Just a silly little funny poem:
I have no doubt that he is mine,
But when she came and caught his eye,
I could no longer feel fine,
For she had the looks for which one could die!
I knew he wouldn’t be thinking about her,
But even then, it was obvious that she deserved more than a glance,
And the second time his eyes followed her after,
I just wanted to pull her hair tightly, if only I could’ve had a chance!
After stealing a glimpse, he turned back smiling,
Hoping that I hadn’t noticed,
And I immediately tried (and failed) hiding,
The frown that had come which couldn’t be missed!
For a brief moment he enjoyed the effect
Of being special enough to be jealous for,
Then with all the sweetness he could inject,
He tried changing my mood which had turned sour!
The extra attention he gave to compensate for his deviation,
Though unexpected was quite a refreshing delight
So I just let myself enjoy all the new-found attention,
For now, he wasn’t at all taking me out of his sight!
With contentment unable to contain,
I still had one thought lingering in my mind
That can I be jealous once again
For your way of assuring me back was one of a kind!
Monday, April 26, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
I dont need reasons to love them but you simply cant overlook the sweetness!
Reasons why my parents are the cutest in the world:
• I have yet not encountered an old couple who fight for computer games. The let-me-play, stop-hinting-me-the-next-move, my-score-is-better fights and the reasons they find to make the other move away from the computer are just adorable! Of course they keep me on wait on the phone till they finish their game before they talk to me!
• I have never ever ever seen a more enthusiastic couple when it comes to dancing. Play the music and see them dance away to glory! During navratris I remember asking my mom to stop the dance and come back home and she would say, just one last dance! It is going to get over after that! They are truly the dancing queen and king!
• I haven’t heard any parent complaining to their daughter “amma tithinaa” (your mom scolded me) everyday even if she didn’t.
• Cant imagine any other lady closing retirement taking part in her office’s national level sports meet, going places likes Pune and Allahbad for it and actually winning prizes there. That too, for weird events like long jump and table tennis! Ma, you are just out-of-the-world! Never known of a 39-year old pregnant lady taking part in an athletic race and beating all the 20-year old youth in it.
• Oh! My very passionate mom with that incredible participation spirit. She would take part in all her “hindi-divas pratiyogita” and keep reciting hindi songs and poems all through the day, so much so that even we would know every word by heart. There has been no event she knew of and didn’t participate in. Tiredness and hectic office-work are never excuses.
• So supportive they are for everything you do. All you do is study well and they are in for every little wish of yours.
• Oh my ever-talkative parents. Sometimes, I just sit spell-bound with my mom, not able to believe how innocently and candidly she can talk and talk and talk. And when it comes to my dad, the same old jokes that he cracks every now and then and laughs equally hard each time!!!! And if there is nothing much left to talk, there is the obvious “amma tithina” statement or my dad’s repetitive jokes on which he laughs as hard everytime.
• Who-on-earth has a fetish for water, collecting socks, body-splash, Tupperware and random chutka-mutka things but for my mother? Typical Moanisha character! And my dad, he would so excitedly try even female sweat-shirts unwittingly and ask how it looks on him!
• Who would wail at the top of their voice muthai-tiru-something-something while happily riding on the roads, much to the bewildered amusement of other people, especially at traffic signals!
• The very proud but innocent boasting that comes from dad that my daughters have done this and my daughters have done that to every person he can catch hold of who can be forced to listen to it. For the very reason, his insistence on asking us to keep uploading our photos online, so that he has visual proofs to his bragging big talks. And not just that, suddenly receiving 200mails in your inbox notifying you that “Venkataraman Iyer” has tagged a photo of yours! (And yes, his two-second come-on-skype calls!) Not to forget, the very embarrassing add requests from my dad on facebook, orkut and the other thousand webpages he has registered into.
• What a brilliant memory my mom seems to have. She would remember the names and specific memories of every single person I would have mentioned to her. Oh! Priyal, the girl who draws well, Oh! Shardul, the one who came home to get your Scooby-doo tazos! Oh, this guy and that girl, she just knows everybody!!!! And very contrastingly, my dad seems to forget the very friend he would have met yesterday! (Sometimes, comes to my aid, he forgets the friends he is annoyed of!)
• The couple who would just attend every bhajan-function they would know of and then on the same day go out to celebrate Valentine’s Day at SICA! And yes! Also wish their daughter valentine’s day and ask her for her plans! (Not that they would want her to have any!)
• Getting a mail which ends saying “truck full of love, Iyers” might sound cute but I also have greeting cards for my birthdays where it is signed only saying, best wishes, IYER! Not much sentiment expressed, one cannot consider it a card lovingly from a father… Pendulum of swaying sentiments or awkwardness, I guess!
Well, my emotions are always on the expressive side and so this note! TOUCHWOOD
• I have yet not encountered an old couple who fight for computer games. The let-me-play, stop-hinting-me-the-next-move, my-score-is-better fights and the reasons they find to make the other move away from the computer are just adorable! Of course they keep me on wait on the phone till they finish their game before they talk to me!
