I'm sorry I didn't write for sooooo long. There wasn't any time to apologize while writing my previous entry, so I'm doing so now. I was terribly busy participating in the Youth Leaders Summit and CMUN [Cathedral Model United Nations] and had tests and assignments to give up. I'm writing my debut novel, 'Jyran7x' which I have been working on for a year. I made millions of drafts and even junked hundred pages of it because I wasn't happy with what I've written. But no regrets, as Roald Dahl says, "A writer who is happy with his first draft is in big trouble". Finally the idea has matured and I've managed to cover up several loopholes. Here's the first few lines of it. You may be confused and curious after you read the excerpt, but I promise you, the novel will be power packed. There is a foward which I'm not including in the excerpt. Please read it when it comes out......
Chapter 1- I almost get split into a hundred pieces
The sky was a sick mixture of blue and pink. The numbers were still asleep but the wind flew silently pushing an old rusty board. On the board was carved [in pale, yellow, thin words] ‘THE HOUSE OF LOUTAL.’ The sign pointed to a cluster of wild bushes. The wind ‘wooohed’ sheepishly and pushed its way through the bushes. They opened up, revealing a triangle shaped house perched on a long tower.
The tower had no windows, only a single red door. Behind the door lay a winding staircase. The staircase stopped midway, and if you weren’t alert, you’d probably fall of, into a glittering pool right beneath. From the ceiling there hung a thick rope. To the left of the rope was a large triangular door. A neat one, with ten latches under it and a large, grotesque door knob, about the size of a cauliflower, right at the top.
An eerie shadow stepped out of the pool, where she was praying to the number god, PHI.
The PHI looked queer. It had a tiny pony on the top of its head, representing ‘1.’ It had a long trunk descending, [‘1’ again] ending with a squiggly ‘6.’ Its two eyes represented 8. Just below its pony was large dot, PHI’s third eye which was believed to have the equation of every numberling.
An equation was a simple sentence which told volumes about the past, present and future of a numberling.
A pair of emerald green eyes glittered with tears in the dark as it saw a tall, dark, muscular number, with almond eyes, a rounded nose and a large crater on his cheek. A large crater on his cheek! That was definitely him! After twenty-two long years she was seeing him at last!
Then she blinked back her tears, she had to be tough, she had to keep this a secret, for his sake……
21 Aug 2007
19 Aug 2007
past, present, future
this is my first double meaning poem on pratyahara, controlling of the senses. its very english-literature types. i hope everyone understands it-
I press my nose against the grills,
Listening to the sound the city fills
I gaze and gaze at the world ahead,
Wondering which way I will head,
The city seems like a 3-tier cake,
The chocolaty one I just baked,
The first morsel--my past,
Seemed so simple and pure,
But I didn't pay it much heed,
I just devoured,
Waiting for the second morsel--
Black and rich,
As enticing as stories on a wizard and a witch,
I head for it,
In disappointment I grumble,
It tastes as dusty as rubble...
I look forward to the next piece
Which, I resolved,
I will sit quietly and eat.
The last piece- promising and bright,
Wholesome and light....
And when I go, and reach for it
My present calls with enticing smells
Which beckons me closer and closer,
I greedily take one spicy bite,
I don't know if this is right,
But my heart and stomach aches
For THAT last piece of cake
Instead of the chutney, I just ate...
I must control my senses before it’s too late
Or I’ll enjoy neither the chutney nor the cake
I press my nose against the grills,
Listening to the sound the city fills
I gaze and gaze at the world ahead,
Wondering which way I will head,
The city seems like a 3-tier cake,
The chocolaty one I just baked,
The first morsel--my past,
Seemed so simple and pure,
But I didn't pay it much heed,
I just devoured,
Waiting for the second morsel--
Black and rich,
As enticing as stories on a wizard and a witch,
I head for it,
In disappointment I grumble,
It tastes as dusty as rubble...
I look forward to the next piece
Which, I resolved,
I will sit quietly and eat.
The last piece- promising and bright,
Wholesome and light....
