survive. With Jake as their leader and Ax, the young brother of Prince Elfangor, to help them, the children make their way through the series, though not without casualties along the way.

The excitement grows with each book. The dangers get more formidable, the choices are harder. Should they create more Animorphs? When members of their own families are taken over, whom can they trust? When something goes dreadfully wrong and Tobias is stuck as a red-tailed hawk, is there anyone to whom they can turn for help? What started out as an exciting adventure is now a dangerous fight for survival.

There are 54 books in the series, each told from the viewpoint of one of the Animorphs. A very interesting feature of the books is the small diagrams at the bottom right-hand corner of all the pages. These diagrams show the narrating Animorph in various stages of transformation. Thus, when you flip the book quickly from the first page to the last, you see the Animorph slowly transforming into an animal. You also learn something about each of the animals morphed, as the children struggle to overcome the animal’s natural instincts. From dolphins and gorillas, to falcons and bees, there are a multitude of animals the Animorphs use to protect Earth.

Katherine Applegate is the author of the popular Everworld series, as well. She also won the Best New Children's Book Series Award in 1997.

Just Desserts

2007-10-10T20:52:00.000+05:30

Home they brought a pizza hot;
She just moaned and heaved a sigh.
Anxiously her parents thought,
She must eat or she will die!

Then they added chilli flakes,
Mayonnaise - to heck with weight!
Heaps of french fries and milkshakes;
Yet she neither drank nor ate.

Rose her aunt, the nasty sort,
Smelled a rat (or so she said)
"Ha!" she said "Tis as I thought,
Look what I found 'neath her bed!"

"Creamy truffles steeped in rum,
Caramels and chocolate fudge.
Marzipan and bubble gum,
Strewth!No wonder she can't budge!"

Read the original poem by Tennyson here.

Wishful thinking on my part. The only bit that isn't pure imagination are the last two verses. I'd have problems picturing the first two.
Heaps of french fries... sigh.

Our Lady of the Rosary

2007-10-02T15:11:00.000+05:30

The Gentle Lady is by far

More radiant than the Morning Star

More peaceful than the Summer Breeze

That shimmers o'er Silvered Seas

Twelve stars emblazoned on her crest

In robes of blue Her form is dressed

For purest light and love she stands

The Guiding Star of Starlit Lands

She walks alone, Her head held high

Among the stars, Across the sky

She wins all hearts, yet She stays not

For to The One her plight is troth

Oh Starbound Queen, be ye my guide

And tarry ever by my side

And lead me on through dark I pray

Should to the bleak all hope give way.

Highly symbolic, I know. To clarify, the number of times I've said the rosary, like the number of times I've drunk coffee, and the number of times I've dyed my hair red, is twice.

My Little Brandy

2007-08-14T12:36:00.000+05:30

"I have a dog. Because I don't drink, I named him Brandy."

Well, two weeks ago, my dog died. It's not something I can talk about without crying, so I'm not going to talk about it at all. Pixie Dust is a happy blog, and it will always be full of summer sunshine. With my little Brandy, went my ability to sleep, eat, and generally function like a normal human being. There's a big empty space inside me, and if it weren't for four very special friends of mine, these last few weeks would have been impossible to get through. I realize I haven't updated my blog in weeks. I have also lost the ability to write. A year ago, I wrote a poem for blogchaat, which I later used on Pixie Dust. I'm posting it again, because it's everything I feel right now.
I know hard it is trying to think of the right thing to say, when things like this happen. So don't. You don't have to say anything. I understand.
Huggs and Sunshine,
The Princess

Winters Tale

Cold as ever was the night as somewhere deep a gusting gale
Swirled about his weary form and whispered soft “He’s sure to fail.”
Little dog, he heard them not for he knew what he had to do
Master lay upon the snow, with struggling breath was turning blue.

Little dog, he knew a man with hounds and sleigh and whip and meat,
Pats for head and milk to drink and tiny scraps for him to eat.
Road was long and wind was fierce but little dog did brave the snow,
Master lay upon the ground and little dog had far to go.

Long ago a morning chill there lay a pup on freezing ice,
Came a man with blanket warm, a mug of milk with steaming spice.
Master saved his life that day, he took him in with love and care,
Little dog, would save him now, for master he’d go anywhere.

Shivering he made his way across the frozen lands so chill,
Icy flakes were falling fast, the wind was dancing faster still.
Howled the wind in mocking song “Oh little dog go back to sleep
Death will find your master soon, oh little dog go back and weep”.

Trudging on with faltering step, the little dog limped through the night,
Trembling in the frosty air he spied a fire burning bright.
Numb with pain and chilled to bone he found his way to Goodman’s hut
Whimpering they found his form and gave him milk but he had naught.

From his fevered barks they knew that master was in troubled state,
Following his tracks by sleigh they found his body none too late.
Master’s life was saved that night, the little dog had cleared his debt
Laid his head by master’s feet but rose again did never yet.

Homicidal Psycho Jungle Brat

2007-07-23T09:51:00.001+05:30

Someone's done Orkut and someone's done sms.
Someone's even done Indian Cinema.
I have nothing to say.
A picture's worth a thousand words. Consider this my longest post.

I can't quite make up my mind about this one. Jasmine Becket-Griffith's art is strange. I browsed through her gallery. It was a surreal experience.

Of Princes, Princesses and Parallel Dimensions

2007-07-20T09:21:00.001+05:30

The prequel to Princes, Princesses and Time Travel Paradoxes.

I never thought that I would be the one to lose my cool-
Like Mary Magda in the Book, I am no lover’s fool.
Still there’s this chap, this silly fish, just one from that big sea,
A bloke like any other, yet, he quite confuses me.

He has the normal ‘mount of toes, his head’s the usual sort,
A pair of eyes, hands, feet and ears - he’s got the whole darn lot!
So if he’s just another boy, why is my heart aflutter?
(I never blush, I never freeze, I never ever stutter!)

I’m up all night, I can’t think straight, my head’s in such a mess-
I dream about him all the time, I can’t eat! (more or less)
So what, you ask, makes him intriguing, what’s up with this lad?
He’s charming, cultured, civilized, he’s smart - but so’s my dad!

Oh we’re great friends, the problem is that we are just great friends
I wish he’d notice I’m a girl, that would quite make amends.
But now we talk of sadder things, my boy? He’s leaving home
I’m stuck with unrequited love and this ludicrous poem.

Then last week in my physics class, I learnt of something strange,
Of parallel dimensions and the universal range.
So somewhere in those other worlds, I’m sure he’s realized,
That I’m the Princess of his dreams, just like I’d fantasized.

But here’s the thing, if I were her, which I am- just not now,
I’d wear that lovely coronet, which I’m doing anyhow.
But then, oh then, if she were me, which she is- not today,
Oh won’t she want to be herself, which I am anyway?

Still- if that Princess snared her Prince, is her life as much fun?
I know for fact that things get dull when that Great Chase is won.
And speed of light being what it is, I’m sure I’ll never tell-
I guess I’d have to be myself, which she might be, as well.

Note: There is no such thing as a parallel dimension, I meant an alternative universe- this is just proof that I don’t pay attention in class.

Pottermania

2007-07-17T10:43:00.000+05:30

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live in a world of magic? A world where a flick of a wand could change your annoying little brother into a frog? A world where you could fly to school on your broomstick and learn about levitating charms and transfiguring spells instead of tiresome theorems in trigonometry? Wouldn't life be so much more fun if the paintings hanging in your room could strike up a conversation with you?

Harry Potter lived the first ten years of his life oblivious to this magical world. But when on his eleventh birthday he received a letter accepting him into Hogwarts, the best wizarding school in the world, his whole life changed. And so did ours.

J.K. Rowling introduced the first book in the series of seven, "Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone", in 1997. She wove a magic charm over people of all ages across the world, and ten years later, with the seventh and last book just a few days away, the excitement hasn't diminished by a hair’s breadth.

What will this book reveal? Is Snape really a turncoat? Or was he always Dumbledore’s man, through and through? What are the Deathly Hallows? Who is the mysterious R.A.B? Is Harry a Horcrux? There are so many burning questions to be answered. And that's where this book comes in: What Will Happen In Harry Potter 7. The book puts together all the guesses, based on information from the previous volumes, and strives to answer our questions for us with predictions that might just turn out to be spot on. Are you sceptical about the information? The book provides citation keys throughout. You might want to read it if only to find out how well the Harry Potter books have been researched. You might want to read it to confirm or refute your own theories. And you might want to read it to build up the suspense until the release of the seventh book, this Saturday.

Disclaimer: This Post In No Way Expresses My Views On Harry Potter

The Real Measure of Success

2007-07-14T09:36:00.000+05:30

Profound thoughts of a 14 year old.
Life was much simpler when my parents were young. They had homework, but only occasionally. They had examinations, but only twice a year. They had fewer books to carry, they had less to study....
There's so much to say; everybody knows it. But the bottom line is that it's much harder being young these days than it was when my parents were. The reason why life is so much more difficult for us now, everybody says, is that we must work harder if we want to succeed.
I asked my Dad ''What is success?''
He replied, ''Success is achieving what you set out to achieve.'' There was a look in his eye that I did not quite understand. It set me thinking.
What is it that I want to achieve? Do I want to become the Prime Minister of this country? No, not in a thousand years. Somebody famous, certainly not a politician once remarked that politics is the last refuge of a scoundrel. Thank you, I do not want to sink that low.
Do I want to become famous? A rock star? A movie star? A J.K. Rowling or an Arundhati Roy? I think not. I do not want to have umpteen plastic surgery operations to straighten my nose, or have to worry about how I look, what I say and what I do every waking moment of my life. Nor do I want to live the life of a recluse because everyone wants to rob me of precious moments I would like to call my own.
Do I want a big house, and a flashy car? Stairs to go up, stairs to go down and staircases going nowhere just for show? It sounded fun in''The Fiddler on the Roof'' but I know that people who have a lot of money, don't have a lot of peace. They worry about tax, and investments, and capital gains, and making more money. They worry about protecting the safety of all they have accumulated. They worry about their children being kidnapped, and the effect of global warming on the stability of the dollar, and lots of other things that would give me no happiness to understand.
So what would success be in my dictionary? I want a home, not a mansion. I want to be famous with my family, not with the world. I want time to read, and play, and sing as the earth spins around. Yes, I do want to do well at work, but just well enough to feel that I am contributing my bit to the world. And I do want to make a pile of money, but just to assure me of security: not a penny more, not a penny less.
Perhaps this doesn't sound very ambitious. But then I have to chose between ambition and happiness, because it would be hard to have both.
Would it? Would I really have the courage to live up to a real measure of success? More to the point, will the world allow me?
Perhaps the real measure of success is getting what I want, but more importantly, wanting what I get.
So is that why my Dad had that funny look in his eye?

