There lived a miser: not so nasty, not so good.
He had an about-to-break-anytime rocking chair at home. Having crossed more than 60 years of age its squeaks had become a daily headache for his wife. “It’s my father’s last memory. I can’t repair it any form, he’ll be hurt.”
Then there was the poison bottle post expiry date in house. His wife couldn’t bear this silliness.
“I have paid Rs.15 for it 12 years ago. At least I have to recover the full price!”
“I’ll get the price recovered for you- too many rats in the house!” The miser was happy.
That night she emptied the entire poison bottle in the cookie dough.
“This tastes awesome. New recipe?”
“Yes” she said.
The miser lived long. He managed to recover the full price.
“Why don’t you understand? These good people suffer more when you erect their massive idols and worship them.”
Saying this she went away. The worn out sandals rubbed against the new pavement a little harder.
It was the 3rd month she hadn’t received a salary. She was a primary school teacher in a small town. She wasn’t on strike.
With hurried strides Mohan was walking down the long winding mud road towards the river stream. The day light was getting dim. It was time for sunset.
Panting heavily after the hour long walk he felt his throat little parched. “But it doesn't matter now,” he said to himself.
Wiping away the tears as he strode few more steps, in a moment the world turned upside down with clouds of dust swirling over him, making it difficult to breathe as he tried getting up from the ground only to notice an upper tooth dangling in the cavity of his mouth sending the pain cracking his every nerve.
The small round shining black stone he had toppled over was clearly visible. Quickly bowing down he said, "Thank you God for giving me back my life." Tears didn’t allow him to see anything further.
It was that time of the year again, when the High School exam results are out. Many find their dream careers and a few end their mortal existence.
Mohan had found his God.
Poet or writer or novelist or author, call her/him anything you like. They belong to the same league: The League of Most Ordinary (Wo)Men.
Ordinary? Ah! You thought they were the elite ones, right? Something like this?
Somewhere deep in a silent palace, untouched by any other human habitation, dressed in tuxedo, writing on an expensive rosewood or mahogany table under a beautiful night lamp, with a glass of the most expensive wine placed beside or with an occasional puff and violinists playing Mozart’s 9th Symphony of Mozart in the background. (He has composed a 9th one, right?)
And then there would be the most beautiful damsels waiting to serve them. Occasionally being awarded Poet Laureates, sitting among the knights and reading out their works to the royal family <oops! royal family should have been in all CAPS>
The fact is poets/writers/novelists/authors are nothing but the most ordinary of the mortals. They notice and express what others try to forget/pretend to forg…
This is the question which haunts us when we finally achieve what we set out to achieve. It maybe landing a job with good pay package, finding someone special(ahem ahem!), or being able to catch the local train at the right time, which you could never in the last 10 years, and being able to find a seat to sit.
The question meets us all the time: What next? Remove the What. Remove the next.
The vacant lanes
those seducing looks
of unquenched beings
as if wanting you
to embrace them
at least for the night
when you are alone
Yesterday, I was 'there'
where 'decent' folks
never dare wander
Not having met her
whether my touch
she'll still remember
There, in the corner
with loose skin
but feeling 16
present in her eyes
How does age matter
when expressing love?
I still remember
she was always taken
before I could
us being together
without a moment's halt
she fell into my arms
in the moments of bliss
we couldn’t create before
She was the autobiography
of my favourite writer
I, her reader
yesterday, I was ‘there’
at the book exhibition.
Advertisement The Last Poem - a novel by Rabindranath Tagore Excerpt: "The protagonist, Amit Ray, is a barrister educated at Oxford. He travels in order to escape the drudgery of his middle-class existence, and gets keenly in…
Untouched by opinions
fearless and poised
on Kanyakumari's blazing rocks
in burning sand and among roaring waves
he strode in his own company
and not for a moment stopped
who woke up India
from deep slumber
who has a single vision
"Glory to his mother land,
Glory to the world"
Utter the word "Relation" and in a moment we think about our boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/cat/dog (No! This doesn't mean a boyfriend and girlfriend after becoming spouses fight like cats and dogs. The order of the sequence is immaterial :P).
