It's 4.45 am. I have an exam scheduled for 2 pm tomorrow. But all I can think for the past few days is my undernourished, under-visited and 1-year old blog. Have posted just six times in the last year. Makes it one article per 2 months. And that's a poor turnout by any standards! Considering I am not too regular an, um, 'article-writer' (for want of a better word), this statistic is not really an eyesore but is a bit troubling 'cos I AM more regular than that! So today I'll write something that has been due(long overdue now) ever since I started this blog. An Introduction! Ta Da!
Well, as the name suggests, its gonna be my musings. Just a little part(which I'm actually able to sit and type) of what I think, what I contemplate during the day or week or month or as it turns out, on current form, two months :) Written without a pause may not be entirely accurate though. I take long pauses (a la Vajpayee Ji!) while writing the littlest of a couplet. But I guess you can't really write poetry without a pause can you? But 'without a pause' is not a complete figment of my imagination too! That's only true for the musings while travelling. Travelling currently is currently from Patiala to Amritsar and back to Patiala. I prefer travelling by train. Always the window seat (get all cranky if I don't get it). Just like to sit by the window, stare out and pen down my musings. This is kind of reflected in the things I write and the way I go about it, I think.
I like using a pen and paper more than a computer. I find it more inspiring and comfortable to fill up the page rather than typing away on a million bits and bytes thingie (not suitable lingo for a comp engineer huh? Oh well..). I like humorous writing too and do try to infuse humor into my writing (Do tell me if its not working/falling flat). You'll find a lot of smileys here. Along with a lot of ".."(not "..."!) highlighting the fact that I am not much clear about how much I want to convey to you..
I like to read, (a lot, I thought some days ago, but now that notion has been dispelled!) sometimes anyways. Maybe I'll write about it in a further post.
I have been unable to write anything that would really be ever considered revolutionary. Am not much of a revolutionary. But if somebody chuckles-softly/ ponders-thoughtfully/ smiles-quietly/ gazes-at-the-computer-screen-for-a-second-longer-than-required after reading my blog I would like to think I am on the right path.
PS: What's green, squashy and says 'I'm a frog!'? Duh.. A Talking Frog! :D
PS2: OK, plagiarized from Frank Jr Jr, a triplet Phoebe gives birth to...
PS3: Yes, I'd like that.. Early festive season anyone?
PS4: Got to Stop!
Monday, May 28, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
A Travelogue (Don't really expect you to read this completely..!)
It is raining as the train lazily draws away from the station. The drops hang from the bars on my window like a million teardrops as if she doesn't want to leave my city. The last of the platform, people running to catch up, then dilapidated houses, mounds of unused construction material, fading paint on the walls advertising 'Dr. Bengali' and little shops selling sweets at 3 for Re. 1 ; all pass. The ground is dark brown from the pouring rain, the trees a darker shade of green. The plastic refuse suddenly more vivid, vibrant. Telephone lines run parallel to the track. They go on like a wave, rising up,until they crash against the pole, then sagging before starting to rise again. The road near the track seems freshly laid; hard, slick and steely gray.
A handful of people or maybe a million, wait at a crossing. Waiting for me to pass. A handful of stories or maybe a million. Maybe all held up because i happened to spend 100 bucks on a train ticket! The tears on the bars of my window have been wiped off by nature's hands. The train has accepted her face it seems. We pass some fields. A huge brown table, stretching to the horizon and beyond, with a mossy table cloth that's torn in some places and patchy in others. Little houses and single cubicles dot the surface like many a salt and pepper shakers. There are patterns on the tablecloth, straight lines dividing it, like i used to divide the rajmah-chawal mixture when i was 10 and even now sometimes. There are neat squares and rectangles. Sometimes with two parallel lines criss-crossing their length and breadth.
Trees rise out of nowhere. They dot the horizon, placed sporadically in the fields. Some are like needles- thin, frail, nude. Many resemble lollipops, a straight trunk with a dollop of green on top. Just like we learnt to draw them in primary classes. Most remind me of faces, surprisingly. No two are alike. Some are gaunt, brown and wrinkled. Others are round, green with dense foliage. They appear to possess a character of their own. The gaunt ones are cold and forbidding. The rotund ones are welcoming. To sit with them under their shade. If they are close, they pass by swiftly. If not, I can see them for some time, gaunt and unwelcoming against a white-gray cloudy sky.
Old ladies chatter sitting next to me. A group of men standing near the door laugh rowdily at a joke. A little boy demands candies from his mother and is fiercely admonished. A baby starts crying. I can detect a hundred voices flying around. Crashing like waves one after the other against my eardrums. Harsh and soft. Young and old. Sweet and coarse. But I can listen to none. A babble of gibberish floating around my head. The rumble of the train is ever present. It increases to a fever pitch when we cross a bridge. The view outside the window is blurred by red, criss crossing iron beams. Soon they begin to subside. The blur becomes a little more distinct, a little clearer, a little more distinguished, more defined. We are approaching a station, but the train won't stop there.