To clarify: Profound thoughts of a 14 year old me. I haven't changed all that much, have I?

Story Time

2007-06-21T19:13:00.002+05:30

The review they wanted me to write:

Whether it is playing football in a muddy field on a rainy day or dressing up in our parents’ clothes when they are not at home, there is no doubt about it: being young is fun. If you love reading children’s stories, then you are certainly going to enjoy this twin delight from Puffin.

'Favourite Stories for Girls' is collection of short stories written by some of India's best loved authors. From tales about beauty queens to yarns about detectives, there's something in there for everyone.
Could a bundle of old newspapers and a pair of new scissors help change the world? Joan Pinto tells us the story of Rifka, a young quiz enthusiast who finds out, quite by accident, that she has a strange power over people. And she's determined to use it for the good of mankind.

Have you ever had a good time with mischief? To Nina, there was no earthly point in going to school if it wasn't to plant a fake lizard in a strategic place, or annoy one of the younger students. But then, she had never met the Summoner, or been schooled at the Academy for P.R.A.N.K.S. Amondi Kibaki is a clever little African schoolgirl vying for a scholarship, which is her only chance to get into college. But she has to match hers wits with the class bully who threatens to put her parents out of work if she doesn't help him cheat in the upcoming exams. Can Amondi win that scholarship without allowing her parents to suffer misfortune?

'Favourite Stories for Boys' is a compilation of eleven short stories about boys who could have stepped straight out of your classrooms. And I envy their experiences. Meet Kari, a youngster who never expected to be sucked into a parallel universe while running an errand for his principal. Do you like ghost stories? Zach was an ordinary boy and would have led an ordinary life had it not been for his extraordinary relative, the great Billy Billimoria, a man of many secrets and a mysterious past. Was it possible that his beloved great-grandfather was a murderer? There was only one person who knew the real truth, but she was dead.

While not all of the stories are of the first water, these books, on the whole, are light-hearted and funny, and are certain to appeal to those of you who enjoy stories set in your homeland. With contributions from Poile Sengupta, Ruskin Bond, Paro Anand, Jerry Pinto, and a host of popular children's writers regaling you with tales of young people, this book is just what you need to help you relax at the end of a tiring day.

The review I'm writing:

"Got a wild an exciting camping trip planned? Worried that your microwave oven might fizzle out in the open air? This book makes for excellent fuel. Don't leave your home without it!"

When The Heavens Poured Forth

2007-05-31T05:46:00.000+05:30

May 31st 2005
2 years and 8 minutes ago
Bangalore

A letter to the extended family

Dear all,
This is an excerpt from Ripley's believe it or not

If it isn't, it jolly well should be.

As the lot of you are rather faint hearted, I'm going to have to give you the watered down version.

Warning: Kids do not try this at home.

You see, in this particular city, the rains came down pretty heavily, pretty suddenly too. And the girl in this story who was on the way to her gym, suddenly found herself stranded in the pouring rain. (She is now suffering from a severe cold.)

She could not turn back and head home, because the roads were being occupied with floating cars. She could not move forward either, because the cascading waters the heavens were pouring forth, obscured her vision, just a bit.

In other words, She Was Stuck!

Home lay behind, and the gym was in front and a little to the left so She decided that having traversed 12 solid miles from home, She would go ahead and straggle along the next three miles to the gym, in the (did I mention?) unrelenting rain. (She now regrets this decision).

She also reasoned to herself that She could not get past those waterborne cars that stretched all the way back home, and since She didn't know what lay ahead, the statistics were in Her favour. Besides, the word fear wasn't in Her vocabulary. (The words rash, stupid and extremely loony were, and for all I know, still probably are).

She spent 20 fruitless minutes trying to get herself a taxi, but She couldn't, because the ones that weren't doing the breast stroke were crammed with drenched passengers and extremely disgruntled taxi drivers . The buses - they weren't faring any better than the cars.
So She decided to walk it. Fortunately, She carried an umbrella with Her, the only thing She did right that day.

The journey went as smooth as it could get , but was relatively unexciting. Or so She thought.

She soon realized that the road up ahead was blocked so badly that no one could move an inch. She decided to take a detour.

Except that this road had been dug up from one end to the other, a daunting 20 foot drop. There was, however, to the left, a narrow ledge that She could use.
"Well", She thought, "I've made it so far. I'm just half a mile away. Why should I let a narrow, unsafe, perilous, and uneven strip of something hazardous stop me from crossing a 20ft awning in the middle of the road in a howling gale?"

When She was halfway across, to put it simply, the ledge caved in. Now She was really stuck. She had never had to climb over a wall with an umbrella in one hand and her tote in the other, balanced on a ledge that threatened to crumble at the slightest provocation, but somehow, She did.

The water was knee deep here. That's how her pink sneakers were ruined. The water was waist deep further ahead. (And that's how her white track suit was ruined). But She had to go on. She didn't have a choice. The road had caved in behind, and was the only maneuverable road up till that point. And one of Her friends was meeting Her at the gym with an apple pie. Nopes, no choice at all.

Besides, She would look pretty stupid being only a block away from the gym, which She was wondering, would be active given the present situation.
So She waded. And waded. And... someone started hollering. She kept wading. A lot of people were shouting, and waving now. She looked up. Were they talking to Her? She could hardly see in the rain.

By their clothes She could make out that they were from the Hockey Union. Either that or the Football league.

But it didn't really matter. What mattered was the large open drain that was somewhere underfoot invisible in the floods.

Interesting Bit of Trivia : Monsoon Time is Feeding Time for the Drains in Bangalore

With their help, She made it to the gym , which was miraculously open. Not many people had shown up (there aren't that many insane people around, y'know). She was stuck.
Again.
Her dad and sister were not in town, and Her mum was unreachable. She decided to stick it out for a couple more hours. She was just making her 28th call to anyone who answered anywhere when She felt a spider crawl down her back.

Well actually, it was Her mum tapping Her on the shoulder, but I'm just telling you what She thought.

Her angel of a mum, had come to Her rescue, with no way home herself. The cabs were all booked for the next five hours (it was midnight). The rains had subsided now, and the flood levels were much lower.

They were able to take a different, safer route (not really) and walked a heck of a distance until they caught a taxi. The journey home was long, weary and wet. But they made it, five hours after leaving the gym.

Believe me She was thanking God all the way.

p.s. when they got home, their colony had a blackout, and their house had been burgled. She didn't get her dinner either.

And if you were wondering, this isn't fiction. Four people died that week, and I had nightmares for the next two. I even swore off apple pies for three whole days!

No, no and no! This isn't a metaphor for a personal experience. There was a flood, it was waist high, I nearly stepped into an open drain, the road caved in while I was on it and my white tracksuit was ruined!

Of Poets and Poetry

2007-05-11T12:03:00.004+05:30

Heartless as it may sound, there's always a queer sort of comfort one gets while suffering, in the knowledge that there's someone else out there who is experiencing the agony you are. Well, my redemption from Riterblokitis was short lived. And during my daily walk in the clouds, I discovered that I wasn't the sole victim.

Somewhere in there, someone mentioned that when all else fails, one could always make lists. This I can do. But lists of what, exactly? I don't think that people would really be interested in a catalogue of all my shoes (though the list is rather impressive).

Besides, I'm sure Miss A. Nonnie wasn't talking about that kind of list. I'm not even going to attempt drawing up a list of all the goodies I bagged at the Nik Nish Valentine Sale last month. Not just because of the guilt it will give rise to, but I'm pretty confident when I say that you aren't reading my post with a glass of water and a pack of aspirin on the ready.
Or are you?

Poets and poetry is as good a way to start as any. This is something I've always wanted to do. And this is the advantage one has while blogging. You can be as offensive as you please from the safety of your bedroom, smug in the knowledge that people are listening to your rants and raves. Yes, they are. Blog stats don't lie. Then again, are you here just for the busty picture of Tinkerbell? Or to move your mouse in complicated patterns trying to see if you can write "I love Pepperoni Pizza" with the pixie dust before it fades away into nothingness? Then yours is a lost cause, because I've tried, and I couldn't.

But I digress. Poets and Poetry. It's a pet peeve, this modern poetry is. Free verse, or blank verse or pointless verse or whatever it is that they call it.
(I'm sure many people will find this post offensive. Free verse seems to be rather fashionable right now.).

Wait, I'm not saying it's all that bad. It's just … not … poetry. Call it heart beats, or soul songs, or teardrops, or something of that sort. But not poetry. Poetry has rhyme. It has metre! I tried my hand at pointless verse once. Scroll down for result.

Once I loved, but now
No more...
I was rejected! torn apart! cast away!!!
It was sorrow,
It was agony,
It was-
YOU!!!