And when I go, and reach for it
My present calls with enticing smells
Which beckons me closer and closer,
I greedily take one spicy bite,
I don't know if this is right,
But my heart and stomach aches
For THAT last piece of cake
Instead of the chutney, I just ate...
I must control my senses before it’s too late
Or I’ll enjoy neither the chutney nor the cake
13 Jun 2007
second part- orange paneer
“Pride
Time
Curdled milk
and orange juice
that’s what makes me unique,”
boasted Paneerange, “I shall be the main dish,
you all shall be used to decorate me, when the guest arrive tonight!,”
she said, as the bread wore his coat of marmalade, and the soft vegetables came out from their steam bath, flushed.
“you’re so little” old bread giggled, “ a whole pan of milk makes just one tiny morsel of you.” he said. “nevertheless.” Paneerange scoffed, “I shall be the main dish, dear bread, not you.”
And so, dinner was ready for that night! The samosas were fried, the curries were done, the salad was made. But, there was no sign of vain Paneerange. “She’s used as a filling IN the main dish.” Rumors flew. “No, she’s been protected by old lettuce and lady tomato, so fresh and new.” They argued.
Paneerange?
Paneerilla!
I lied
For friendship, love
Which King Mango, bless him!
Deprived me off, because of my zany tongue,
My stingy tongue, bequeathed as an orange and as my new form, Paneerange.
Come let me narrate my story today, the magician who helped me woo the king, when I couldn’t afford a ring.
She made me bathe in hot milk, tied me up till I was dry. For me every king would pry. But my tongue gave away, and here I am, in the cheese grater today.
I was destined to be cousin paneer. Everyone thinks I’m the reincarnation of saint milk, but I am or was, lady orange. Haughty lady orange, now silly paneerange. Oh! Who’ll take me as a main dish? I’m just ‘sour cheese’, merely a flavor. Alas, I’m a salad topping, just out of a rusty cheese grater.
THE END
HISTORY-
For those not so ‘poetry-genetic.’ I’ll tell you what the poem means. The poem is a ‘Fibonacci sequence’ poem. Fibonacci sequence is something like this- 1-1-2-3-5-8-13….etc [ 1+1=2, 1+2=3, that’s the way it goes!] so, there’s one word on the first line, one word on the second line, two words on the third line, three words on the fourth line….etc.
EXPERIMENT-
Molecular gastronomy involves changing one ingredient in the traditional recipe to alter its taste, fragrance, texture, etc. my experiment broaches an interesting topic in this field
As we all know, Paneer is made by squeezing lemon in hot milk till it curdles, and then tying it up with muslin cloth for a few hours. Lemon is acidic, and hence makes the Paneer go bad. Orange is acidic too! So, I used orange instead of lemon…
ATTEMPTS-
In the first attempt, like arrogant Paneerange says in the poem, the orange was squeezed in cold milk, which didn’t curdle, as only hot milk curdles quickly. ‘The orange jumped in too soon.’ This phrase is used in the poem to state this failure.
In the second attempt, I squeezed the orange juice from the fleshy orange fruit, and put the squeezed out segments into the milk too! As a result it turned out to taste like a orange fiber ball or a ‘spoilt hairy-fibred ball’ as mentioned in poem.
My third attempt was a success. I added only the orange juice [ from one orange] minus the segments to a whole pan of milk. It took a day for it to curdle, and finally, the ‘orange’ Paneer, was the size of my finger. [Note: I learnt from my mistakes!] It tasted like a ‘subtly’ ‘sour’ cheese. Now, it would take a lot of milk to make a whole cube of this orange Paneer, so I thought I would be better if we used it as a sprinkler for salads and other such dishes. Definitely a healthy alternative for cheese!
Time
Curdled milk
and orange juice
that’s what makes me unique,”
boasted Paneerange, “I shall be the main dish,
you all shall be used to decorate me, when the guest arrive tonight!,”
she said, as the bread wore his coat of marmalade, and the soft vegetables came out from their steam bath, flushed.
