A dove flies out of my sight, its white wings swimming in the endless
ethereal blue sky. The bright sun blinds my eyes.. I feel dazed..
Everything is a blur..
Incomplete..
Nothing seems to make sense. I breathe liquid air as time stills…
Stills the beat of my heart.. My already two dimensional edges have
started fading.. The music lingering in my ears died.. A slow painless
death.. Sanity effervesced out of me. Even insanity didnt wanna diffuse
itself with me.. Incompleteness returned to haunt me.. A bright white
light chased it away, incompleteness was defeated. Emptiness
triumphed. The transformation was complete. I was no more. I wasnt a
ghost. Something more than that.. A memory.. In the mind of the dove,
now flapping with his wings..

The leaf fell from the tree, plunging into the abyss not quite
comprehending what it was it that  broke an unbreakable bond,
falling.,  i couldnt understand which was more painful as the leaf
fell through me, the sadness of the leaf wrinkling away from the tree
or the tree’s loss .. The leaf crumpled as it hit the ground with the
softest thud and died away while the tree stood by realizing that
every leaf it lost was just as painful as the first. I screamed the
loudest scream for the tree, the leaf and myself.. The deafening
screams of choking silences kept coming competing with the heavens in
lamenting for the tree and the leaf. And i was exhausted the leaf
finally dead but the heavens kept pouring, trying to heal the gaping
wound of the tree, a soul so physically tortured that it could feel no
more.. And then there was nothing..
Peace..  at last..

Somewhere a life is spawned in the slums, with only a dirty midwife, a
dead mother and a raging rainstorm for company..

Somewhere a life is lost, lost in her own sweet memories, smile on her beautiful face concealing the agony underneath, thanking the thunderous rain for washing away his memories and her corporeal dazed self.

Somewhere a software professional with no life cusses beneath his
breath with a blisfully lifeless nonchalance, blaming indra and thor
alike for drenching his gucci overcoat and puma shoes and rushes to
hide under a tree. Little does he realize that it was the same tree
under which he met his first and final love, the angel  in white,
drenched, sensuous..

Somewhere a girl panics, the angry figure of a mother-in-law growing
in front of her eyes as the downpour clouds her vision, her balance,
her poise and her self belief..

Somewhere a guy falls in love, as he turns his head to see her by the
window, the raging wind blowing her hair, pushing it behind, revealing
the beauty hidden in her all these years as the rain smudges a lesser
beauty beyond the window..

Somewhere a boy rejoices not having to go to school, that brings out
the donkey in him and tries to stifle the spark in him, rejoicing at
the onset of rainfall, overflowing with satisfaction, spewing flames
of happiness, a fire fed by the rain.

Somewhere a group of kids dance in the drizzle, a long awaited,
slender, breezy drizzle while the youngest one’s mother looks on
apprehensive about the  terra slippera, about the milder cousin of the
scourge of pigs, torn between her kid’s present euphoria and future
pain..
Somewhere is not chennai-it never rains.ever

now that i am posted back to chennai, i have decided to renew my blog. Active participation with IQL is giving me a taste of doing something, keeping myself busy. with so many things to do and so little time, my bike dreams are taking a back seat. So are my dreams of designing a website for IQL. As my friend bala is stuck up at bangalore, i sorely miss his help with the website.

And it rained yesterday- a sign that i should blog pretty soon. I ll soon be trying to blog from my mobile, as i am already reading my mail, twitter and half my browsing on mobile.. Hmmm will do one pretty soon.

Well i ll get back to you. I have world out there to discover.

BFN

of laughter

of smiles

of beauty

of sweetness

of comedy

of blade

of games

of stars

of dreams

of fun

of quarter

of midnight chats

of musical taps

of crazy dances

of group studies

of secrets

of long bus rides

of terror

of colorpwder

of craziness

of humility

of humanity

of love… You remind me of..In my journey thro life, its only these memories i carry with me. My heartfelt thanks to u for making my memories. Happy friendship day

After a series of not so good to read posts(who will be interested in what i did in LKG) i ve decided to be awesome in everything i do. For instance, here’s an awesome quote i stumbled upon

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I have not lived.”