You are either sniggering, or weeping openly by now, both of which I find offensive. Yes, I wrote that. But I plead temporary insanity there. I was 13 and my dog had just eaten three of my guinea pigs. I was searching for myself, had just found out that I wasn't adopted as I fondly liked to believe, that they REALLY were my parents and… it is rather awful isn't it?

I don't understand what the point is, in writing a few random disjointed sentences, breaking them up haphazardly, throwing a few commas, fulls stops and exclamation marks in exactly the worst places possible, and filling the piece up with enough ellipses to get you from here to Timbuktu and back.

If it's possible to have a favourite, then Pippa's Song by Robert Browning is the most wonderful piece of poetry I've ever come across. It fills me with Summer Sunshine and all things wonderful. I have an annoyingly placed bed, in front of a large window that let's the rising sun smother me in it's light at some unearthly hour. But when it does manage to rouse me, the glorious sunshine is just worth it.

The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
God's in His heaven—
All's right with the world!

But I digress again. Below are what I think are the finest pieces of poetry ever written.

Pippa's Song - Robert Browning
The Lady of Shallot - Tennyson
Vitai Lampada - Sir Henry Newbolt
Non Sum Qualis eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae - Ernest Dowson

Ballad of Earl Haldans Daughter - Charles Kingsley
The Highwayman - Alfred Noyes
Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead - Tennyson
(read the spoof here)
Abou Ben Adhem - Leigh Hunt

From a Railway Carriage - Robert Louis Stevenson
The Man on the Moon stayed up too late - Tolkein
Upon the Hearth The Fire is Red- Tolkein
Robbin Hood and His Merry Men - er... um...me.

Someday, I tell you, they'll have to study my poems in their little English readers. Though for that to happen, I understand one has to be famous. And dead.
sigh.

I shall be considerate of course, and go easy on the punctuation marks. I remember cramming for my english finals and trying to memorize the puctuation marks.
"Comma ... comma ... period, hyphen, query mark ... ellipse, comma ... dash it! That was an exclamation mark wasn't it?! Hyphen ... query ... open quote ... comma, comma ... period? ... close quote..."
Yes, I shall definitely go easy on those poor little kids.

~~I couldn't find The~~ ~~Ballad of Earl Haldans Daughter anywhere on the net~~ (update: found it; it's here), and that's surprising. I had to study it in school, along with Lord Ullins Daughter and Lochinvar. Nice poems, but nothing more. We also had a lot of Blake, Dickenson and Edgar Allen Poe, whom I consider the worst classical poets ever. They are to the rest, what Picasso is to Botticelli and MichelAngelo.

Think I'll do a post on Art.
Oh, and if you can think of worthier poems, do tell me. I first heard Cynarae a couple of months ago, from the pater. One of his favourite poems.

Pieces of Eight

2007-05-02T09:10:00.002+05:30

Apparently Riterblokitis [X] isn't an acceptable reason for not handing in my Psychology assignments on time. Not that I expected her to understand. I'm a firm believer of the "Eight impossible things before breakfast" rule which is the key to a happy and carefree life. And this didn't figure on the list.

The Eight Impossible Things I (generally) Believe before Breakfast:

1. There will be no porridge for breakfast today.
2. My teenage brat sister will throw away her Paris Hilton music(?!) CD.
3. My teenage brat sister will smile.
4. The cafeteria will serve pasta today.
5. Cabbages will be outlawed.
6. Ditto the Feather Duster
7. New Offer : Buy one maaza, get ten free.
8. I will grow taller. A little. Just a little.

I just got myself tagged. My first tag, ever!
Fleiger (over at Adlergedanke) passed on the Summer Tag to me, which means I have to think of eight things about the summer holidays that I miss or can't do anymore. And tag another eight people. Hence the title 'Pieces of Eight'. Sorry, nothing to do with pirates.

Well, it has me stumped. I can't think of much that I used to do in my summer holidays back in the days of yore, that I can't do now. So I've modified the tag to the eight things I love about the Summer Holidays.

The Eight Things about Summer Holidays that make Life Worth Living:

Shopping!
Shopping is an art. And a passion. Clothes, shoes, jewelry, books, movies, stuffed toys, scented candles, nail polishes even groceries. Hours frittered away at the mall or on Brigade Road.
The Belvedere
Sitting up in my belvedere with an endless supply of chaat, maaza and Calvin and Hobbes comic books. Listening to a special compilation on my iPod entitled "Summer Wildberries" and writing funny poetry.
Picnics
My sort of picnic is a hamper of potato chips on the way to my favourite bookstore. To each his own. ;)
Two weeks at my Grandmother's house. Unchaperoned.
My Grandmum's idea of a healthy diet is caramel custard and chocolate cake at breakfast-time, pizza and apple-pie at noon, and an ice cream cake for dinner. With a steady flow of doughnuts, rum tarts and Maaza throughout the day.
Eight hour naps
Need I say more?
Water Fights
Water balloons, water spouts, garden sprinklers, gardening hoses, the only lawful time of the year for ice cubes down backs.
Rock Climbing
Survival of the fittest. Lead by my dad (an experienced mountaineer) we start of on the beginners rocks, and if he thinks the group can handle it, make our way past Old One Ear, Camels Hump, Weatherbee's Nose, The Thousand and One Steps, right up to The Pillars. You have to be really brave, or really crazy to climb the Pillars.
The trips to Hawaii
Okay, I made that one up ;)

There, I'm done! And now I tag witnwisdumb, Butterknife and Priya. I'll think of another five later, I'm going back to bed. It's still summer, and today's a holiday.
Update: I tag Just Me too.
Four down, four to go.

The Willy Wonka Series

2007-04-06T11:08:00.002+05:30

On July 15 2005, a movie was released that enthralled children across the world. It was a movie that made their mouths water and filled them with longing to visit the land with "chocolate waterfalls and minty grass". Yes, I'm talking about 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory', a Warner Bros film based on the scrumptious book by Roald Dahl.

The book is about young Charlie Bucket who lived in a tiny, two-room house with his parents and all four grandparents. The Buckets were very poor. All that they could afford was to give Charlie bread for breakfast, boiled potatoes for lunch, and cabbage soup for dinner every single day of every single year. On his birthday though, Charlie would get a whole bar of chocolate all for himself.

Charlie had to pass a chocolate factory each morning on his way to school. The tantalizing smell of rich chocolate, creamy truffles, juicy blueberries... the most wonderful smells imaginable would waft out of the factory. This was Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, the best and largest in the world. Charlie had heard a great many things about Mr. Wonka. About the castle he made entirely of chocolate, with chocolate walls, chocolate carpets, and taps from which chocolate would flow. About his fantastic ice creams that never melted. And about the tiny workers in his factory. Nobody knew who they were or where they were from. Nobody had ever seen them, for they never came out of the factory at all.

One day, Mr. Wonka announced that in his chocolates were hidden five golden tickets. The five lucky people who found the tickets, would be allowed into his factory, and would win a lifetime supply of his marvelous chocolates.

Charlie never expected to win, but he did, along with four rather horrid children. And that golden ticket changed his life. For Mr. Wonka had great surprises in store for them.

'Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator', continues the tale of Charlie, his family, Willie Wonka, and their adventures in space. Something goes wrong with the fantastic Glass Elevator and, instead of taking them back to Wonkaland, it goes into orbit, where they come across the newly launched Space Hotel.

With great big chandeliers and luxurious carpets, the Space Hotel is a sight to behold. And so are the ferocious Knids from the planet Vermes. These determined aliens are bent on gobbling up the astronauts. Even the President quakes with fear at the thought of these monsters. Is mankind doomed? Not with Charlie and Mr. Wonka around. But, you must read the book yourself to find out just how they saved the world. Oh, and if you want to know what causes shooting stars, just ask Mr. Wonka!

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator are just two of the many books by Roald Dahl. All his books are available in attractive, affordable, paperback editions. Many of his other books, such as Matilda, The Gremlins, and The Witches have been made into movies. Roald Dahl also wrote the screenplay for ‘You Only Live Twice’, a James Bond movie.

Septimus Heap

2007-03-21T12:12:00.002+05:30

The Septimus Heap series by Angie Sage is a fantasy tale that begins on a cold wintry morning in a distant Magykal Land.

Silas Heap was an Ordinary Wizard who, on that morning, had become the father of seven.The little baby was very special, for he was the seventh son of a seventh son, the most powerful kind of wizard possible.

But things took an unusual turn when Silas found a little baby girl in the snow that same night. Things got stranger still when the Extra Ordinary Wizard mysteriously disappeared soon after the Queen fell ill, also on the same night. And, when Silas realised that the little baby was not just any girl but the Princess whom he now needed to keep safe, he gave up all hope of ever leading a normal life.

So, ten years later, when Marcia Overstrand, the new Extra Ordinary wizard came to collect Princess Jenna, Silas knew that the trouble had really begun. DomDaniel, the evil necromancer, was trying to take over the castle, and the only obstacle in his way was the Princess. He didn't think that an ordinary wizard family would dare go against him. But then, the Heaps were no ordinary family.

The first book, Magyk, follows the adventures of the Heap family as they try to defeat DomDaniel and restore Princess Jenna to her throne. This involves flying Dragon Boats, mysterious gold rings, ancient magyk charms, and hiding in the Marshes with nothing to eat but cabbage stew for days on end.

The Heaps meet a lot of interesting people on the way. A courteous Boggart who saves their lives, a message rat who loves to talk, a cat that prefers being a duck, and Boy 412 who seemed to have no name. There was something special about Boy 412, but it was a long time before they realized what it was.

The book has some laugh out loud moments, and compares favourably with novels such as Eragon, Dragon Rider, and other contemporary fantasy stories written for children. The plot is rather haphazard in some places, and though the pace of the book is irregular, with a motley crew of characters, it makes for a pleasant read. The covers have been beautifully created by Mark Zug, who also did the delightful illustrations within. If the writing style of the book doesn't appeal to you, the pictures definitely will.

