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..
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The Journey
A train, a girl, a dunce... The perfect recipe for disaster!
Sitting frizzled up in the train, I'm bored
So I contrive to pen this ode
Now this ain't a regular
This ain't simple
Its about a girl in pink
Sans a cute dimple [;)]
She sits facing me
Staring out the window
Other times holding her head
As if needing an aspirin dose.
I stare aimlessly in space
Fiercely debating with myself
Whether to sit and dawdle
Or to chat up with panache.
Now since panache (as you'll see) ain't a strength of mine
So I sit tryin to stir up a chat
From which she doesn't flee before time!
Putting my cell in my pocket, I lean forward
N thats when her's starts ringing
And I backtrack like a coward.
Yellow station signs pass by faster than seconds
And I continue debating with me
Writing stupid poetry
To capture this odd journey.
Finally decide to confess I'm bored
Would she like to chat
'Til reaching her abode?
I fine tune my line
('Cos it may be the only time in this train
That a girl's face was facing mine!)
Promise myself a chocolate
If she says just a precious word!
All through my dilemma, she stares out
God! Amazing tolerance to staying bored!
Swivels her cell between pink fingernails
Wipes her forehead(again!)
and continues her gaze..
Finally I blurb it out in a sigle blink
And she replies in a quicker wink
Look it up in the Oxford
Bit far from go
A single 'n' followed by an 'o'.
Does something new(!), closes her eyes to rest
But I don't and drudge up this rhyme.
I write awaiting my reward
Brow free of worry
The rest, as the wise men say,
Is History...
Pranay Khanna
27/8/2006
Sitting frizzled up in the train, I'm bored
So I contrive to pen this ode
Now this ain't a regular
This ain't simple
Its about a girl in pink
Sans a cute dimple [;)]
She sits facing me
Staring out the window
Other times holding her head
As if needing an aspirin dose.
I stare aimlessly in space
Fiercely debating with myself
Whether to sit and dawdle
Or to chat up with panache.
Now since panache (as you'll see) ain't a strength of mine
So I sit tryin to stir up a chat
From which she doesn't flee before time!
Putting my cell in my pocket, I lean forward
N thats when her's starts ringing
And I backtrack like a coward.
Yellow station signs pass by faster than seconds
And I continue debating with me
Writing stupid poetry
To capture this odd journey.
Finally decide to confess I'm bored
Would she like to chat
'Til reaching her abode?
I fine tune my line
('Cos it may be the only time in this train
That a girl's face was facing mine!)
Promise myself a chocolate
If she says just a precious word!
All through my dilemma, she stares out
God! Amazing tolerance to staying bored!
Swivels her cell between pink fingernails
Wipes her forehead(again!)
and continues her gaze..
Finally I blurb it out in a sigle blink
And she replies in a quicker wink
Look it up in the Oxford
Bit far from go
A single 'n' followed by an 'o'.
Does something new(!), closes her eyes to rest
But I don't and drudge up this rhyme.
I write awaiting my reward
Brow free of worry
The rest, as the wise men say,
Is History...
Pranay Khanna
27/8/2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
An ode to a hero
Its over...
Not only the cup, 'a time to make friends'.. but also the career of a man who at an age of grandpas in footballing terms almost outran, outfoxed, outjumped and audaciously put men, na, boys half his age, to shame...It was as if the clock turned back to 98 and he was the midfield marshall again..We saw the zidane of the two famous headers, the zizou of the champions league final who volleyed the galacticos home... it was a rousing swansong but i guess u cant get all you want... most of all i hope he wont be remembered for the second of madness but rather for what he stood for and represented in his life which centerd around the beautiful game...Lets celebrate zizou with his imperfections cos the man, the phenomenon, the Galactico, the Zinedine Zidane deserves it and lots more...
Farewell Zidane..
You will be missed.
Not only the cup, 'a time to make friends'.. but also the career of a man who at an age of grandpas in footballing terms almost outran, outfoxed, outjumped and audaciously put men, na, boys half his age, to shame...It was as if the clock turned back to 98 and he was the midfield marshall again..We saw the zidane of the two famous headers, the zizou of the champions league final who volleyed the galacticos home... it was a rousing swansong but i guess u cant get all you want... most of all i hope he wont be remembered for the second of madness but rather for what he stood for and represented in his life which centerd around the beautiful game...Lets celebrate zizou with his imperfections cos the man, the phenomenon, the Galactico, the Zinedine Zidane deserves it and lots more...
Farewell Zidane..