• I have never ever ever seen a more enthusiastic couple when it comes to dancing. Play the music and see them dance away to glory! During navratris I remember asking my mom to stop the dance and come back home and she would say, just one last dance! It is going to get over after that! They are truly the dancing queen and king!
• I haven’t heard any parent complaining to their daughter “amma tithinaa” (your mom scolded me) everyday even if she didn’t.
• Cant imagine any other lady closing retirement taking part in her office’s national level sports meet, going places likes Pune and Allahbad for it and actually winning prizes there. That too, for weird events like long jump and table tennis! Ma, you are just out-of-the-world! Never known of a 39-year old pregnant lady taking part in an athletic race and beating all the 20-year old youth in it.
• Oh! My very passionate mom with that incredible participation spirit. She would take part in all her “hindi-divas pratiyogita” and keep reciting hindi songs and poems all through the day, so much so that even we would know every word by heart. There has been no event she knew of and didn’t participate in. Tiredness and hectic office-work are never excuses.
• So supportive they are for everything you do. All you do is study well and they are in for every little wish of yours.
• Oh my ever-talkative parents. Sometimes, I just sit spell-bound with my mom, not able to believe how innocently and candidly she can talk and talk and talk. And when it comes to my dad, the same old jokes that he cracks every now and then and laughs equally hard each time!!!! And if there is nothing much left to talk, there is the obvious “amma tithina” statement or my dad’s repetitive jokes on which he laughs as hard everytime.
• Who-on-earth has a fetish for water, collecting socks, body-splash, Tupperware and random chutka-mutka things but for my mother? Typical Moanisha character! And my dad, he would so excitedly try even female sweat-shirts unwittingly and ask how it looks on him!
• Who would wail at the top of their voice muthai-tiru-something-something while happily riding on the roads, much to the bewildered amusement of other people, especially at traffic signals!
• The very proud but innocent boasting that comes from dad that my daughters have done this and my daughters have done that to every person he can catch hold of who can be forced to listen to it. For the very reason, his insistence on asking us to keep uploading our photos online, so that he has visual proofs to his bragging big talks. And not just that, suddenly receiving 200mails in your inbox notifying you that “Venkataraman Iyer” has tagged a photo of yours! (And yes, his two-second come-on-skype calls!) Not to forget, the very embarrassing add requests from my dad on facebook, orkut and the other thousand webpages he has registered into.
• What a brilliant memory my mom seems to have. She would remember the names and specific memories of every single person I would have mentioned to her. Oh! Priyal, the girl who draws well, Oh! Shardul, the one who came home to get your Scooby-doo tazos! Oh, this guy and that girl, she just knows everybody!!!! And very contrastingly, my dad seems to forget the very friend he would have met yesterday! (Sometimes, comes to my aid, he forgets the friends he is annoyed of!)
• The couple who would just attend every bhajan-function they would know of and then on the same day go out to celebrate Valentine’s Day at SICA! And yes! Also wish their daughter valentine’s day and ask her for her plans! (Not that they would want her to have any!)
• Getting a mail which ends saying “truck full of love, Iyers” might sound cute but I also have greeting cards for my birthdays where it is signed only saying, best wishes, IYER! Not much sentiment expressed, one cannot consider it a card lovingly from a father… Pendulum of swaying sentiments or awkwardness, I guess!
Well, my emotions are always on the expressive side and so this note! TOUCHWOOD
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The Pseudo Identities of a Writer!
She could have managed alone, like she eventually did. But still, one does expect a sign of care from the person who claims to love her. She had no issues walking back alone through a secluded lane at an odd hour but it mattered to her whether that person would show concern for her safety, for it would have meant he considered her to be his as much as she wanted to be his. She was hardly bothered about her safety, nothing wrong could have possibly happened but it was HIS indifference to it which pricked her as it in a way signified a small defeat: she had failed to get him express concern for her well-being. However hard she may have tried convincing him that she can walk back herself, deep inside her heart she wanted him to care enough to not let her go, to accompany her till the end, if not bragging as a strong protector but maybe just to get more time to spend with her. She was unsuccessful in creating a want in him to be with her. She obviously wouldn’t have voiced it out, for it was something one shouldn’t be told about. Yes! She was just in one of her emotional high and the rush of emotions weren’t helping her be objective. It might appear inconsequential a thing if she would think back about it, but for the moment it made a huge difference what he would say. Finally walking back alone, she did feel a little childish expecting a trifling little thing from him and getting disappointed about such a trivial thing, but disappointment was disappointment.
She rushed back home and banged the door behind her. Hurried up to her bed, held her pillow close to her to hide the rolling tears from her eyes, before anybody else sees it. Only that soft delicate roll of cotton knew of her tears, the world has never seen her in her low. She managed to let out a small tear, feeling ridiculously juvenile all the while. She thought of it for a while as at that moment, she was able to sense the feeling she had towards it. A pragmatic that she is, more than just letting the feeling sink it, she started analyzing it, scrutinizing the feeling as to what was it that was making her feel so disheartened. The insignificance of the whole incident made her smile at herself but by then she had experienced too much of the emotion to let go of it. She wanted to make the emotion hers: to possess it in some way.
