I am simultaneously impressed and depressed by this book. On the one hand, it is almost blasphemous in its mortal depiction of gods, yet in a way that seems to underlie a believable reality that I could respect. Sadly, its poor rendition left me wanting. The series by Amish has been well touted, after all, it’s not unlike a Chetan Bhagat story - simple, drab, yet extremely easy to read. ...
So this is a “non-fiction” article (insomuch as is possible, given the topic, apocalypses) I wrote for our intra-hostel creative writing event. We placed 2nd, so I presume it had a non-negative contribution towards that result. I would like to point out at the offset that I am not a proponent of antiestablishmentarianism 1, and my own views on society are relatively over-optimistic. I will probably write about them some time. ...
It’s been quite a long time since I posted anything, and indeed since I’ve coherently expressed myself in a non-technical format (well, I wonder if this counts, given its lack of coherency). Here goes to creaking rusty joints, in the name of my recent loss of self-expression: Whilst the sky bleeds blue’s true hue, Could I colour the world yellow? Would the pigments blend softly and slew into dearth earthen, fallow. ...
I walk on a path of leaves, a path lined with trees withered. The airs of self-image drift into the breeze, leading softly into a storm weathered. In a world devoid of black and white, autumn grey makes for ironic sense. Behind, ahead; comparisons bite, poisoned with debilitating innocence. I walk on a path of leaves, Beneath me they cackle with laughter.
Here is my 3rd place “winning” entry for Saarang Creative Writing (posting here just for the sake of it, and because something reminded me of the title). It’s a bit of an abstract piece, and admittedly a bit shabby here and there. Commentary shall follow at the end Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost… But Some Are “Have you heard about the murder case?” “Hmm… It seems like I have a particularly nasty homicide on my hands. Particularly nasty indeed…” ...
A light trickle, bathed in sunlight, sparkles Flowing silently through the pebbles, Dip... Dip... Counting time as it falls A light trickle, bathed in sunlight sparkle A gentle breeze, enchanted with fragrances Gliding gracefully through the leaves, Shh... Unheeded it drifts on, oh time, A gentle breeze, enchanted with fragrances An undulating wave, ever-steady in it's to-fro, Gently beating against the shoreline, Whoosh... Unwavering in it's repetition, lo! time, An undulating wave, ever-steady in it's to-fro, I’m not entirely sure what made me write this, since I had intended something entirely different. Time has never been so peaceful or friendly; perhaps it’s a subconscious prayer that it will be so. Anyways, go random thought-flow hijacking. ...
The flotsam and jetsam your life's left lying The many paths you wish you'd taken Some less travelled, some more trodden, Those layers of dust have set thick The apologies left unsaid; universal and undirected The hearts hurt, the grief begotten Every moment a little bit of you crumbles away Something you can never put together again The unambitious pursuit of ambition, Blind stumbling of one so naive The vortices that pull you in deeper And cause eddies of inner turmoil Storming forth, you stride through the unknown Heedless, unwary of what you stand on, Praying that it be solid ground and not merely illusion And you dare not look behind. What have you done? Where did you lose sight of yourself? Who do you think you are? Why oh why? You can only pray that 'tis not too late And when you find it is, then You can only pray that you've left behind breadcrumbs; That you can still bridge these Archipelagos of Regret.
There is a temple down the road from where I live, 1 left and 2 rights. Every Friday I make my tiny pilgrimage To it's equally tiny containment of solace. My mother sends me to feed the cows, But I stay through the evening I do not know why. An island in the violent waters of the urban suburb. A protector of our "Samskrutum"; a social herb. I am pulled by this vortex in my life's turbulence; By the familiar faces of friendly foreign figures Actors without transcripts in the life that is mine. In this serenity, my mind wanders seeking serendipity, Wishing for answers to open questions Unanswered as always in some metaphysical FAQ. Still I search, waiting for a reply I am due, "Why do I love this temple so much What gives it it's special touch?" It begins. Simple questions always raise complex ones, This is not Tirupati, Devotee fanfare is not it's birthright, Yet, something in it's infancy is a pleasing sight The calm, peaceful casualness comes fresh Nothing like the spirituality I had come to know Like many my age, brought up in the ways of science I hold little value to words of meta-science. The rituals, preaching teachings, seem irrelevant in this day and age. Ramblings of some long lost sage. Words eroded away by the ruthless agents of change. That they should hold eternally true seems strange. I have never understood the darshan, The pushing struggle to glimpse but an unnecessary manifestation, To which they attach spiritual value, and many fold adoration, More, much more than the gold by which it is adorned. It is not my deity, not that which I hold in my mind, Unseen, shapeless, abstract. While in the religious godhead I do not believe, In our religion I do. Our art. Our language and our literature. Our values and our virtues. Our. The word stings me. What right have I, so ignorant, Not even knowing my mother tongue, nor the rituals and shlokas of an Ancestry I was born into. I may not have a say in the matter, But that does not mean I can not choose it. Not for the first time, an ethereal realization dawns, I love this temple because it gives me a chance. A casual environment too subtle to rub against my insecurities A window into my inheritance. A hope of understanding. I wrote this on the train on the way back to college, though many of the ideas that brought it out happened in-situ. My initial plan was to sit there (it’s a really nice place to sit and ponder), but due to lack of time, I did it instead in a horribly cramped position in the train, through the wee hours of the night where conformational problems would inhibit any possibility of sleep anyways, making me look quite the travelling bard. Since then, I have merely added some corrections to the language, and made it more consumable. I’d love to hear your thoughts on the topic (Ok, honestly I’d just like someone to confirm that I’m not alone in these thoughts, and secondly I’d like to see some damn comment in my inbox that isn’t spam). ...
I found a story I wrote way back in 10th I think. I like the style, and I find it comical how introvert-ish I was back then. Brings back some vivid memories and feelings. I still can’t deny that the human race is way too complicated and artificial for it’s own good. Untitled1 As he gazed up into the sky, he contemplated. Life had been good to him. He had whatever he wanted, a secure job, a wife, a son, and an active social life. Though, he liked his socialite status, he felt happiest when he was alone, and gazing up into the sky. It was a beautiful sky, a nice light shade of blue with no sun, and a few large clouds. It was a dark sky, one ready to burst open with rain, and wash all of his troubles away. ...
Once when the heart did flutter, Every moment passing only to draw us closer To glance upon you, my thoughts stuttered, To breath you in, so refreshing, yet so dear. As you moved through me, a warmth filled my chest I was at your every beck and call I swore I would withstand the test A test of loss. I failed, and now I fall. A craving left unsatisfied You have moved forward, without heed to my growing addiction, Without heed to the feelings of this body of but flesh and bone, My sensous brown coffee bean. Try as I might, I can’t kick the coffee habit. ...