Flyte, book two of the Septimus Heap trilogy, continues the story of Princess Jenna and Boy 412. DomDaniel might have been reduced to a pile of bones, but evil necromancers are not easy people to get rid off, and DomDaniel was no exception. With help from a rather unexpected source and the aid of his silent followers, he was certain to be successful this time.

Physik, the third book is set to be released in April 2007.

UPDATE: The fourth book Queste is now out and the fifth titled Syren will be released October 2009.

An Ode to Coffee or Why the World is Overpopulated

2007-03-03T15:13:00.002+05:30

Ever wondered why the line "Lets go grab a cup of coffee" is so popular? It's an instinct imbedded in man, aeons before the concepts of 'first dates' and 'coffeehouses' came into existence.

In days of old when time was young,
And caffeine unbeknown;
The cattle lowed, the birds - they sung,
But man was still as stone.

He woke each day with bleary eyes,
A laggard lump in life-
He couldn't make his member rise,
A despair to his wife.

The rate of birth began to drop,
The world was filled with woe.
The wives, they said "This has to stop"
But how? They did not know....

They draped themselves in sheerest silk,
(imported from Phnom Penh).
They sprayed themselves with Buttermilk,
(it was the done thing then).

They bought themselves fishnets and whips
To tantalize their males,
They swayed their provocative hips
But twas to no avail.

In desperation they agreed
There was no other way.
They had to find a way to breed,
To Cupid they did pray.

From moonlit pools and humpback whales,
From powdered dragon horn,
From heads of rusty iron nails,
The coffee bean was born.

"A mug each morn is all it takes"
The God of Love did say.
"He ought to be up in two shakes,
But just ONE mug each day!"

And that's the reason why the Earth
Is over-populated.
They drank (each morning) TWO mugs worth
And over-copulated.

Note: This poem was written for a post on coffee by witnwisdumb.

Endless Night

2007-02-25T09:57:00.001+05:30

Lost and Lonely girl, you lie in shadows now,
You fought to live your life, you just did not know how.
Now I understand why you could not be strong,
You lost the bitter war, and you'd known all along.

The emptiness inside was all they gave to you,
The desperate hopeless fear for all they made you do,
Why didn't you run away? The darkness left you blind.
Why did you let them in? They robbed you of your mind.

Sometimes I wonder how you stood there all alone
No happiness inside, you gave all that you owned.
They used you for their needs, and left you cold and bare
You begged to be set free, but they were never there.

Now you're just a face in pictures on the wall
Your footsteps echo here in darkened stony halls
Your memory is faint for we have lives to live,
We took all that you had, much more than you could give.

The shadows hide you still, they claimed your desperate self
The bleakness in your eyes cannot now plead for help
You only wanted love, and someone who would care
Was that so much to ask? Was that too much to spare?

Lost and Lonely girl, your heart lies in our hands
Shall we crush it now? Or toss in in the sands.
You gave your life in hope, you listened to your heart
You knew that you had lost, you knew it from the start.

(This is what happens when you stretch nine nights worth of sleep over a month)
Update: Part II, Strength in Elysium

Roverandom

2007-02-09T09:04:00.001+05:30

J.R.R. Tolkien

Do you know what happens to little dogs like Rover who try to bite wizards? Quite a lot, I can tell you. Especially if the wizard is of the bad tempered sort, as Artaxerxes happened to be.
Rover was a little dog who met Artaxerxes when the wizard was feeling grumpier than usual. And the wizard, in all his grumpiness, thought that it would serve Rover right to be turned into a toy. And that’s how it all began.

A toy dog is a very unpleasant thing to be, especially if once upon a time, you were a real dog. Rover had to get rid of the horrid enchantment, he just had to!But he didn’t know how, and he was stuck in a toy shop, besides.

Then, Rover’s luck suddenly changed. When the little boy who bought him went to the seashore, Rover bumped into another wizard; a nice one, this time.

Psamathos Psamathides was very particular about how his name was pronounced, and would get quite huffy if you didn’t say it right. Fortunately for Rover, old Psamathos took a great liking to him and decided to help him out. So, he sent Rover to the Man on the Moon, the greatest wizard of them all.

The moon was a queer place. There were whitebells and fairbells, silverbells and tinklebells. There were ringaroses and rhymeroyals, pennywhistles and tintrumpets, and creamhorns, too! But strangest of all was the flying moon dog with whom he shared his name. To avoid confusion, the Man on the Moon decided to call our little friend Roverandom, which is the reason why this book isn’t called ‘Rover’. The two dogs had many splendid adventures together, and Rover even learnt how to fly.

But Rover was still a toy. He didn’t want to be sent back home because Tinker the cat would probably pounce on him and eat him up. And the only person who could help was… Artaxerxes. That certainly made things complicated.

Rover had many happy moments, sad moments, and quite strange ones too. He rode on the back of sea gulls, travelled in the tummies of whales, made friends with mermaids, and even met a mer-dog! He battled with The White Dragon, fought off The Sea Serpent and found out where little children go in their sleep.

And if you read the book, you’ll find out too.

Roverandom is a fairy tale that Tolkien wrote for children, but no matter how old you are, you can’t but help liking the book with it’s light mood, witty dialogue and lovable characters. It’s definitely a book that you would want to have up on your bookshelf.

Tolkein’s other books include The Hobbit, Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings. Besides Roverandon, he has also written a number of other charming tales, such as Farmer Giles of Ham, Leaf by Niggle and The Adventures of Tom Bombadill.

Out to Sea

2007-01-27T16:58:00.000+05:30

I fare thee well, my fellow men
'tis time for me to sail
Tho we do part, within my heart
Fond memories prevail

For all the times in taverns spent
For every pint of beer
Our gambling days, our errant ways
For each shed I a tear.

But rolling waves that crash on shore
The brine, the salt, the spray
The deep blue seas, the tangy breeze
Has lead my heart astray

I bid thee days of ever joy
And should ye see the Star,
Remember me, for I do be
with you - if from afar.

The Secret Garden

2007-01-16T16:33:00.000+05:30

Wouldn't it be wonderful? To live in a world without adults, to do as you please, to have everything the way you want it? To be able to throw tantrum after tantrum and still get away with it? Did you ever think that something like this might be possible? Well, for Mary, it was....

Little Mary Lennox was the most disagreeable child that you could ever imagine. Why, she was so horrid that no governess would stay for more than a few months without giving up in despair. At the tender age of ten, Mary was bundled up and sent to her only relative, a strange hunchback uncle who lived in the desolate moors of Misselthwaite. Now, a moor is just a lot of barren land with nothing much to do on it, and I suppose if it had been anyone else, the story would have gone no further. But there are some people to whom exciting things happen, and Mary was one of them.

Misselthwaite Manor was a mysterious mansion with a hundred rooms, though most of them had been locked up for ages. There really wasn't much to do, so Mary explored the number of gardens that surrounded the house. She had heard a really lovely story about a secret garden which had been walled in and locked up, with the key thrown away. She thought that it would be rather fun if she could find this garden and get inside it. So, imagine how thrilling it must have been when one day she stumbled across the key....

But that wasn't the only exciting thing happening. Do you remember the hundred rooms I told you about? Well, Mary was forbidden to go into most of these rooms, but one night she heard a strange wail. Being the inquisitive sort, she decided to do some investigating. There was something odd going on, and Mary was determined to find out what it was that the servants of Misselthwaite Manor were so frantic to hide from her.

And, for the first time in her life, Mary made friends: Old Ben Weatherstaff, the crotchety gardener, and young Dickon and his sister Martha. And Mary would never have found the entrance to the secret garden if it hadn't been for the little robin. But the strangest of all was... well, you had better read the book and find out for yourself, hadn't you?

The old world charm that you find in the book leads you on until you find you are as much a part of the adventure as Mary is. The intrigue will keep you up all night until you find out what the eerie sounds that she heard were. And when you do, you won't be able to put the book down. I couldn't.

Frances Hodgson Burnett has written a number of other books, The Little Princess, Little Lord Fauntleroy and the Lost Prince, among others. But, never have I read a book with the charm that The Secret Garden has.

Riterblokitis [X]

2007-01-15T16:31:00.002+05:30

Greetings, common people. [Trumpets blaring]
The Princess has returned.

If you notice, I haven’t posted anything new for nearly two months now. But I can explain. I have contracted Riterblokitis [X] in it’s most acute form. Fear not, it isn’t contagious. Just extremely nettlesome. Though relatively painless, Riterblokitis causes immense frustration and a backlog of creativity.

Riterblokitis was only recently found to be the cause of bankrupsie, a malady that affects writers all over the world at some point of their life. In all my conceitedness, I have always thought myself to be immune to this nasty virus. Hoo Boy! Was I ever wrong!

So what causes Riterblokitis? Well in my case, it seems to have been induced by the over consumption of Plumkake, of the Krismas variety. According to Dr. Quack, it has clogged up my arteries, and my heart (which now has to work overtime) refuses to do any outpouring for me, in all its tetchiness.

Which leaves me with no other choice but to turn to the brain. Amidst all the cobwebs, I have been assured that there is a bit of grey matter in my head (and by that I do not mean dandruff!). The Brain seems rather miffed though. I’ve neglected it for too long and now it refuses to bring out the creative genius in me. No amount of coaxing can make it change it’s stance.

My mum thinks this Riterblokitis stuff is great.

“This Riterblokitis stuff is great” said she, unfeelingly. “Now you have time to help me spring clean.”

(This is my cue to exit the room.)