Reflect on the quote by henry david thoreau

I gave them a hard time. yes everyone would be proud to say that when they were young they were very vaalu (troublesome but indispensible like a monkey’s tail), and the like. Yes i was kinda the same. If i weren’t i wouldnt be a normal kid, fine i  am digressing

This is what my dad laughs about even today. When we were in Tnagar, he broke his patella and his leg was hung on a sling. The naughty me, used to walk steathily, and then like a leopard run, shake his leg like a pendulum and run away. Tortured my old man this way, seems it pained a lot for him. but who cares, i had my fun then and he reminds me of it even now.

Mum remembers the darker side of me well, as to  how i tortured her as a baby during my first trip to Aryankavu and the like. That in itself was a funny thing. I had my first tonsure somewhere in december of 1987. MGR had died back then. my uncle, dad and literally everyone were afraid as to what was going to happen. MGR was a very big political figure and his death meant bus burnings, road rokho, railway track breaking and what not. This was the status of Indian affairs way back in 1987 itself. wonder what is going to happen when Karu Karu dies. just hoping he dies when i’m in chennai. will get three days holiday!! the only downside?powercut all three days, it will be used for decorating the streets surrounding his dead body.

And how can i forget the studious dream kid of every mother.. I was very studious way back then, mum used to remind me in a pricking tone. I do everyday’s homework that day itself, that too right after coming back home, without removing the dirty shirt, socks.. such was the sincerity i had toward studies. LMAO. This is a clear cut example to show how young minds are easily impressionable and how they can change within a short  span of time.

Handwriting. I was bugged with this particular thing since my first standard half yearly exam, yes right upto my 12h std. Till my first standar quarterly examination, my handwriting was impeccable. After my quarterly exams, my miss- Annie miss used to show my paper to every parent during parent teacher’s meet to show this is how a student should write. Kannu vechutanga pa. Since then i never wrote well it seems. My handwriting was, as my geography teacher of 8th std aptly put, was like a hen  making marks on the ground(koli kirukina mathiri iruku).. OF course it was described by differrent people differently at different periods of time, but the thing was same- my handwriting was as neat as my fate,lol.

Thats it for now. i cant remember the other things i used to do. so happy memories

I had my early schooling at a Christian school called Our Lady’s Nursery. We used to wear a white Shirt with the OLN badge on our shirt pockets. This school is located at Pondy bazaar. I had many of my firsts here, obviously. Flashes of memories of me crying, blood on my shoulders, the guy called Vishnu, my two first best friends, everything is stil visible in my mind’s eye as i write it.

When i entered the school in LKG, i was Just one of the four guys in the class. the rest were girls… It sounds a pretty good thing right now, but i never got to enjoy in that kind of an environment the way i would love to, now.The other three guys were Sunil, Bhargav and ram narayan(i’m not sure about this guy). The last one was the dumbest of the four. He didnt even know how to make a boat. Sunil and me were the budding kids there and we both stole the limelight(or thats what we thought). I’ve been a teacher’s pet since this age and had enjoyed that feeling till 9th standard. Info about that will come later when i write about it. now back to my LKG and UKG days..

My class teacher’s name was Sandra. a very strict lady who struck terror in the hearts of the girls and never cared about us incorrigible guys. beautiful looking too. Girls, when very young, can be quite gullible and innocent as sunil and I found out to our advantage. There have been loads of incidences when we would commit some mistake and blame it on them!! Once when Sunil hit me, i started to cry, and he could do nothing to pacify me. then he said this, still vivid in my memory- “Enna da, Sai priya adichtala, va miss kitta sollalam” (what da, did Sai priya hit you? come lets complain to mam) i didnt know whether to laugh or cry about it, but i am sure that poor girl had a rough day because of a mistake that wasnt hers