You will be missed.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Artifacial
'Artifacial'... Artifacial?? Wow, I've coined a new word! Maybe one day it will be 150000001th word in the Oxford dictionary! I feel so proud about this! Feel like smiling.. :) An ear to ear smile, originating from my heart, reaching my eyes, reaching out to everyone around me! A new word to enrich everyone's vocab by one and to make my voice heard around the world... To have everyone around the world using this like they use 'happy' or 'smile'! But why to create such a word whose inception in itself is a paradox? It makes me smile.. A true smile, not a smile which makes me sick, not a false smile... But its a smile from within. The smiles i see all around remind me of the facial which old aunties put on to appear younger. To fool the world. To hide their true self. A fake face. An artifacial.
Thats why I think its a paradox that such an ugly term can make me smile. Maybe its just me who sees it... I go to a party and see you conjuring up a laugh, a smile, a roar of delight at anything remotely resembling verbal communication. Maybe its just your sense of humour. I see your smiles. Or rather your masks. You cover your mouth with a smile. Hide crooked teeth behind angular lips. Your dimpled cheeks remind me of dark valleys, the high cheekbones of rocky ridges. But the mask doesn't go up to your eyes, see? I look into your eyes and find myself staring back from within a well. Dont know how to explain it but feels a little like pushing a wall. Are you really smiling, darling? Or are you making fun of me? Yes, you are smiling after all. Your high pitched shreiks of pleasure crash against my eardrums like the waves against a rocky cliff.
It really hurts me.. I feel like crying. :-( Not just tears flooding the front of my face. Not just loud, anguished wails that rouse the neighbours. No, not just that. I feel my heart bleeding, as if a loved one died. Giving me a pain to numb all pain. A sorrow above tears. A sadness beyond sound. Do you feel any pain? Or are you beyond pain now? Have you ever felt a pain that's hot as a molten glass, that makes all your masks melt away? Or is your mask pain proof like it was happiness proof?
Why don't you remove it then? What are you scared of? Can you really feel scared of the people around you? Na, they don't matter. They are under their masks, see? So logically they can't really be angry! Its just their mask dear, not them. They're just pretending to be angry cos they know they are supposed to behave this way. The anger they feel is just like the happiness you feel! Its not real, no! Just like you they are incapable of feeling anything! In fact they are scared just like you. Scared of their own shadow, insecure in their skin, wary of the blood in their veins, walking with hunched shoulders, afraid to look me in the eye. Are you sure now that this is just a mask? Hasn't it become your skin now? A thick hide to desensitize you from the surroundings? An atmosphere to burn down the stimuli? A shell in which a human-like form is growing after no purpose whatsoever?
This is the reason you feel everything but only a little bit. The reason you shed tears but don't cry. Wail aloud but don't feel pain. Laugh without pleasure. Smile without that special feeling of joy. This artifacial is choking me so much now. Have to remove it for some time. I hope I can. Will get back to you later love. Enjoy all you can while I'm not here! Or have you forgotten even that?
Thats why I think its a paradox that such an ugly term can make me smile. Maybe its just me who sees it... I go to a party and see you conjuring up a laugh, a smile, a roar of delight at anything remotely resembling verbal communication. Maybe its just your sense of humour. I see your smiles. Or rather your masks. You cover your mouth with a smile. Hide crooked teeth behind angular lips. Your dimpled cheeks remind me of dark valleys, the high cheekbones of rocky ridges. But the mask doesn't go up to your eyes, see? I look into your eyes and find myself staring back from within a well. Dont know how to explain it but feels a little like pushing a wall. Are you really smiling, darling? Or are you making fun of me? Yes, you are smiling after all. Your high pitched shreiks of pleasure crash against my eardrums like the waves against a rocky cliff.
It really hurts me.. I feel like crying. :-( Not just tears flooding the front of my face. Not just loud, anguished wails that rouse the neighbours. No, not just that. I feel my heart bleeding, as if a loved one died. Giving me a pain to numb all pain. A sorrow above tears. A sadness beyond sound. Do you feel any pain? Or are you beyond pain now? Have you ever felt a pain that's hot as a molten glass, that makes all your masks melt away? Or is your mask pain proof like it was happiness proof?
Why don't you remove it then? What are you scared of? Can you really feel scared of the people around you? Na, they don't matter. They are under their masks, see? So logically they can't really be angry! Its just their mask dear, not them. They're just pretending to be angry cos they know they are supposed to behave this way. The anger they feel is just like the happiness you feel! Its not real, no! Just like you they are incapable of feeling anything! In fact they are scared just like you. Scared of their own shadow, insecure in their skin, wary of the blood in their veins, walking with hunched shoulders, afraid to look me in the eye. Are you sure now that this is just a mask? Hasn't it become your skin now? A thick hide to desensitize you from the surroundings? An atmosphere to burn down the stimuli? A shell in which a human-like form is growing after no purpose whatsoever?