“you’re so little” old bread giggled, “ a whole pan of milk makes just one tiny morsel of you.” he said. “nevertheless.” Paneerange scoffed, “I shall be the main dish, dear bread, not you.”
And so, dinner was ready for that night! The samosas were fried, the curries were done, the salad was made. But, there was no sign of vain Paneerange. “She’s used as a filling IN the main dish.” Rumors flew. “No, she’s been protected by old lettuce and lady tomato, so fresh and new.” They argued.
Paneerange?
Paneerilla!
I lied
For friendship, love
Which King Mango, bless him!
Deprived me off, because of my zany tongue,
My stingy tongue, bequeathed as an orange and as my new form, Paneerange.
Come let me narrate my story today, the magician who helped me woo the king, when I couldn’t afford a ring.
She made me bathe in hot milk, tied me up till I was dry. For me every king would pry. But my tongue gave away, and here I am, in the cheese grater today.
I was destined to be cousin paneer. Everyone thinks I’m the reincarnation of saint milk, but I am or was, lady orange. Haughty lady orange, now silly paneerange. Oh! Who’ll take me as a main dish? I’m just ‘sour cheese’, merely a flavor. Alas, I’m a salad topping, just out of a rusty cheese grater.
THE END
HISTORY-
For those not so ‘poetry-genetic.’ I’ll tell you what the poem means. The poem is a ‘Fibonacci sequence’ poem. Fibonacci sequence is something like this- 1-1-2-3-5-8-13….etc [ 1+1=2, 1+2=3, that’s the way it goes!] so, there’s one word on the first line, one word on the second line, two words on the third line, three words on the fourth line….etc.
EXPERIMENT-
Molecular gastronomy involves changing one ingredient in the traditional recipe to alter its taste, fragrance, texture, etc. my experiment broaches an interesting topic in this field
As we all know, Paneer is made by squeezing lemon in hot milk till it curdles, and then tying it up with muslin cloth for a few hours. Lemon is acidic, and hence makes the Paneer go bad. Orange is acidic too! So, I used orange instead of lemon…
ATTEMPTS-
In the first attempt, like arrogant Paneerange says in the poem, the orange was squeezed in cold milk, which didn’t curdle, as only hot milk curdles quickly. ‘The orange jumped in too soon.’ This phrase is used in the poem to state this failure.
In the second attempt, I squeezed the orange juice from the fleshy orange fruit, and put the squeezed out segments into the milk too! As a result it turned out to taste like a orange fiber ball or a ‘spoilt hairy-fibred ball’ as mentioned in poem.
My third attempt was a success. I added only the orange juice [ from one orange] minus the segments to a whole pan of milk. It took a day for it to curdle, and finally, the ‘orange’ Paneer, was the size of my finger. [Note: I learnt from my mistakes!] It tasted like a ‘subtly’ ‘sour’ cheese. Now, it would take a lot of milk to make a whole cube of this orange Paneer, so I thought I would be better if we used it as a sprinkler for salads and other such dishes. Definitely a healthy alternative for cheese!
1 May 2007
ORANGER PANEER
I'm really sorry that I didn't update my blog in so many weeks, for those of you who have been waiting for a new article. I was busy with my Checkpoint Exams [Maths, Science and English] and with countless tests....
Anyway, back to the point, my science project last year was on creating a healthy, fat free cheese, which could add extra zing if sprinkled on food without add extra inches to your stomach. I made this by squeezing orange in milk to make it curdle, rather than using lemons to do so. The result was orange paneer [cottage cheese] or PANEERANGE.
I also wrote a zany fibonacci sequence poem to supplement it. A fibonacci sequence goes like 1-1-2-3-5-8 and so on....adding the numbers before, to get another number. A fibonacci sequence poem is a real challenge to a writer's ability, as there can't be a word more or less. there has to be one word on the first line, one on the second line, two on the third line, three on the fourth line and so on.....
This poem is about how Paneerange came to be. It's really long, so I'll be putting it on three continuous blog posts.....