During UKG we were tutored/managed by Mrs Martha. a very sweet old lady who had a round face and always kept smiling, and we always kept complaining. After’s Sandra mam’s clutches were gone, we tasted a new found freedom and we relished it to the core. The number of girls increased and that Ram guy shifted to some other schools. So it left just the three of us, Bhargav, Sunil and I, to wreak havoc in the class. This is also where my saga of competing with girls began for the first time. One of the girls who consistently managed to get praise from teachers was Ranjini, a tall studious girl. She was touted my competition by everyone and my parents encouraged me to be better than her(Mum especially). This was when i started to realize that being on the top was not the important thing. Staying there is tougher, as Federer is finding it these days.

We both competed in almost everything possible. A mark here, a grade there we must have tortured the poor teachers for sure. She got the first prize in Handwriting and me in singing. A head to head competition. when you are young, you are so romantic that u always go for the kill. Mum still remembers me coming home, taking off my shoes falling flat on the ground and starting to do my homework. I wouldn’t've removed even my socks but the spark was burning bright that time around. My mum used to recollect that incident, and scold me for ages to come, saying that i wasn’t sincere in studies as before. but that will be after ages to come..

this was the last time of my childhood(and in my life as well) when i played freely with girls not bothering about anything, treating them just like i treated my Sunil and Bhargav cos this was all about to change in my next year, when i stepped into an all-guys 1st standard. A new saga began, more about it in the next post.

Memories of the past, shall soon be forgotten. Those which schoose to linger, fade away eventually. Every moment in life has so many things throwing at you, that will make you dizzy facing them. There is a pattern you can find in those things which linger in our memories. They are not moments of nostalgia, nor the time when your senses have been subdued by alcohol, but those memories that linger were the times you lived in the moment

I surprisingly remember quite a lot about my childhood days. but the are all faded and have a dusty look on them. This post shall be just about that- my childhood memories. One of my very first memoires was the time i lived in CIT nagar. guess my old people had taken me by the PTC bus and i was quite fascinated by it, especially the conductor. I was enacting it out, living in my own fantasy land at home. Quite vividly remember that mum was reading that Kumudam or Ananda Vikatan, and i was moving a wooden plank as if it was the bus. i had used bits of paper as fictional money and mum bought all the tickets. Lame as it may sound, this is by far my earliest memory..

Quizzing is my passion. I love quizzing for the sheer fact that it makes me a child again. It brings out the curiosity in us, something that was ours when we were kids. In an effort to rekindle that fire of curiosity, a close friend of mine called Karthik Narayan set the ball rolling and we met up for the first time in the month of January. The league of extraordianary gentlemen decided to christen itself theIndian Quizzing League.

We quiz every week over sundaes and frappes. to know more about it, visit my other blog iquiz.wordpress.com

i chanced upon this story that was really really funny.. go ahead and have a laugh..

There once was a Red Indian whose given name was “Onestone”. So named because he had only one testicle. He hated that name and asked everyone not to call him Onestone.

After years and years of torment, Onestone finally cracked and said, “If anyone calls me Onestone again I will kill them!”

The word got around and nobody called him that any more. Then one day a young woman named Blue Bird forgot and said, “Good morning, Onestone.” He jumped up, grabbed her and took her deep into the forest where he made love to her all day and all night. He made love to her all the next day, until Blue Bird died from exhaustion.

The word got around that Onestone meant what he promised he would do. Years went by and no one dared call him by his given name until a woman named Yellow Bird returned to the village after being away for many years. Yellow Bird, who was Blue Bird’s cousin, was over joyed when she saw Onestone. She hugged him and said, “Good to see you, Onestone.”

Onestone grabbed her, took her deep into the forest, then he made love to her all day, made love to her all night, made love to her all the next day, made love to her all the next night, but Yellow Bird wouldn’t die!

What is the moral of this story??

OH, come on..take a guess!

Think about it.

(You’re going to love this!)

And the moral is…

…You can’t kill two birds with one stone!