This is the reason you feel everything but only a little bit. The reason you shed tears but don't cry. Wail aloud but don't feel pain. Laugh without pleasure. Smile without that special feeling of joy. This artifacial is choking me so much now. Have to remove it for some time. I hope I can. Will get back to you later love. Enjoy all you can while I'm not here! Or have you forgotten even that?
Thursday, May 11, 2006
The Villain Within
While hearing about the air attack spree
My five-year old sister suddenly asked me
Is Osama dead?
Has his body been laid?
No Osama cannot die
Hard as hard the world may try
An Osama within us is beyond interception
Lying dormant waiting and waiting
For a triggered eruption.
He is present in all of us,
So well hidden, his shadows we easily miss.
He was in Aurangzeb, he was in Hitler
He is everywhere, maybe even in your butler.
The need is brotherhood, unlike Abel and Cain,
Osama isn’t a religious boon, rather he is a bane.
He is the mastermind of the attacks of terror,
To let him prevail would be a grave error;
The world may have reached near destruction,
But after destruction, there is resurrection
As the holy books say, truth triumphs in the end,
So there is belief in my heart that there is no dead end.
The devil can never win,
God can’t be turned to lead and tin.
Try to control the forces of the devil,
Or you will be hollowed by this slimy weevil.
Dear friends it will be a long fight,
Let the forces of good unite.
Against evil we all must fight,
Make the Osama vanish from your heart,
Into the night…
Into the night…
This is a very special poem.. I wrote it in tenth standard and was awarded a 'Special Prize for poetry for the New Millenium' by the HRD ministry for it! Fittingly one of my first post! :)
My five-year old sister suddenly asked me
Is Osama dead?
Has his body been laid?
No Osama cannot die
Hard as hard the world may try
An Osama within us is beyond interception
Lying dormant waiting and waiting
For a triggered eruption.
He is present in all of us,
So well hidden, his shadows we easily miss.
He was in Aurangzeb, he was in Hitler
He is everywhere, maybe even in your butler.
The need is brotherhood, unlike Abel and Cain,
Osama isn’t a religious boon, rather he is a bane.
He is the mastermind of the attacks of terror,
To let him prevail would be a grave error;
The world may have reached near destruction,
But after destruction, there is resurrection
As the holy books say, truth triumphs in the end,
So there is belief in my heart that there is no dead end.
The devil can never win,
God can’t be turned to lead and tin.
Try to control the forces of the devil,
Or you will be hollowed by this slimy weevil.
Dear friends it will be a long fight,
Let the forces of good unite.
Against evil we all must fight,
Make the Osama vanish from your heart,
Into the night…
Into the night…
This is a very special poem.. I wrote it in tenth standard and was awarded a 'Special Prize for poetry for the New Millenium' by the HRD ministry for it! Fittingly one of my first post! :)
What Matters...
With my head full of hopes
N my eyes full of dreams
I climbed on the blue-white train
Destined for a place so far away…
Time stood still as the train moved on
And I looked ahead at the woods to come
Stared out the window
Lush green meadows rolled by
The trees, the fresh winds
All called out to me
At the station
Where I believed I could fly…
People climbed on the white-blue train
Smiled at me, sat by my side
We talked some time, shared a bit
Their stations came and it was time to split
Bittersweet memories they left me with
The smiles, the pains, the promises (memories)…
Places, stations, destinations
The blue-white train just chugged along
Stations came, many passed
But most stayed on…
On in my heart.
One place I remember
Where green roses grew
Red sunflowers woke up
With the evening dew
It felt so good, so sane, (yet) so mad
‘twas the best place for feeling bad.
There was the station when I
Stopped looking out the window
The walls of a white-blue coach were my world
So I couldn’t see
The morning dew, the golden hue
The taller trees, the greener grass
Was too busy, just let them pass…
Ahead I knew came the station grey
The final station, my destination
So cold, so dark, when I reached I saw
There and then, my journey flashed past me
The sunny grasslands I missed
The rosy winds I kissed
The green roses I saw
The magnificence, the beauty, inspiring awe,
All alone, on the blue-white train I fearedfor those who stepped off (but) I still cared
The beauty of the way is all I remember
Wish I had taken out my hands to feel the rain
Wish I had paused to smell the roses
And I wish…
Oh how I wish…
I had seen more of the way…
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