Her way of owning an emotion was writing about it, making a story of it. She immediately grabbed a pen and a paper (for she liked the conventional style of writing) and passionately started to write. Just as she was about to give a name to the character, she stopped; strangely so, for she had never halted in her flow when she decided to write. This time, she didn’t feel like giving a name to her character. She wanted this story to be in first person, not impersonated by a fictional being. Each emotion that she had strongly felt was always narrated to the world in the camouflage of a different world, a different person and never being her. Sometimes it was rather tedious giving superfluous details to make sure nobody knew the parable was in fact her own story. She loved sharing her experiences but felt awkward admitting them as hers and hated being questioned by people the reason she wrote it and what is it that she is feeling now. Because by the time she starts writing about it, she is already over the feeling, having probed over it for some time. Like mentioned earlier, she deeply believed in objectivity and took sentiments also rather hard-headedly. She was comfortable in her creative let-out by making it sound fictional. On one hand, because she had strongly lived through the feeling the story could be related to by many but then she would be spared of confessing it as her experience. She would usually be speechless when people glorified her writing, pondering how she could have possibly written about something so well, having not gone through it. She would just smile at them, thankful for them liking it and unsuspicious of it being real. But this time, she was tired of making it sound like an imagination, tired of living another incident of her life as an imaginary character. She wanted to face the questions thrown at her, answer them and get over it. After all, everybody experiences what she has/had. Like the funny imprudent expectation she had a little while ago, she was sure everybody had had it at least once however bleakly faint it would have been. What was so awkwardly embarrassing about having emotions? This time the story was going to be different, it would be truly hers, just the way she had lived it. She gave herself a self-assuring smile and began writing. A little later, she was seen dozing off beside the paper. A little closer look at the paper would have told you a story of a character, Samreen. She, the writer had again cowered to give her story away; she kept her identity to herself yet shared it with the whole world. She just could not put all her other stories at stake of revelation by admitting one to be a part of her life. She, again had lived the life of one of her many characters, this time of Samreen’s; ironically helpless because of her own fictioanal characters or more precisely by her own emotions.
She rushed back home and banged the door behind her. Hurried up to her bed, held her pillow close to her to hide the rolling tears from her eyes, before anybody else sees it. Only that soft delicate roll of cotton knew of her tears, the world has never seen her in her low. She managed to let out a small tear, feeling ridiculously juvenile all the while. She thought of it for a while as at that moment, she was able to sense the feeling she had towards it. A pragmatic that she is, more than just letting the feeling sink it, she started analyzing it, scrutinizing the feeling as to what was it that was making her feel so disheartened. The insignificance of the whole incident made her smile at herself but by then she had experienced too much of the emotion to let go of it. She wanted to make the emotion hers: to possess it in some way.
Her way of owning an emotion was writing about it, making a story of it. She immediately grabbed a pen and a paper (for she liked the conventional style of writing) and passionately started to write. Just as she was about to give a name to the character, she stopped; strangely so, for she had never halted in her flow when she decided to write. This time, she didn’t feel like giving a name to her character. She wanted this story to be in first person, not impersonated by a fictional being. Each emotion that she had strongly felt was always narrated to the world in the camouflage of a different world, a different person and never being her. Sometimes it was rather tedious giving superfluous details to make sure nobody knew the parable was in fact her own story. She loved sharing her experiences but felt awkward admitting them as hers and hated being questioned by people the reason she wrote it and what is it that she is feeling now. Because by the time she starts writing about it, she is already over the feeling, having probed over it for some time. Like mentioned earlier, she deeply believed in objectivity and took sentiments also rather hard-headedly. She was comfortable in her creative let-out by making it sound fictional. On one hand, because she had strongly lived through the feeling the story could be related to by many but then she would be spared of confessing it as her experience. She would usually be speechless when people glorified her writing, pondering how she could have possibly written about something so well, having not gone through it. She would just smile at them, thankful for them liking it and unsuspicious of it being real. But this time, she was tired of making it sound like an imagination, tired of living another incident of her life as an imaginary character. She wanted to face the questions thrown at her, answer them and get over it. After all, everybody experiences what she has/had. Like the funny imprudent expectation she had a little while ago, she was sure everybody had had it at least once however bleakly faint it would have been. What was so awkwardly embarrassing about having emotions? This time the story was going to be different, it would be truly hers, just the way she had lived it. She gave herself a self-assuring smile and began writing. A little later, she was seen dozing off beside the paper. A little closer look at the paper would have told you a story of a character, Samreen. She, the writer had again cowered to give her story away; she kept her identity to herself yet shared it with the whole world. She just could not put all her other stories at stake of revelation by admitting one to be a part of her life. She, again had lived the life of one of her many characters, this time of Samreen’s; ironically helpless because of her own fictioanal characters or more precisely by her own emotions.
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