Paneer
a.k.a
Cottage cheese
Are his names
Hails originally from north India
As we often claim, but do you know
Do you know he is made by sieving hot milk as it curdles?
Soft, fresh paneer, with gravy makes a lip-smacking curry, and eaten with Indian bread, it’s a meal no one could dread.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eekkks!
Yuck!
The weirdo
The orange freak
“Who’s she? Could she be….
Our sister paneer?” Asked old flabbergasted banana bread.
“what happened, I dread to think? Filthy water? An escapade from the sink?”
“Nay, old fellow, something way better” the orange freak cooed, “ I was mixed with orange juice, dude” she laughed haughtily.
And so, she began her story. “I was kept in a huge bowl.” she mooed, “ part of me was used when I was cool, and the orange, fool! Jumped into me too soon.”
“go on,” the foods cried, much to haughty paneer’s delight. “ the second part of me was a waste, thanks to old orange’s haste. Orange juice was squeezed, and the squeezed orange segment jumped in too, to wave his beloved good bye, but he only turned up, making me taste like a spoilt hairy-fibred ball!”
“Continue.” They pleaded and Paneer waited till the noise subdued.“The third time.” she bursted with pride, “I came out all right. I was heated, just like the second time. The orange juice was squeezed, and the segment stayed in his place, but, because of the fusspot, silly orange juice, who refused to make me curdle, even after I abused. A day and a half she took, then, I was sieved, and tied on a hook, and out I came, orange and little, with an unusual title, ‘Paneerange’
to be continued....
Anyway, back to the point, my science project last year was on creating a healthy, fat free cheese, which could add extra zing if sprinkled on food without add extra inches to your stomach. I made this by squeezing orange in milk to make it curdle, rather than using lemons to do so. The result was orange paneer [cottage cheese] or PANEERANGE.
I also wrote a zany fibonacci sequence poem to supplement it. A fibonacci sequence goes like 1-1-2-3-5-8 and so on....adding the numbers before, to get another number. A fibonacci sequence poem is a real challenge to a writer's ability, as there can't be a word more or less. there has to be one word on the first line, one on the second line, two on the third line, three on the fourth line and so on.....
This poem is about how Paneerange came to be. It's really long, so I'll be putting it on three continuous blog posts.....
Paneer
a.k.a
Cottage cheese
Are his names
Hails originally from north India
As we often claim, but do you know
Do you know he is made by sieving hot milk as it curdles?
Soft, fresh paneer, with gravy makes a lip-smacking curry, and eaten with Indian bread, it’s a meal no one could dread.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eekkks!
Yuck!
The weirdo
The orange freak
“Who’s she? Could she be….
Our sister paneer?” Asked old flabbergasted banana bread.
“what happened, I dread to think? Filthy water? An escapade from the sink?”
“Nay, old fellow, something way better” the orange freak cooed, “ I was mixed with orange juice, dude” she laughed haughtily.
And so, she began her story. “I was kept in a huge bowl.” she mooed, “ part of me was used when I was cool, and the orange, fool! Jumped into me too soon.”
“go on,” the foods cried, much to haughty paneer’s delight. “ the second part of me was a waste, thanks to old orange’s haste. Orange juice was squeezed, and the squeezed orange segment jumped in too, to wave his beloved good bye, but he only turned up, making me taste like a spoilt hairy-fibred ball!”
“Continue.” They pleaded and Paneer waited till the noise subdued.“The third time.” she bursted with pride, “I came out all right. I was heated, just like the second time. The orange juice was squeezed, and the segment stayed in his place, but, because of the fusspot, silly orange juice, who refused to make me curdle, even after I abused. A day and a half she took, then, I was sieved, and tied on a hook, and out I came, orange and little, with an unusual title, ‘Paneerange’
to be continued....
3 Apr 2007
BY THE RIVER
I wrote this strange article while standing on a hill overlooking a river just behind my school. I had a strange, magical feeling though most people just saw it as a dry hill and dirty river.