We build relations with everyone around - the chai wala (tea seller), travel partner in public transport or the child with no teeth smiling back at us for no reason.
So what's the Raaz(secret) to beautiful relations? Making relations beautiful depends on talking to each other more than talking about each other.
Whether you are a blogger/writer/banker/programmer/president of the nation, the situation doesn't discriminate. There's always a time when we have the "It's-on-the-tip-of-my-tongue-but" moment. You know it but just can't get the perfect word at the right moment!
We build a special relation with every word. Seeing & hearing a word throws forth another word in our memory. For example, nation: pride, pink: babies, disgust: garbage and so on.
Let's call the second word a "complementary word". These complementary words can vary for all one of us.
Here are 3 words along with their complementary words that resonate in me.
What complementary words do they mean to you? Make a mental note or share in a comment below. Or maybe you can add 3 more words of your choice in a comment with their complementary words.
Using this you can create your own word bank (online or offline) and use it to refer anytime y…
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He didn't marry her because her father went broke.
Less rains, sudden rains, increasing debts, resulting poor health and family conflicts.
Here's what she wrote to him. After all she was the daughter of a man with unbound love in his heart. Her father was a farmer. Poem: Love Them
When people you love
They may avoid
say "it's over"
Don't let opinions colour your voice
they are but a myth
With love it began
with love it must complete
(Picture captured: Malvan, Sindhudurg, May 2011)
धरतीशी जडले नाते
तरीही उमजे ना काही
बघता मृत हे अंकुर
शहारली मज आई
Bonded with mother earth
Still unable to grasp
Seeing the dead plant shoots
Shivers my mother
Here अंकुर/Plant shoots is a symbol for 1300+ farmers who have committed suicide.
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One day, when an 8 year old school boy talked about his dream of becoming a farmer.
Poem: The Day I Was Slapped
My age is 8
and I love football
Messi is my hero
but that day changed it all
Doing my homework
trying to finish a math sum
of division and multiplication
pretending it to be fun
It was when Papa asked
what do you want to be
a doctor, an engineer
or a programmer maybe?
I thought for some time
and then came the answer
in a moment I said
a farmer! a farmer!
He got up from the chair
and rushed towards me
furious like never before
he slapped me three
Then he started sobbing
as I couldn't stop but cry
caressing my red cheeks
I still don't know why
I bow down to you with utmost gratitude for sparing your time to read this.
All of us survive and thrive fundamentally on food and farmers are the chief architects of it all! But what happens when they feel like ending their lives? What about their dependent families especially when the…
That day on the street corner, in that stinky garbage bin which we always avoid passing by, 3 dull, dry and dying flowers were talking with joy.
The first flower said, "I was at the Mohammad's Dargah. How peaceful were those moments!"
"I was at the cemetery beside an old man at his funeral. Poor chap!" said the second, shedding tears.
"Being Ram Janma, I was offered at the Lord's feet yesterday. What a grand celebration it was," said the third.
Up they went, being lifted into a garbage collection truck. Beside them was a crumpled newspaper with news of superstars speaking about intolerance in India.
The headline read “Trending Now: #Intolerance”.
Note: A Dargah is an Islamic shrine built over the grave of a revered religious figure, often a Sufi saint or dervish.
Ram Janma is celebrate in India as the birth of Ram also known as Raghava, the seventh avatar of the Hindu god Vishnu, and king of Ayodhya.
Balkrishna Bhagvant Borkar (बा.भ.बोरकर) A poet handsome in every sense, inside out, just like he says आम्हीहोफुलांचेपराग! (Eng Trans: I’m like the flower pollen!)
नाहीपुण्याचीमोजणी is one of his poems which will guide us within every time we read or listen. The poem is so beautiful (didn’t know a single word to express the experience, let’s say beautiful for now!) that I wanted it to be shared with my friends who do not understand Marathi.
Translating a poem without diluting its essence is a challenge. Here’s a humble attempt. Would love to read your thoughts about it, don’t forget to comment.