I take a deep breath. Several. What I need is support and guidance, someone who will soothe my frazzled nerves and understand that I have special needs. So I decide that my Fairy God Mother is the one to help me. But how do I contact her? I can think of two ways. The first being transcending into the sixth realm of the moonshine world. The other, is LSD. The two being distantly related. One is Medi-tation, a twice removed cousin of Medi-cation. Drugs are medicines. Aren’t they?

So I use my mantra “never too old to believe... never too old to believe.. never too old...”

And suddenly there’s a whirlwind of gold dust. Actually, just dust. And standing in front of me is a bluish pumpkin like figure. Cinderella and I have a lot in common. Smells a bit musty though.

“Would you like two lanes on that bridge, or four?” she asks.

“Are you a genie too?” I ask surprised.

“It’s the inflation.” she sighs. “I have to work overtime, and genie was the only slot open. Oh well, as long as it puts a good lid over my lamp…”

That explained the mustiness.

“So what’s the problem?” asks she.

“I have contracted Riterblockitis in it’s most acute form. Riterblockitis [X] to be precise.”

“Er… so do you want four lanes on that bridge? Or eight? ”.

Tempting, but apparently there was nothing she could do either. God and I are having a little spat right now. I want him to make Maaza free. He keeps talking about about “people’s livelihoods”. Or something.

Hey. I just checked with Microsoft Word, and this is what I found:
Pages: 2
Words: 529
Characters (no spaces): 2,439
Characters (with spaces): 2,997
Lines: 62

So it can’t be all that bad now, can it? I mean, I did type 2,997 characters. Granted, that includes spaces. But it’s still part of this narrative, isn’t it?

Perhaps it’s wearing off… perhaps… though it depends upon what you think of this post.

Has this virus run it’s course? Or do I have to still do time?

BONUS MATERIAL: Do you suffer from Bankrupsie? Do you spend day after day, night after night, twiddling your thumbs and staring at blank sheets of paper? Is your Christmas Tree still up? Do you suffer from Riterblokitis [X]?
Fear not, help is at hand. Because Dr. Priya with her extraordinary medical skills shall guide you down the Road to Recovery. Dr. Priya, and eminent Placebotologist, specializes in treating Bankrupsie, Cerebral Moribundus and Riterblokitis, type [X] to be precise. Her standard prescription is as follows, however, you might need follow up treatment. Please contact her at her Blogatorium:

Dr. Priya says-

Standard Prescription:
1. Take down Christmas tree, ASAP. It's too early anyway.
2. Up your intake of LSD to 100mgs per day, instead of the safe level of 1mg.
3. Get a four-laner from Bangalore to Timbuktoo from the friendly genie in the musty smelling lamp.
4. Un-install all Microsoft products. They're considered detrimental to mental health.
5. Keep going on the Mazaa front - a mango a day keeps the dreaded apple away. Ergo, the cute doctor is just a hand's reach away!

Warning: This medication might contain traces of alcohol. Do not drink and drive. Batteries not included. Use as directed by physician or self. Not suitable for children aged below 3 years. For internal use only, make sure the door is locked. If allergic to peanuts and/or hazelnuts, do not eat peanuts and/or hazelnuts.

Note: The symptoms you mentioned are typical of Bankrupsie, but not quite. Bankrupsie actually arises from a lack of green-pigmented pieces of paper and is found to affect 1 out of every 1 person in this world. Your chances of being affected, are, therefore, 100%. Difficulty in understanding math and statistics is an additional symptom.

Winters Tale

2006-11-10T10:06:00.000+05:30

Cold as ever was the night as somewhere deep a gusting gale
Swirled about his weary form and whispered soft “He’s sure to fail.”
Little dog, he heard them not for he knew what he had to do
Master lay upon the snow, with struggling breath was turning blue.

Little dog, he knew a man with hounds and sleigh and whip and meat,
Pats for head and milk to drink and tiny scraps for him to eat.
Road was long and wind was fierce but little dog did brave the snow,
Master lay upon the ground and little dog had far to go.

Long ago a morning chill there lay a pup on freezing ice,
Came a man with blanket warm, a mug of milk with steaming spice.
Master saved his life that day, he took him in with love and care,
Little dog, would save him now, for master he’d go anywhere.

Shivering he made his way across the frozen lands so chill,
Icy flakes were falling fast, the wind was dancing faster still.
Howled the wind in mocking song “Oh little dog go back to sleep
Death will find your master soon, oh little dog go back and weep”.

Trudging on with faltering step, the little dog limped through the night,
Trembling in the frosty air he spied a fire burning bright.
Numb with pain and chilled to bone he found his way to Goodman’s hut
Whimpering they found his form and gave him milk but he had naught.

From his fevered barks they knew that master was in troubled state,
Following his tracks by sleigh they found his body none too late.
Master’s life was saved that night, the little dog had cleared his debt
Laid his head by master’s feet but rose again did never yet.

Kissing - an Art and Science

2006-10-12T16:28:00.002+05:30

My mum’s the only woman who can get me to spring clean my room in autumn. She does it with something called dessert. Lemon Souffle’s, Apple Pies, Rum tarts, Trifle Puddings, Raspberry Jellies, Pineapple Cakes, Chocolate chip cookies, Hot fudge, Blackcurrant Ice creams, Caramel Custards, Whipped Mousse, Peach Melba, Gooseberry Treacle, Tiramisu, Strawberry Glazed cakes, Blueberry Muffins and Carrot Patties.

I may have left a few out. But that’s how she does it. I think it’s unfair to take advantage of a poor hungry girl in desperate need of nourishment, but it’s the broom or nothing.

So that’s how I found myself lying flat on my back under my bed with The Feather Duster. And that’s how the spider found me. And landed daintily on the tip of my nose. I squashed it of course, after jumping upright and banging my forehead against the underside of my bed. The last thing I want to do is go about kissing Kirsten Dunst upside down in the rain.

That made me think about kisses and kissing. Girls spend hours dreaming of their first kiss, boys spend hours fantasizing about what might follow. So what were the odds that there would be a systematized body of knowledge dedicated to the subject?

Good old Wikipedia proved me right. The science of kissing is known as Philematology. WikiHow being it’s normal helpful self has even devoted a page on ‘How to French Kiss’, This is salvation for the many girls who suffer when their boyfriends decide they want a game of tonsil tennis.

A kiss symbolizes love. It speaks of affection. Of amorous feelings. Of romantic intentions. And sometimes it promises a night of …er… well, dinner by candle light. Not all kisses are pleasant though. The kiss of a crime lord indicates that the underlings life is about to end. This is known as the Kiss of Death, or to put it simply, a goodbye kiss.

People worry about being bad kissers. What do you do with your tongue? Where do your hands go? What happens if you’re wearing braces? How do you avoid Bad Breath? What happens if you can’t breathe? (Honest, people do worry about breathing). Now the Eskimo’s, they don’t have to worry that they might be bad kissers. Not unless they’ve caught a cold and have a runny nose. And what are the chances of catching a cold in Alaska?

Prince Charming was indeed a brave man. He fought witches and monsters, and climbed up lashing vines of thorns. But more than anything, it was the kiss that spoke volumes of his courage. Sleeping Beauty had been asleep for a hundred years. She may have needed a kiss, but more than anything, she needed a toothbrush. Though it never occurred to him, I'm sure, to use protection. We would have heard about it, if he had.

"He stepped into the Royale Chambers, saw the lovely Princess asleep in her bed, ran into the Royale Bathroom, grabbed a bottle of Minte Fraysh, Ye Olde Mouth Wash, held her nose till her mouth fell open, sprayed her liberally with the stuff, and give her The Kiss of True Love."

Do you think Eskimo kissing makes no sense? There are some other really … unusual ways of kissing. Like butterfly kisses. Where two people put their eyes close to each other and flutter their eyelashes up and down. Or Caterpillar kissing, where the two individuals rub their eyebrows together.

There are cheek kisses and blown kisses and ring kisses for members of the Royal Family. One of the most romantic things a man can do for a woman is to kiss her hands. But for a man, there’s nothing as desirable as a French kiss.

I found a site which lists out 36 different ways (or is it types?) of kissing.

Most of it is redundant though. I suggest you spend five minutes devoted to each type (or way) and just call it THE kiss. And spend the rest of your life bragging about it if you’re a guy.

A bit of advice – take out your bubble gum before you try the earlobe kissing. Earrings don’t grow on trees, and your date won’t be very happy to have bits of chewy forming a protective covering over her sapphires.

The concept of kissing booths is alien to India, and I’ve yet to hear of a kissing booth being manned by… well, a man. Perhaps it’s because women aren’t loony enough to pay to get a kiss from a perfect stranger. This resolves the long debated point of whether women are the superior of the species. We are.

Now boys on the other hand are so used to kissing posters of a scantily clad Angelina Jolie (in the privacy of their bedrooms) that it comes as a big surprise to them when they find that the girl they’re kissing is wearing clothes and actually kissing back. This is why most of them make such a big mess of their first kiss.

Some girls spend hours at astrology.com trying to figure out which shade of lipstick will lead to the perfect kiss with a man who’s name begins with T, as opposed to no lipstick at all. And then spend hours on the phone asking each other whether Coral Red matte would be better than Coral Red gloss.

The superiority comes with age.

Mistletoe – isn’t that what Christmas is all about? (no it isn’t, but this post doesn’t cover that). This is the perfect way to steal a kiss from someone who would normally never deign to kiss you and will probably erase it from her memory five seconds later for the sake of image. This normally happens if you’re the class nerd and she’s the star cheerleader who took pity on you. Though the chance of that happening is very unlikely. The star cheerleader is always accompanied by a group of equally pretty and feather headed friends, and is never left alone, especially under misteltoe. But hey, you got the kiss didn’t you? And at the end of the movie- I mean year, she’ll probably fall in love with you and renounce her pom poms for a life of binary digits.