Clusters of dried, wild shrubs made an unruly brown carpet at my feet. Thin, thorny green vines wrapped themselves around my legs. All these seeped out of the sunburned sand in the midst of a large crocodile-jaw shaped boulder. They grabbed me tight to the place I was standing. Huge scorpion holes glistened dangerously in the sunlight. The wind gently touched my face…it was a calm, warm wind gently playing with my hair. My hair enjoyed for the first time, dancing to the winds soothing ‘whooooooo’ tunes .I was at a dangerous position…one push could send me toppling into the depths of the muddy ‘Mithii River’. But I wasn’t frightened… I knew I was being held tight by nature.
That place may have looked like a junkyard to many. But for me, it was a fairyland. I looked to my right…what I saw was odd. There was a neat cluster of trees- a big dark-green one, others had small light leaves, there were some climbers, and there were also fern-like plants. These plants didn’t seem affected by the wind. Only one huge tree rustled gently, acknowledging the wind. I also spotted an old rickety structure. It was white, and crumbling like a moldering wedding cake…there was a tiny picture of Jesus on it [ from what I remember when I came here before]…my imagination raced…what if it was a haunted house? Or perhaps secret barracks for soldiers? … Or a writers hut?….
I turned to go back! I had to explore that place! The thorny stems recoiled to there original place… threateningly. The wild shrubs turned there heads away with the wind… the wind needled me… millions of tiny, hot pins were poking my delicate legs… dust gathered in huge whirlpools, irritating my eyes. I blinked… nature was angry with me… I had shown them that I was another human, interested in exploring some man-made structure rather then seeing what they wanted to show me. “I’m sorry,” I pleaded. The hot wind seemed to make me turn and face a huge stone. It GREW on another hill. It was roughly shaped like a serpents head. “Wow!” I exclaimed, “Now that’s a wonder!” I smiled as I followed my boisterous class inside. The wind blew again… and I thought I saw the rock swaying gently…
Clusters of dried, wild shrubs made an unruly brown carpet at my feet. Thin, thorny green vines wrapped themselves around my legs. All these seeped out of the sunburned sand in the midst of a large crocodile-jaw shaped boulder. They grabbed me tight to the place I was standing. Huge scorpion holes glistened dangerously in the sunlight. The wind gently touched my face…it was a calm, warm wind gently playing with my hair. My hair enjoyed for the first time, dancing to the winds soothing ‘whooooooo’ tunes .I was at a dangerous position…one push could send me toppling into the depths of the muddy ‘Mithii River’. But I wasn’t frightened… I knew I was being held tight by nature.
That place may have looked like a junkyard to many. But for me, it was a fairyland. I looked to my right…what I saw was odd. There was a neat cluster of trees- a big dark-green one, others had small light leaves, there were some climbers, and there were also fern-like plants. These plants didn’t seem affected by the wind. Only one huge tree rustled gently, acknowledging the wind. I also spotted an old rickety structure. It was white, and crumbling like a moldering wedding cake…there was a tiny picture of Jesus on it [ from what I remember when I came here before]…my imagination raced…what if it was a haunted house? Or perhaps secret barracks for soldiers? … Or a writers hut?….
I turned to go back! I had to explore that place! The thorny stems recoiled to there original place… threateningly. The wild shrubs turned there heads away with the wind… the wind needled me… millions of tiny, hot pins were poking my delicate legs… dust gathered in huge whirlpools, irritating my eyes. I blinked… nature was angry with me… I had shown them that I was another human, interested in exploring some man-made structure rather then seeing what they wanted to show me. “I’m sorry,” I pleaded. The hot wind seemed to make me turn and face a huge stone. It GREW on another hill. It was roughly shaped like a serpents head. “Wow!” I exclaimed, “Now that’s a wonder!” I smiled as I followed my boisterous class inside. The wind blew again… and I thought I saw the rock swaying gently…
23 Mar 2007
YOU'RE FAT!
