The wind has blown a sly calm over the sea.
The rays gently tinge the surface with gold.
It gives me a false sense of security.
For in my mind, the hawk still flies and the
regal grey wolf still serenades the moon.
Can my brave page have reached the shores of Neverland?
And yet in doubt, I must soldier on and
save for a rainy day. When the bomb is
dropped and in the rough lies not a diamond
but a slithering blue serpent....
What then?
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Saturday, October 07, 2006
The Old, The New
I am in a strupor...sooper...aargh..stupor. Self-imposed insomnia will do that to you.
Anyway, I thought I'd break away from tradition and put up a story that is strictly normal, though it is, in my opinion, one of the best I've ever written. I wrote it way back in the 9th standard, so it's a bit primitive. I think that contributes to its charm.
MADRAS MONSOON
It was the monsoon of ’73. It would have seemed to the beholder that a great hole in the sky had been unplugged through which buckets of water were pouring onto the streets of Madras. Thunder rolled overhead. Lightning flashed, illuminating the lone figure of Ramachandra Babu.
“Why me?” thought Ramachandra as he slowly squelched his way down 13th cross. Why was he not home, safe and warm, with his newspaper in front of him and a cup of hot coffee in his hand? Why wasn’t he at home in the front veranda with his wife fussing over him? Why was he the only person out on a Sunday evening in the torrential rain with an utterly inadequate broken umbrella ? “Life simply isn’t fair,” thought Ramachandra.
He trudged dismally onwards. Something small and dirty collided with him. Ramachandra staggered backwards with the impact and almost fell into a muddy gutter. He peered through the almost opaque sheet of rain and spotted a small, dirty, naked creature. The child just ignored him and rejoined a group of street urchins with whom he had been playing. They splashed around in the muddy gutter with screams of delight.
Ramachandra stopped for a moment to contemplate the simplicity of a child’s mind. Something as gross as a dirty gutter brought so much joy into a child’s world. The young mongrels reminded him so much of his own childhood. A time that seemed eons away ; before the responsibilities of adulthood had wrinkled his forehead.
A clap of thunder followed by another strong gust of wind broke his reverie. He took one last wistful look at the screaming children. With a sigh, he pulled his coat a little more securely around himself and took a firmer hold of his umbrella. Shivering, he continued to slowly plough his way through the muddy road.
Anyway, I thought I'd break away from tradition and put up a story that is strictly normal, though it is, in my opinion, one of the best I've ever written. I wrote it way back in the 9th standard, so it's a bit primitive. I think that contributes to its charm.
MADRAS MONSOON
It was the monsoon of ’73. It would have seemed to the beholder that a great hole in the sky had been unplugged through which buckets of water were pouring onto the streets of Madras. Thunder rolled overhead. Lightning flashed, illuminating the lone figure of Ramachandra Babu.
“Why me?” thought Ramachandra as he slowly squelched his way down 13th cross. Why was he not home, safe and warm, with his newspaper in front of him and a cup of hot coffee in his hand? Why wasn’t he at home in the front veranda with his wife fussing over him? Why was he the only person out on a Sunday evening in the torrential rain with an utterly inadequate broken umbrella ? “Life simply isn’t fair,” thought Ramachandra.
He trudged dismally onwards. Something small and dirty collided with him. Ramachandra staggered backwards with the impact and almost fell into a muddy gutter. He peered through the almost opaque sheet of rain and spotted a small, dirty, naked creature. The child just ignored him and rejoined a group of street urchins with whom he had been playing. They splashed around in the muddy gutter with screams of delight.
Ramachandra stopped for a moment to contemplate the simplicity of a child’s mind. Something as gross as a dirty gutter brought so much joy into a child’s world. The young mongrels reminded him so much of his own childhood. A time that seemed eons away ; before the responsibilities of adulthood had wrinkled his forehead.
A clap of thunder followed by another strong gust of wind broke his reverie. He took one last wistful look at the screaming children. With a sigh, he pulled his coat a little more securely around himself and took a firmer hold of his umbrella. Shivering, he continued to slowly plough his way through the muddy road.
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