Sunday, 22 July 2007


Once upon a time there was another universe for children created by a woman who earned lots of money.
I grew up in that universe.It was an intrinsic part of my formative years, my puberty, my teenaged years and just as I'm about to leave my teenage behind, Harry ends.
About a year back, college was a big thing...couln't be seen as a Pottermaniac...wasn't quite cool. Those were things left behind.Like bikele khelte jawa and Dexter's Laboratory.Besides, I wasn't a fantasy-fiction addict-that is to say, that I had read a lot of the stuff but I was not completely into it. No such parallel world was mine, as was the world of Harry Potter. I couldn't imagine the psyche of a true LOTR fan.It just didn't include ME in that world. I was an outsider, not there sukhe dukhhe.
Harry Potter happened to me when I was in Class 6. 11 years old.And that was it. This series has been a phenomenon, a cult phenomenon.The prose is nothing fancy, elaborate but...
The issues?Universal.
The style?Addictive.
The characters?Flawed.But capable of much greatness.
I keep trying to analyse what makes these books so powerful, but tonight I can't do that. For I have just finished the Deathly Hallows.And my heart is quite constricted.Such is the magic they have wrought.
Not one for criticism, this.
Purely for magical purposes only.

Thursday, 5 July 2007

Hummingbirds don't hum...or do they?

The saxophone blares above the sorrowful strains of the sarod. And sudden drumbeats enter the trope. I am scared of the music. I am scared of you. I am scared of me.
I fear that your humming shall drive me mad. It is monotonous and everlasting. I close my eyes to keep the sounds out. For a moment. When I open my eyes you are gone. But the humming remains. I fear I no longer love you. It is because you have made yourself smaller and faster than a hummingbird and flown away. The bird has flown away. Only the humming remains.
I need a drink of water. I find something sticky instead. Is it sweat? It is glue. I drink it anyway. I wish to vomit. But the innards stick. And the sarod sings sorrowfully.
You are a purist. Instruments don’t sing. They hum? But that makes you an instrument. I don’t understand. You say they vibrate. As far as I remember we all do. In our limited capacities. I am now scared of me. I am scared of all my molecules that spin. And hum. The humming drives me mad, I tell you.
But you have flown away.
When the humming stops it’s the sarod, and when the sarod stops it’s the silence and when the silence stops…

“Where did you discover the body? Oh how dreadfully mutilated! How sad! Where’s the musician? Gone? That always happens. She died strangled with a sarod string, you say? That’s impossible. They’re awfully delicate. They snap at a moment’s notice. I am talking about the string she apparently killed herself with, not the girl, you stupid hummingbird…”

Wednesday, 4 July 2007


I live amidst a lake, a veritable lake. Many life forms inhabit this lake.I do not, as of yet.Tomorrow morning shall see.
Marooned at home I have sworn no more bad poetry, not even in the throes of great feeling.
Much Old English.
We shall see.