This issue has been troubling me for the past few years. In this generation, you're simply not allowed to eat properly or have even a centimeter of flesh around your stomach. If you do, you aren't considered healthy. Nope, you're simply labeled into the group of 'fat hippos' or 'bull-dozers'.
Instead, if you are painfully anorexic, ie, if your ribcage, backbone slump under the weight of hardly any skin to drape it, if your cheeks sink into your face like two craters, *congratulations* you're 'sexy'!
We're only fourteen, not yet crossed our adolescence and here we are, critisizing each other's shape, tell each other to pull down to 'magically morph into a better induvidual'. However, TRY being kind, sweet, understanding, sharp, intelligent, broad-minded and then move on to being'sexy' for the next three fourth of your life. I don't consider being awfully skinny a good quality, nor to I consider having a waist size 30, something to be ashamed of.
I eat healthy and exercise regularly. I'm happy with the way I look, however, many people just can't see me being confindent with myself. If I slim down by 10 kgs, like a few tell me to, then I'll have to go crawling to school. I'll been scrawny and shriveled, worse than a dead plant!
So, my definition of looking good is- smile, maintain a good hygiene, walk confidently and always remember -your thoughts reflect on your face. Like Roald Dahl said in 'The Twits'. -
"If a person has ugly thoughts, it begins to show on the face. And when that person has ugly thoughts every day, every week, every year, the face gets uglier and uglier until it gets so ugly you can hardly bear to look at it. A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely."
Trust yourself and your capabilities. You can look 'sexy' even if you are plump. Because, to look 'sexy' you have to look good and you can look good if you are kind. Or else, no amount of cosmetics can cover your internal ugliness. You are not at a disadvantage if people are slimmer than you, so don't let people make you believe that you are. Most of those 'sexy chicks in school' starve themselves to death to 'maintain themselves'. Don't ever try that!
If Barbie was a real woman, she'd have to walk on her fours, as her body is not proportionate . So, be healthy rather than anorexic. Remember, you're NOT competing with Aishwarya Rai.
Just imagine life without food- bland, boring and bare! Why does everyone earn? To have money for food, to survive. If they don't eat, then whats the point!
Instead, if you are painfully anorexic, ie, if your ribcage, backbone slump under the weight of hardly any skin to drape it, if your cheeks sink into your face like two craters, *congratulations* you're 'sexy'!
We're only fourteen, not yet crossed our adolescence and here we are, critisizing each other's shape, tell each other to pull down to 'magically morph into a better induvidual'. However, TRY being kind, sweet, understanding, sharp, intelligent, broad-minded and then move on to being'sexy' for the next three fourth of your life. I don't consider being awfully skinny a good quality, nor to I consider having a waist size 30, something to be ashamed of.
I eat healthy and exercise regularly. I'm happy with the way I look, however, many people just can't see me being confindent with myself. If I slim down by 10 kgs, like a few tell me to, then I'll have to go crawling to school. I'll been scrawny and shriveled, worse than a dead plant!
So, my definition of looking good is- smile, maintain a good hygiene, walk confidently and always remember -your thoughts reflect on your face. Like Roald Dahl said in 'The Twits'. -
"If a person has ugly thoughts, it begins to show on the face. And when that person has ugly thoughts every day, every week, every year, the face gets uglier and uglier until it gets so ugly you can hardly bear to look at it. A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely."
Trust yourself and your capabilities. You can look 'sexy' even if you are plump. Because, to look 'sexy' you have to look good and you can look good if you are kind. Or else, no amount of cosmetics can cover your internal ugliness. You are not at a disadvantage if people are slimmer than you, so don't let people make you believe that you are. Most of those 'sexy chicks in school' starve themselves to death to 'maintain themselves'. Don't ever try that!
If Barbie was a real woman, she'd have to walk on her fours, as her body is not proportionate . So, be healthy rather than anorexic. Remember, you're NOT competing with Aishwarya Rai.
Just imagine life without food- bland, boring and bare! Why does everyone earn? To have money for food, to survive. If they don't eat, then whats the point!