We pass a pool covered by green algae. The moans of the engine drown all conversations. We cross another bridge. The river is wider due to the incessant rain. Its surface is pock marked due to the constant shower. Its colour is light brown, like the common muddy water. A flock of swans flies away, shrieking hoarsely, scattered by the approach of the maroon monstorous sea snake. Some of them try to race the train but give up soon. There are many vehicles on the road parallel to the track. The ones going in the same direction try to race us. Some do win by leading for a considerable time and then turning away. I can imagine little children sitting in the back seat of a small white maruti, pleading to daddy, egging him on to go faster and leave the train behind.
There's a building on the road which bears the board of a school. It is empty. Not currently a temple of learning. Used as a banquet hall in the night. The ground along the tracks is full of pebbles. They pass before i can even think of starting to count. Another pool passes, this time its pitch black as the night. The fields are sparse now and the road seems to be a hard river cutting the landscape. The little yellow wild flowers on the isolated green field may be minute drops from heaven. Little black birds with distinct white patches fly together in groups. They all soar away as the train approaches, bisecting the field.
PS: Just happened to have a pen and three blank sheets with me starting on my journey and nothing to do.. Originally titled 'blank pages to black pages(oh yuk)'.. Probably this was the easiest to write of all..
A handful of people or maybe a million, wait at a crossing. Waiting for me to pass. A handful of stories or maybe a million. Maybe all held up because i happened to spend 100 bucks on a train ticket! The tears on the bars of my window have been wiped off by nature's hands. The train has accepted her face it seems. We pass some fields. A huge brown table, stretching to the horizon and beyond, with a mossy table cloth that's torn in some places and patchy in others. Little houses and single cubicles dot the surface like many a salt and pepper shakers. There are patterns on the tablecloth, straight lines dividing it, like i used to divide the rajmah-chawal mixture when i was 10 and even now sometimes. There are neat squares and rectangles. Sometimes with two parallel lines criss-crossing their length and breadth.
Trees rise out of nowhere. They dot the horizon, placed sporadically in the fields. Some are like needles- thin, frail, nude. Many resemble lollipops, a straight trunk with a dollop of green on top. Just like we learnt to draw them in primary classes. Most remind me of faces, surprisingly. No two are alike. Some are gaunt, brown and wrinkled. Others are round, green with dense foliage. They appear to possess a character of their own. The gaunt ones are cold and forbidding. The rotund ones are welcoming. To sit with them under their shade. If they are close, they pass by swiftly. If not, I can see them for some time, gaunt and unwelcoming against a white-gray cloudy sky.
Old ladies chatter sitting next to me. A group of men standing near the door laugh rowdily at a joke. A little boy demands candies from his mother and is fiercely admonished. A baby starts crying. I can detect a hundred voices flying around. Crashing like waves one after the other against my eardrums. Harsh and soft. Young and old. Sweet and coarse. But I can listen to none. A babble of gibberish floating around my head. The rumble of the train is ever present. It increases to a fever pitch when we cross a bridge. The view outside the window is blurred by red, criss crossing iron beams. Soon they begin to subside. The blur becomes a little more distinct, a little clearer, a little more distinguished, more defined. We are approaching a station, but the train won't stop there.
We pass a pool covered by green algae. The moans of the engine drown all conversations. We cross another bridge. The river is wider due to the incessant rain. Its surface is pock marked due to the constant shower. Its colour is light brown, like the common muddy water. A flock of swans flies away, shrieking hoarsely, scattered by the approach of the maroon monstorous sea snake. Some of them try to race the train but give up soon. There are many vehicles on the road parallel to the track. The ones going in the same direction try to race us. Some do win by leading for a considerable time and then turning away. I can imagine little children sitting in the back seat of a small white maruti, pleading to daddy, egging him on to go faster and leave the train behind.
There's a building on the road which bears the board of a school. It is empty. Not currently a temple of learning. Used as a banquet hall in the night. The ground along the tracks is full of pebbles. They pass before i can even think of starting to count. Another pool passes, this time its pitch black as the night. The fields are sparse now and the road seems to be a hard river cutting the landscape. The little yellow wild flowers on the isolated green field may be minute drops from heaven. Little black birds with distinct white patches fly together in groups. They all soar away as the train approaches, bisecting the field.
PS: Just happened to have a pen and three blank sheets with me starting on my journey and nothing to do.. Originally titled 'blank pages to black pages(oh yuk)'.. Probably this was the easiest to write of all..
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