The longest kiss in the world lasted 30 hours 59 minutes and 27 seconds. A bit over the top? Well it takes all sorts to make this world. The pair kissed each other non stop as a Valentine Day special, and didn’t pause to eat, sleep, sit down or even go to the bathroom. They didn’t eat anything. For 30 hours 59 minutes and 27 seconds!

Which reminds me, my apple pie is ready and piping hot. And later, I plan to go over to the pond at the bottom on my neighbors garden. I have some frogs to kiss. Unless you know of a Prince Charming…?

Fun Facts:
One Apple Pie = One Thousand Kisses
One Kiss = One Thousand Words
One Word = One Thousandth of Picture
Therefore
One Apple Pie equals One Thousand Pictures.

Paolini and Plagiarism

2006-10-01T12:38:00.016+05:30

Last week, I stopped by my favourite bookstore to pick up a copy of Eragon, a New York Times Bestseller. Being an ardent reader of fantasy novels, I thought it would be a nice little addition to my growing collection of books.

The tale is straightforward enough. It tells of a young boy who one day finds himself in charge of a dragon. All of a sudden, his life is changed. He becomes hunted, pursued by malevolent creatures and all things dangerous. With only an old storyteller to instruct him, he journeys into the world as an inexperienced farm boy striving to avenge his uncle’s death.

With not much knowledge of whence he came, and no idea where life would next take him, he finds himself pitted against evil as old as the Empire itself. It’s a tale of magic and the never ending battle of good versus evil, but with one uncertainty. Which side will Eragon choose?

Sounds interesting? That’s what I thought too, but I found the book extremely disappointing- though not for lack of drama. The emotions and actions of the characters are often exaggerated to give the story some kind of substance. But Christopher Paolini, the author of this bestseller, appears to have … borrowed heavily from a number of lesser known books.

Below I elaborate my point with an amusing passage I’ve picked out from the 16th chapter. The characters are Brom (the storyteller) and Eragon, who are trying to cross a bridge.

The Anora River flowed between them and the town, spanned by a stout bridge. As they approached it, a greasy man stepped (out) from behind a bush and barred their way. His shirt was too short and his dirty stomach spilled over a rope belt. Behind his cracked lips, his teeth looked like crumbling tombstones.

“You c’n stop right there. This’s my bridge. Gotta pay t’ get over.”
“How much?” asked Brom in a resigned voice. He pulled out a pouch and the bridge keeper brightened.
“Five crowns” he said, pulling his lips into a broad smile.
Eragon’s temper flared at the exorbitant price, and he started to complain hotly, but Brom silenced him with a quick look. The coins were wordlessly handed over. The man put them into a sack hanging from his belt.
“Thank’ee much” he said in a mocking tone and stood out of the way.
As Brom stepped forward, he stumbled and caught the bridge keeper’s arm to support himself.
“Watch y’re step” snarled the grimy man sidling away.
“Sorry” apologised Brom, and continued over the bridge with Eragon.
“Why didn’t you haggle? He skinned you alive!” exclaimed Eragon. “He probably doesn’t even own the bridge.”
“Probably” agreed Brom.
“Then why pay him?”
“Because you can’t argue with all the fools in the world. It’s easier to let them have their way, then trick them when they’re not paying attention.” Brom opened his hand, and a pile of coins glinted in the sun.
“You cut his purse!” said Eragon incredulously. Brom pocketed the money with a wink. There was a sudden howl of anguish from the other side of the river. “I’d say our friend has just discovered his loss.”

Now compare it with the original and better written passage from the 3rd chapter of The Ruby Knight by David Eddings. Our hero Sparhawk tries to cross the bridge with his travelling companions, the young boy Talen among them.

Beside the ford stood a small hut. The man who owned it was a sharp eyed fellow in a green tunic who demanded a toll to cross. Rather than argue with him, Sparhawk paid what he asked. “Tell me neighbour,” he asked when the transaction was completed “how far is the Pelosian border?”
“About five leagues” the sharp eyed man replied. “If you move along, you should reach it by afternoon.”
They splashed on across the ford. When they reached the other side, Talen rode up to Sparhawk. Here’s your money back,” the young boy said, handing over several coins.
Sparhawk gave him a startled look.
“I don’t object to paying a toll to cross a bridge” Talen sniffed. “After all, someone had to go to the expense of building it. That fellow was just taking advantage of a natural shallow place in the river. It didn’t cost him anything, so why should he make a profit from it?
“You cut his purse, then?”
“Naturally.”
“And there was more in it than just my coins?”
“A bit. Let’s call it my fee for recovering your money. After all, I deserve a profit too, don’t I?”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I needed the practice.”
From the other side of the river came a howl of anguish.
“I’d say he just discovered his loss” observed Sparhawk.
“It does sort of sound that way, doesn’t it?

There are a number of smaller idea’s and (slightly altered) passages borrowed from other books, The Belgariad and Malloreon being the first ones to come to my mind.

The gedwey ignasia is a mark on Eragon’s right palm that marks him a Dragon Rider and it is through this that he channels his magical powers. It’s uncannily similar to the oval white mark that Garion (of The Belgariad) bears on his right palm which marks him out as special, a mark that when he channels, tingles in the same way Paolini describes characteristic of the gedwey ignasia. Perhaps Paolini felt that since he named the mark (while no term is specified for the mark in either the Belgariad or Malloreon) he can claim originality for it.

Many books dealing with magic and sorcery have rules and limitations, do’s and dont’s. It is not uncommon for a few of these Rules to be found in more than one book. Is it a pure coincidence that the all the Rules of Magic in Eragon are identical to those of The Belgariad and The Malloreon?

The perception of magic varies with different books as well. The most common form of magic written about, is the kind that necessitates incantations, wands, talismans and charms, such as you would find in the Harry Potter series. A few books portray a more sophisticated kind of magic, where one controls magic with one's mind, which is something that people find more believable. Lord of the Rings would fall into that category. But the most attractive concept of magic I've ever stumbled upon, is the "Words of Power" system, by Ursula K. Le Guin in her Earthsea Novels. Paolini seemed to have been 'inspired' by her writing, because his book seems to follow the same pattern of magic.
In Algaesia (Eragon's homeland), there once existed a language that used the 'true' name of all objects and persons. With the knowledge of the true name of an object, came the ability to control it, for good or evil. To protect themselves, most people had two names. The 'true' name which is known to few, and their ordinary name, by which the world knows them. It is also impossible to lie in this language, for the language is powerful in itself. It's definitely the most appealing form of magic I have ever come across.

I have to admit, Paolini has good taste.

Paolini also seemed to have liked Anne McCaffery's work a lot, because the telepathic link between a rider and a dragon is an idea (yes, just one) that has been lifted straight out of her Dragon Rider novels. She didn't mind though, as she mentioned on her website. She seemed flattered. Imitation, as many of her fans have pointed out, is the best form of flattery.

Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time did not pass by unnoticed. The 13 Forsworn of Algaesia are not unalike the 13 Forsaken who stalk Jordan's series of twelve.

There are several snippets that I’ve found reminiscent of other books, be it entire paragraphs, phrases or merely a few ideas. The only bits that are purely his, unfortunately, confirm my suspicion that Paolini, as a writer, has about all the talent that Tolkein had in his little toe. And I'm being nice.

Paolini has elicited mixed responses from his readers. Many people praise him saying that the book makes for a good read. This is hardly surprising, considering that he's been 'inspired' by some of the finest fantasy books written.

But then, perhaps I'm being harsh. After all, he was only 15 when he started writing his book. So perhaps we should pardon his 'imitation'. Imitation in an exam though, is unforgivable. I once heard of a 10 year old who got away scot free for 'being inspired' by another student's answer sheet during a test. Tsk. Honestly, what is the world coming to?

Scroll down to get a better look at how I spent my last geography class:

Star Wars- The Plot	Eragon- The Plot
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far, away . . .	A long time ago, in a land far, far, away . . .
Palpatine, an evil Sith Lord, has overthrown the galactic Republic and become emperor of the new Empire. The Jedi Knights, an ancient peacekeeping order, have been eradicated.	Galbatorix, an evil Dragon Rider has overthrown Algaesia and become King of the new Empire. The Dragon Riders, an ancient peacekeeping order, have been eradicated.
Princess Leia Organa is a member of the Rebel Alliance, a group fighting to defeat the Empire. She's on a mission involving Obi Wan Kenobi, an exiled Jedi living on Tatooine. The mission fails when her spaceship falls under attack by an Imperial star cruiser.	Princess Arya is an elf aiding the Rebelling Varden, a group fighting to defeat the Empire. She's on a mission to involving Brom, an exiled Rider living in Carvahal. The mission fails when her horse falls under attack by a group of Urgals.
Leia hides stolen schematics of the Empire's Death Star, and transports it to Tatooine.	Arya hides the stolen egg of the dragons and transports it to Carvahal.
The two droids make their way to Luke Skywalker. He decides to go to Obi Wan. After meeting him, Luke rushes home only to find his aunt and uncle murdered by Imperial storm troopers searching for the droids.	The egg makes it’s way to Eragon. He decides to go to Brom. After meeting him, Eragon rushes home only to find his uncle fatally wounded by the Ra'zac searching for the egg.
Meanwhile, Princess Leia is held captive. Darth Vader demands the location of the rebel base camp, but Leia resists....	Meanwhile, Princess Arya is held captive. Galbatorix demands the location of the rebel base camp, but Arya resists...

(plot summary courtesy of ruinedendings.com)

I've just copied and pasted the plot of Star Wars, replacing the original characters/places/ideas in violet with Paolini's mimicry in green. So perhaps the plot isn't entirely original. Take that away, and you have the words in green. But it turns out that the those aren't entirely original either.

Scroll down to see how I spent my last Sociology class.

