Poetry

When I was in highschool after a session of wordworth's Solitary Reaper, I decided that I had to write a response poem. From the point of view of the girl in the poem, no less. While he wonders what she is singing in gaelic, she is actually wondering if he is there surveying to destroy the beauty of the place. I thought this was profoundly ironic. My teacher thought I should stick to prose.

The next poem I attempted was a year later on a boring afternoon. I remember mentioning something about the flies circling repeatedly, forlorn thoughts and devil retreating as the afternoon wore off. Devil was supposed to be symbolic of depressing thoughts, I think. Again way ahead of my time. The teacher's face became red and she asked me to heed the warning and desist immediately. One fellow classmate thought it was brilliant but when he went on to describe what devilish thoughts symbolized for him, I started considering my teacher's suggestion.

The next one came in college. As you can see I had succesfully tried to resist temptation for a long time. This time it was something about clouds reflected in a puddle. How I enjoyed it imagining that I was walking on heaven when I was young and how I walked around it now with mere care. To put it mildly it wasnt as well received as I'd have thought. They failed to see materialism, loss of innocence and other equally deep symbolisms hiding in the poem.

Only two attempts went as far as a paper after that. One was a catalogue of whatever was written in my school notebook and another about rain in an American road. So except for lapsing into a short poem under extremely stressfull conditions a couple of times, I think I can claim I am staying succesfully sober now.

B.B.King

I sometimes walk in a park after lunch. Today I reclined in a stone chair afterwards. Sun shone through the green leaves, a crow cawed, the sprinkler moved in rhythm. "Man! how much more heaven can you have". B.B King in his interview to NPR whispered in my ears. Then they played him.

Out of God's oven

Finished reading Out of God's oven over the weekend. It is beautifully written, exceptional in its coverage of the wide, varied Indian terrain, reasonable in its research and left me terribly depressed. I could argue that it is slightly one-sided, perhaps the authors' personal prejudices has managed to seep through. Nevertheless I think it is worth reading just because of its comprehensive nature. It captures the sheer diversity of India - language, culture, politics, issues - very well. I didnt quite agree with some of the conclusions implied in the book but the fact that I didnt get terribly defensive or angry about it reassured me.

Green thumb

I rotuinely kill plants. Despite my best efforts. With the undaunting spirit of the legendary Vikramaditya I buy the most lush, easiest to maintain plant, bring it home, position it in the right place, feed it all kinds of plant food, water it diligently but somehow manage to kill it eventually. I dont have a green thumb. Not even pale green. So imagine my surprise and delight this morning when I spied a beautiful white flower with a dash of purple swaying gently in the breeze. Hurrah!

I might be able to graduate to fish after all and who knows eventually even to a dog. Dreaming on.

Improvised music

I went for an improvised jazz concert and did something I hate to do and have never done before. I walked out after an hour. the cello was barely audible and when it was, it sounded like some heavy breathing. The percussion sounds involved a 'jalra', some dragging sound and some gongs. The sound that came from the trumpet reminded me of boiling rice, hooka and birds with sore throat. The various tubes and funnels that were used didn't help. I could easily see that they were very talented musicians, but despite trying very hard I couldn't appreciate the music. When my mind wandered for the hundredth time to the travails of getting an auto late in the night, I decided I should walk out. I felt a bit foolish but I compensated by congratulating myself for not being a hypocrite.