Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category

August 2, 2017

“Do you see them” the little one asks me
Wiping her tear stained eyes bravely
“The monsters aren’t real, my dear”
I reply, while at me and her, they leer.

How do I will her not to give in
How do I make her fight them and win
How do I ensure she’s better than what I’ve been
My little girl, who sees the same monsters I’ve once seen

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Bed time reading : Installment #6

June 26, 2017

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Renewed – June 25th

January 19, 2017

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If Love’s shade lies overhead
Then on heaven do your feet tread.
Come hither then, wayfarer
Let’s seek Love’s shelter together.

Like the fragrance of a flower, she
The music in Urdu’s poetry
My dusk and dawn, my night and morn
My life, my world, to Love belong

The little minx, smiling saucily
Decked in flowers, hides from me
But knows she not, does she?
That with her scent, her I will see

Someday, somewhere, I’ll stumble upon her
Like lost words in a prayer, suddenly remembered
And wear her like a charm, forever
In my heart, cherished and treasured

Like a dew drop, gliding silently
In the garden of Eden, lives she
I search, leaf by leaf in tree after tree
For a clue to find where she might be

Dazed and dizzy, bewitched by her beauty
I see her here, there and everywhere
In a new face and form each time, I swear
Her changing colours drive me crazy

Yet if Love’s shade lies overhead
Then surely on heaven, do we tread.
So search for her I will, through night and morn
Till one day to me, my Love belongs

– A translation of Gulzar’s Chal Chaiyyan in Dil se

Review: The Luck Stone

April 6, 2016

The Luck Stone
The Luck Stone by P.G. Wodehouse
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Is this a Wodehouse tribute to (or a parody of) Collins’ The Moonstone ? For we have it all, a gem stone, mysterious Indians and Britishers thrillingly following everyone around with gun shots flying here and there etc etc. The only difference is that the protagonist is your typical British boy. So you get the Wodehouse school story cake with the icing of a thriller.

It is also the least funny book of Wodehouse I’ve read in a while. And I don’t mean that as a negative. It has its hilarious moments (For instance, Ram, the Indian school boy. Also Wodehouse is probably the only author who can write the “Indian stereotypical character” which doesn’t make my blood boil. There’s also an extremely kind German master with a thick accent, so expect pages of dialogues which you have to decipher.) But intrigue seems to be the main focus. A very “different” Wodehouse book than to what I’m used to.

View all my reviews

June 30, 2015

To that person who wanted to see dulquer, nazriya and mango juice on my blog and instead only found a wordy review of Bangalore days.

Here’s Fahadh and Nazriya and lots of mango juice for you

 

Just another paragraph

November 1, 2014

Just descriptions in a jumble. Nothing more and nothing less.

The fresh drops of invisible rain sparkling on the wilting blades of grass, the pungent smell of freshly mown lawns, the whirr of the early commuters zipping away in their cars, the hand wave of the dog walker accompanied by suspicious stares by the canine in question, the wake up call of the steam spiraling up from the coffee cup, piled crisp white papers crackling with impatience to be written upon, the drone of conversation floating in the corridors, footsteps, some hurried, some leisurely. The day begins.

Day after day goes by in a blur, swirling in the few rays of the misty dim sunlight which have scraped through the tenacious grips of leafy tree tops. Whilst the nights crawl by unwillingly, dragged by their necks by the sweating clouds. The cascading waterfall of golden leaves accompanied by the roar of the wind tells me it is Fall.

The cry of silence

September 10, 2014

I see and hear, feel and wonder. I smile, and sometimes I even laugh. Yet day by day, I add yet another brick to this invisible wall around me shutting out a little more light. The growing darkness is not frightening, for it shewed itself gradually. On good days, I peer outside, squinting in the sudden brightness, wave at the flowers and bring a bit of their colour into my heart. I smile at strangers and let a bit of their happiness seep into my eyes. And then I bid goodbye and retire into myself and weave a blanket of stories, each more fantastic than the other and wrap myself in it and rock myself to sleep. On bad days, I darken my walls and build it higher. My ears go deaf hearing the cries of silence. Her terrible wails are more than what I can bear. I wonder why they don’t affect the passers-by. My blanket of stories is almost thread bare, and I sit shivering in the cold, watching the last trickle of sunlight before I shut it out with the one brick I have left.