Eragon vs. Lord of the Rings

Elessari	(Elessar)
Beor	(Beorn)
Morgothal	(Morgoth)
Isenstar	(Isengard)
Imiladris	(Imladris)
Hadarac Desert	(Harad Desert)
Mithrim	(Mithril)
Eridor	(Eriador)
Furnost	(Fornost)

Tsk tsk tsk. Paolini seems to have been a bit careless though. Here are some of the names he forgot to change. Really! Kids these days....

Melian... Melian
Angrenost... Angrenost
The Lonely Mountain... The Lonely Mountain
Valinor... Valinor
The Grey Folk... The Grey Folk

I wonder if you've noticed that Eragon (a mere mortal) who falls in love with Arya (an elfin princess) resembles Aragorn (another mere mortal) who falls in love with Arwen (another elfin princess). Aragorn turns out to be a king later on, and I'm willing to bet anything that Eragon has royal blood coursing through his veins.

The book is clearly written by a 15 year old. And a 15 year old who writes like a 15 year old doesn't exactly shout 'talent'. Paolini is now 22, but nothing seems to have changed. One of the most prominent discrepancies I've noticed in the book, is his writing style. It's a startling change when Eragon switches from archaic 'grown up' speech characteristic of fantasy novels set aeons ago in strange lands, to modern American 'teenage boy speak' characteristic of ... modern American teenage boys.

And it certainly is unsettling when the refined 'gentlemanly' tone of the book switches to something cruder. Just when you get used to Paolini and his mastery of flowery speech, he tries to get you interested in the body hair (or lack of it) in certain places of certain people. Save it for a Jackie Collins, but not for a fantasy novel written for children.

If you were to strip the book of its heavily borrowed material down to what is purely the work of Paolini, you will find a shaky amateur writing style, with moth-eaten characters playing highly dramatized roles, mouthing weak watery lines.

If you’re considering buying the book - don’t. It would be a far better idea to acquire the Belgariad, Malloreon or the other books by David Eddings which I seem to find traces (read ‘large amounts’) of in Paolini’s book. Edding’s is a true genius and Paolini appears to agree with me on that.

I'm not even going to attempt doing Eldest. Paolini made a big mistake when he wrote Eldest. He became a bit more original, and didn't copy as much.

This is something I really enjoyed reading.

I have to ask myself though. Who am I directing this rant and rave against? Paolini, who did a very unsuccessful job of plagiarising the work of countless other authors? His misguided parents who owned his publishing company? Or the world, who can't seem to tell tripe from talent?

An Ode to Blogchaat

2006-09-19T08:13:00.006+05:30

Dedicated to my first love, blogchaat. And to the mastermind behind it all, witnwisdumb.
And also to Shiny Butterknife, for reasons that don't translate into words.

Got time on your hands, and want a good read?
Well blogchaat shall strive to fulfill that need.
With stories for fun and tales that give thought,
There's travel and sports - oh we've got a lot.

In science you'll learn of moods and of minds,
And history tells of ships of all kinds
Our poetry speaks of Pipers sweet call
Of pixies so young, of nothing at all.

You'll walk down the lanes of memories past,
And read about drums, from first to the last
We've lighting experts and Egyptian words
And theories about them you might find absurd

'The prisons of mind' is well worth a look
And so is the post of one novice cook
You'll gasp when you read of pepper and spice
(Though Indian food, is really quite nice)

Our authors are bright, they write with a flair
They weave magic charms, pull words out of air
Of healing and herbs, of yawns and of crimes
Of Hero's so brave from Medieval times.

We like good cartoons, we love Mac n Cheese...
There's so much to say, and so much to see
So pull up a chair, for when you've begun
You won't want to leave, so hope you have fun.

A Dig at the Ig

2006-09-12T10:57:00.001+05:30

It happens every year. Someone writes a book that takes a profound look at humanity with historical perspectives filled with depth and meaning. Someone develops semiconductor heterostructures and invents integrated circuits. Someone establishes laboratory experiments as a tool in empirical economic analysis. Someone does something for the greater good of mankind, and receives a tangible symbol signifying approval or distinction. Someone receives the Nobel Prize. These people are honoured and remembered. Revered and respected.
They are recognized.

But what about the mastermind who formulated the optimal way to dunk a biscuit in hot tea? And the genius who sought to sooth distraught wives by inventing an infidelity detection spray that could be used on their husband’s underclothing? For the kind hearted man who took pity upon the poor dyspeptic souls who had to suffer in silence, and developed a breed of spiceless jalapeno chili pepper? Aren’t their efforts commendable too?

So one day Marc Abrahams, editor of 'The Annals of Improbable Research', decided that something had to be done. These were great men and women. They deserved fame. They deserved recognition. They deserved credit for their outstanding contributions to mankind. And thus, the Ig Nobels were born.

Every year, 10 Ig Nobel Prizes are awarded to people whose achievements make you laugh - and then think. The 2004 Ig Nobel Peace Prize went to Daisuke Inoue, the inventor of karaoke, for providing an entirely new way for people to learn to tolerate each other. No mean feat now, is it?

The 2001 Literature Prize went to John Richards, founder of the Apostrophe Protection Society for his efforts to protect promote and defend the differences between plural and possessive. A true believer, he is an unrelenting champion of the downtrodden punctuation mark.

Some of the funnier prizes:
The 1997 Ig Nobel prize for medicine went out to Carl Charnetski, Fransic Brennan and James Harrison for their discovery that listening to elevator music prevents the common cold.

The 2001 Ig Nobel prize for Health went out to Chittaranjan Andrade for his probing medical discovery that nose picking is a common activity among adolocents.

The 2003 Ig Nobel prize for Biology went out to C.W. Moeliker for documenting the first case of homosexual necrophilia (an urge to have same gender sex with a dead body ) in the mallard duck.

Did you know that chickens prefer beautiful humans? Or that Country Music has an effect on Suicide? I bet you didn’t know that the Vatican won the Economics prize for outsourcing prayers to India. Have you ever wondered if people could swim faster in syrup than in water? Whether pigeons could possibly discriminate between paintings of Picasso and Monet? Have you ever wanted to know just what goes on in a locusts brain while in watches Star Wars?

Do you have a huge wedding to plan? A bar mitzvah or some corporate convention? Have no fear. You can rent the country of Liechtenstein, thanks to Karl Schwärzler who won the 2003 Ig Nobel award for Economics.

For a complete list of all the Ig nobel prizes awarded so far, look here.

At the prize giving, the awards are handed out to the Ig Nobel winners by genuine Nobel Laureates. To quote Marc Abrahams ‘’Each time that occurs, it is a magical instant - at that moment it feels that the universe has two opposite ends, and these two opposite ends have somehow managed to meet and touch. Nobel Laureate and Ig Nobel Laureate look each other in the eye, each filled with gleeful wonder.'’

An update worth mentioning: The 2007 Peace Prize went out to some great minds who came up with the Gay Bomb, a bomb whose contents made soldiers sexually irresistible to each other.

Trespassers will be Persecuted

2006-09-07T09:57:00.001+05:30

“Trespassers will be Persecuted” - this is the sign I’ve had on my door ever since my sister and I were allotted different rooms, eight years ago. (I’m the elder-responsible-level headed woman, she’s the younger-thoughtless-bothersome brat).

The sign never seems to bother her though, or anyone for that matter. My mum walks into my room with The Feather Duster, looking perfectly serene and seemingly unaware that she is guilty of transgression. She can read, can’t she?

My sister has the grace to look guilty when caught, but she has multiple reasons to do so. One, my new pink top she’s trying on. Two, the white pair of stilettos she’s balancing (and looking completely ridiculous) on. And three, the most atrocious of them all, she’s in my room.

And there’s the sign in black and white still hanging on my door. Can’t people read?

I thought I would be safe from my dad. After all, he doesn’t like silk stockings and sapphire earrings. And dusting is not his forte (you should look at the top of his cupboards). So I thought I would be safe. Thought.

My dad is a scientist. The absent-minded kind. And he was doing some kind of test on lab rats (animal lovers stop right there, I’m in no mood for an argument), when one of them escaped. Lab rats tend to escape when their cages are left open. Like everyone else in the world, they were irresistibly drawn towards my room.

Which lead me to think, “why my room?” and “how can I put an end to this?”

For the first question, I have two answers. This world is full of heartless creatures who exist just to annoy me, and since my room is such a haven, everyone wants to treat it like their guesthouse.

As for the second question, I got out a bowl of popcorn and began watching Home Alone. I put it away almost immediately though. There’s a world of difference between a pail of water balanced over the door and setting your bathroom on fire.

Sprinkling Holy Water on my door doesn’t keep my sister away, pretending to clean my room doesn’t fool my mum. I can seal the cages of the lab rats with duct tape, and perhaps add a combination lock to my door. Four to the left, six to the right - that kind of lock. Or even the kind in science fiction movies, where you need the right fingerprint to get in, the right verbal pitch, and perhaps an eyeball too. Though I’m sure someone will find some way to get past that too (a minority has been reported to have done so).

I bet Batman didn’t have a little pesky brother in his lair. He had Robin, but Robin was charming and part of the plot. My sister is neither. I’ve tried issuing a restraining order but to no avail.

So I have two options left. Translate that sign into Chinese, Korean, Russian, Mexican and every other language I can think of. Or resign myself to the inevitable. People sneak into Buckingham Palace. People infiltrate the White House. People trespass in my room.

Robbing Hoodlums

2006-08-30T10:41:00.001+05:30

This was written on Independance Day. I was challenged by a friend, to write about Freedom Fighters. I think she expected an Ode to Gandhi or Martin Luther King.

In ages past, so long ago there lived in forests old,
A band of men who took from rich their heavy bags of gold.
But kept they not a single coin, a penny might it be,
For to the poor they gave it all, to keep them well and free.