Team Blogsters (from L to R: Kauro, Pooja, Deepa and Me)
The panel discussions, keynotes and talks were so diverse and powerful that it will be exhausting to read about it in a single post. Get the highlights of the day and more on SMW's channels: Twitter or Facebook page or my Twitter profile.
For me the key highlight on Day 6 was the workshop "Spinning Content - Writing for the Web" by Parineeta Mehra, Founder of Look Beyond.
Here are the 6 takeaways from the session.
#01 Write, write and write! Make new mistakes and learn from them.
#02 Keep the content precise. "Does it convey what you exactly wanted to express?"
#03 Original, authentic content is the king. It adds more value than anything else.
#04 There are no shortcuts to good content.
#05 Don't let your ideas fly away. Pin them down. A pocket diary, or few apps like Paper or Skitch can help.
Numbers, numbers, numbers! Like a mathematician numbers matters to a poet. Maybe more.
More than a deliberate attempt at crafting 3/5/7 line poems, there is something natural, existential, living about these which can be lost in explanation and reasoning. Just like Albert Einstein said, "...as if you described a Beethoven symphony as a variation of wave pressure."
Tercets are one such phenomenon. They are three lines of poetry that may make a complete poem or a stanza.
Few Tercets which I wrote even before I knew they existed.
Lock the doors,
or keep guards.
The mocking death always plays swift.
Young leaves dance, happy and content.
Old ones fall down,
never to meet again.
3. The Concert
The strings stopped strumming
and the bow stopped moving.
The concert began.
Writers must not always be lost in their solitude. When time comes they must relentlessly write against the wrong. They are a part of the society.
Yes, I know this is not a story or a beautiful romantic poem. However saddening it may be, but we must speak about this today. NOW.
Since the Paris attacks happened I see a lot of "Praying for Paris victims" posts. Prayers are the first emotional response. Nothing against them. But we pray and forget.
Going beyond prayers and sympathy, India needs to learn from this incident and further push its efforts towards Zero Tolerance Against Terrorism. Terrorist attacks are not a border security issue. Can happen anywhere right from your local malls to colleges and theatres.
Let the government do its part. But are we vigilant enough as citizens??
When we don't care to switch off the fans when getting down from our 12/15/17 coach local trains which burn up loads of electricity, who cares to give a damn about an unidentified baggage? O…
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Rohan, being little grumpy that night and little tired after the cricket match his team had lost, was lying on the bed with his back towards the ceiling, listening to the sound of the old grumpy fan stirring waves of warm air.
His granny had given him a nice scolding for finishing off the last besan laddu she had kept reserved for his elder sister, who would be coming from the city in her diwali vacations.
The loving enmity between the brother sister pair obviously made Rohan the suspect in her eyes. Now she was sitting beside him trying to console him and wiping away her own tears, feeling guilty of the scolding act.
In the meanwhile, Manju the 2.5 year old cute cat, lying alone on the attic, was smacking away remnants of the last besan laddu off his whiskers.
Compared to what was a soothing, dreamy world of literature at the Tata Lit Live (did you miss the post?) the Blog Now, Live Forever (BNLF ) was a fast paced exhilarating ride at The Lalit Mumbai.
Oops! I couldn’t make to Day 1 at BNLF, but from what I heard and read it was a super-exciting start of the most disruptive conference on blogging by Indiblogger.
Disclaimer: This account is my personal experience and the views expressed may differ from other attendees’ at the festival.
Day 1 | 29th October 2015
Having managed to keep myself from diving deep into literature or arts festivals for few years for silly reasons, I couldn’t resist myself from attending the Tata Lit Live 2015 at NCPA, the Sixth Mumbai International Literary Festival.
The first workshop I attended was Robert Sullivan’s “Crossing the threshold of a poem: Translating emotion into words.” Robert currently teaches a popular creative writing class at MIT's MSVA Campus. You can read more about him here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Sullivan_(poet)
Robert was really a cool guy, great listener and really sensitive person. Of course how could he be a poet if not sensitive? When you observe a person doing mundane things like lifting a cup of tea with great care, I know it may seem nothing extraordinary, but the feeling of being at ease and warmth is rare to see these…