The Merry Men they called themselves, at heart so young and strong-
They filled their lives with banter light, with laughter, cheer and song.
For they did hope that one day soon the Lionheart would come,
And free the people from the rule of John, his father’s son.

“Such ruthless men, a fearsome lot!” the Sheriff always said.
“They plunder homes and trample crops and leave us all for dead!
Young Allan with his sword has killed a dozen, eight and four,
And Friar Tuck with cudgel firm has wielded thirty more!”

“Oh Robin Hood and Little John they are the ones to blame!
And Stutley William was the one who set our barns aflame.
The heads of babes, that squire Much has crushed to nought but dust!
So kill the men! And slay them all! And burn each one we must!”

But be ye not deceived by him, for all the peasants knew,
That Robin and his Merry Men would see them through and through.
The taxes they could not afford, so he would give them gold,
To feed themselves, to clothe their backs and keep at bay the cold.

A price upon the head of each, they numbered seven score,
Though quick of wit and fleet of foot, ’tis told in tales of yore,
By arrow sharp and swiftest bow their battles always won.
For none could trounce the Merry Men at archery - could none.

In Nottingham they could not stay, in Sherwood they did dwell,
Such noble hearts, such fearless minds, who were these men pray tell?
They number large but surely be there one man not outlawed?
For they are wholesome, filled with love, and worthy men of God.

There stands the jolly Friar Tuck, who says their daily grace,
And Scarlet Will in tunic red and sleeves of snowy lace,
And Little John, the man they say, had arms like iron hard,
And Allan Dale the lute he played, he was their gentle bard.

With Marian his maiden fair, and with his fellow friends,
With all the people by his side, he fought until the end.
For Robin Hood, though just a man, he loved his people dear,
He kept them safe, he kept them warm, he kept them hale all year.

Alas! ‘Tis sad the world has come to days of utter greed,
Where none save few can spare themselves to help the folk in need,
Though Robin Hood is now long gone, his values we shall keep,
In tales we tell our children while we lull them soft to sleep.

A Poultice for the Musketeer

2006-08-09T10:29:00.002+05:30

Who comes this way, this lonely night?
A wounded Musketeer in flight
From where he comes - he does not say
His orders fresh cannot delay
Oh come to me, I’ll tend your bruise
And send you forth to bear your news

Now let us see, what have I got?
A little bit of gypsy wort,
Red coral berries nightshade yields,
The amaranth plucked fresh from fields.
Stir it, Stir it, Stew and Simmer,
Moonlight, starlight, gleam and glimmer.

Take loveage black, add it’s berries,
Half a dozen laurel cherries,
A snip of Bloodwort, dried hen bane,
A reddened hair from horses mane.
Add it, Add it, Fill the Pot,
Blend it, Brew it, Mix it hot.

Some devils claw and butterweed,
And just a pinch of poppy seed,
Wild willows tears and dead mandrake
A sprig of each is what I’ll take
The wound is healed, pick up your sword
And fare thee well upon thy road.

Every herb mentioned in the poem exists, the colours and fruit of each are true. Lovage is black, nightshade has red berries. Coral red, to be specific. And a little fun for weeping willows. Hence their tears. These herbs are of medicinal value, and some, like nightshade, are poisonous. A little was used to kill any germs that might have entered wounds.
Poppy seed was used as a pain killer by the early Greeks, who were the ones who first introduced them as having medicinal properties. The amaranth is an imaginary flower that never fades. It is said to have magical qualities, especially healing powers. Butter weed draws body tissues together, and stops bleeding. It is also known as Ragwort.

The curing effect of these shrubs and herbs were exaggerated in the medieval times, but they did do their bit in healing .

Contentment - Not my Cup of Tea.

2006-07-31T12:15:00.001+05:30

George Bernard Shaw wrote that the reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore, all progress depends on the unreasonable man.

Contentment is like reason. It makes people become fat in mind and body. Politicians and street gangs may do their bit to destroy the fabric of society, but to cause degeneration, there is nothing like contentment. My Pocket Dictionary defines contentment as a state in which one is generally satisfied with humanity at large. For long, I held a similar view. Then, recently, as a friend and I were indulging in small talk, the word came up.

“Contentment?” he voiced with some feeling. “Contentment is a sin!”

I was nonplussed. I had always thought of contentment as something to savour, to be proud of. I had believed that a goal in life would be to say that I am satisfied with what I have achieved, a state when I would have not the slightest urge to hanker after trivial, insignificant issues which would never bring happiness to equal the time and energy spent in chasing them. I told my friend as much.

“Look around,” he replied. “Do you see those beggars? How far do you think they will get in life? And those orphans; will they ever receive the love and care that is the birthright of every child? They are human too, aren’t they? When you see so much suffering around you, can you really be content?”

I could not look at him in the eye. While examining my shoelaces intently, I thought of how I had always felt that my good deed for the day was done when I occasionally dropped a few coins into an outstretched, often dirty and scabbed hand. In fact, I recalled with guilt that I had considered my good deed for the week done, and every time I passed another sorry soul, I would remind myself that I had just contributed, and was therefore not obliged to help anybody again for a while. Besides, I was a student, for crying out loud.

But back to contentment. Show me somebody who is content, and I will show you somebody who is incapable of noticing his less fortunate fellow man. In fact, I am slowly beginning to discover that contentment describes the man who is resting on his laurels; the man who is proud of what he has achieved, and of how much he has earned, and maybe of how many jacuzzis he plans to install in each of his four houses.

But there are others, I am glad to say, who feel for humanity, who care for the deprived and who want to make themselves heard. Sadly, they are few, too few in number. Here is a thought: if you believe that you can make a difference, then do your mite. Every little bit counts, and without your one act of kindness, the world would be one act of kindness poorer. Not a great difference for the world, but a world of a difference to the soul you might have helped.

One day, I hope to see a row of fat old wallabies with a placard around their necks saying “Sentenced for contentment”.

The Family. And then some

2006-07-20T09:59:00.002+05:30

Rats. There’s a family reunion in the offing and I still haven’t come up with an escape plan. Not that I have anything against family, or reunions for that matter. It’s the inevitable culmination of the two which makes me shudder. I can almost hear them…

"Oh how simply wonderful. Mabel, hasn’t she grown into a fine, lovely young woman?"

To which the dreaded Aunt Mabel would reply, "Indeed she has. Who would have thought that our dear little diddle dums would one day grow to be such a charming young lady?"

To which I force a smile, think up some quick excuse, and take refuge in the kitchen. After all when you’re under siege, you need supplies.

And a week later, that’s how I felt. The whole caboodle of prattling old women, taciturn old men and an assortment of young squealing piglets, (whom I’ve been assured are from the same gene pool as I) descended upon me from nowhere and made me a prisoner in my own house.

When I have my breath back, I think awful thoughts about Aunt Mabel who thinks I’m a d*********, and even said so out in the open where anyone could hear. And then Aunt Lizzie, who picked on me in first place.

Not so long ago, I was a child. Now it seems I am a woman. A fine, charming and lovely one at that. This seems to imply that I wasn’t charming and lovely already. The pigtails and pinafores went off years ago, but I had this sudden urge to put them on and dare them to comment. Of all the nerve!

But that would make my mother cross. And that means no dessert for the entire week. No, it wouldn’t do at all. And among those crotchety old bean poles and bothersome cubs, are more ‘fine, lovely, well turned out young women’.

Horror of Horrors! Is that the species I'm being clubbed with?! I protest! I don’t spend hours in front of the dressing table mirror, and then emerge looking no different than before. I don’t step daintily among the rose bushes, posing for effect. And I am most certainly not a traitor. I grew up with some of them! We used to gorge on those pies. Not peck at them. We used to collect those black shiny pebbles, not look down our nose at them.

Oh why did we have to grow up? Everything used to be simply splendid. But now it was all ruined! We’re groan ups now, and can’t live on blackberries and apple pies for weeks upon end.

Looking around morosely, something catches my eye. Those boys in the garden. They’ve… changed. They used to make me terribly cross, were awfully horrid and rather dreadful. But now they seem… nicer. Politer. And they look a lot better too. Which isn’t saying much, they never did appear anything short of dishevelled. But there’s a certain something about them that I can’t quite put a finger on.

And somehow, everything doesn’t seem that awful any more. After all, we don’t have to drink milk. I can take a sip of wine without having to surreptitiously look out for mother. My hair doesn’t need to be tied up in those hideous pink ribbons. And I can wear those lovely white shoes that they didn’t have in my size when I was younger.

And there’s something about those young men….

Casabunka

2006-07-18T16:02:00.002+05:30

If you aren't familiar with the original poem, do read it before you scroll down. Casabianca by Felicia Dorothy Hemans, was something that made all my classmates weepy when we had to study it in school. It didn't make any sense to me then, and it doesn't make any sense to me now.

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled.
He looked around, said "What the heck!"
And spiked his curly head.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
(Because he used hair gel)
A creature of heroic blood,
(He used hairspray as well)

The flames rolled on - he would not go
Without his favourite deo.
His father faint in death below
Could smell his mighty B.O.

He called aloud - "Say father, say
If I may use your cologne?"
But when no answer came his way,
He looked a little forlorn.

"Speak father", once again he cried,
"The flames are rather hot"
He looked around from side to side
To see what he forgot.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And he began to cough.
And said "Oh Shoot and Darn and Heck!
My earring has come off".

And shouted but once more aloud
"Dad, I think I’m ready."
While o’er him fast through sail and shroud,
The flames burnt on steady.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
And singed his spikey hair,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Whose shades reduced the glare.

There came a burst of thunder sound,
The boy was burnt crispy,
The wind just blew the smoke around,
The clouds were white and wispy.

The moral of this story is,
Pride won’t save your soul.
For if you lead a life like his,
You must rethink your goal.