13 Mar 2007
A sci-fi poem
this is a sci-fi poem about a molecule of potassium and chlorine, which i wrote a year ago to jazz up my science project. sadly, my teacher didn't understand it!
Young, handsome Potassium and daring, outgoing Chlorine made quite a pair,
Historian and actor respectively, they had lots of love to spare
Once, lady Chlorine, looked quite forlorn,
She wondered that if her success went
Would her love too be gone?
Old lady Zinc put her at ease
She gave her a magical potion
“Put two drops in his tea
and then tadaa!
The magic you will see”
Now before we proceed
Let me make it quite clear
The magic potion, given to chlorine
Was a one every unfaithful romeo fears
Just two drops of this
could spill out secrets…..
So off lady Chlorine went,
to her love’s house
she wondered if he would be,
her suitable spouse
then, slyly she,
put the potion in his tea
and when, the tea he drank
up from his seat he sprang
and confessed his deep love.
“Oh Potash” she gave a cry
"it was I
Who put a potion in your drink
Just to hear, what you think
and now, I’m ready to become
Potassium chloride.
I took this test, only for to see,
If you would really faithful be
And now I know that this is true...."
said potassium gently, " now I give my ‘Electron’, to you."
he loses his electron [heart] to her. potassium's valency is +1 [it loses an electron and thus gets a positive charge, remember?]
Young, handsome Potassium and daring, outgoing Chlorine made quite a pair,
Historian and actor respectively, they had lots of love to spare
Once, lady Chlorine, looked quite forlorn,
She wondered that if her success went
Would her love too be gone?
Old lady Zinc put her at ease
She gave her a magical potion
“Put two drops in his tea
and then tadaa!
The magic you will see”
Now before we proceed
Let me make it quite clear
The magic potion, given to chlorine
Was a one every unfaithful romeo fears
Just two drops of this
could spill out secrets…..
So off lady Chlorine went,
to her love’s house
she wondered if he would be,
her suitable spouse
then, slyly she,
put the potion in his tea
and when, the tea he drank
up from his seat he sprang
and confessed his deep love.
“Oh Potash” she gave a cry
"it was I
Who put a potion in your drink
Just to hear, what you think
and now, I’m ready to become
Potassium chloride.
I took this test, only for to see,
If you would really faithful be
And now I know that this is true...."
said potassium gently, " now I give my ‘Electron’, to you."
he loses his electron [heart] to her. potassium's valency is +1 [it loses an electron and thus gets a positive charge, remember?]
1 Mar 2007
FAIR AND LOVELY? DARK AND UGLY?
I wrote this article around two years ago because I was really angry with those fair and lovely ads and one of my classmates who said, "shut up, i'm an aryan, you're a dravadian. we chased you to south india. i'm far more superior to you because i'm white and you're dark."
when I read my article today, I thought it was really sweet. I liked my strong opinion of things then, which shows that I'm growing up to have a mind of my own. This usually gets me into fights with my dad who thinks I don't listen to or respect of other people's opinions. well, I do listen to, and respect opinions from others, but that doesn't mean I have to agree to what the majority think or what he thinks [ his idea of respecting opinions is agreeing with them]. like I said I have a mind of my own........
My name is Rheaa Rao. I’m an eleven year old girl studying at Dhirubhai Ambani International School. The article you are reading now is not about me. It is about my biggest problem, people differentiating between skin colours. Always favoring the white and pushing the dark skinned to a corner and making them feel humiliated.
All ads about beauty creams have the same irritating, unfair saga. A dark skinned lady applies for the airhostess post, they reject her because she is dark skinned, a few days later she puts a cream and becomes fair, she goes for her job interview and men jump out of their pants of awe and immediately give her a job. Are these ads trying to say that fair is lovely and dark is ugly, aren’t dark people beautiful or handsome, aren’t the fair skinned ugly?
Why are dark-skinned always meant to be felt small, and of a low caste? And why are the white meant to feel big, handsome and superior? Is it because the British who took over us were fair skinned? Is it because the white were the Aryans who overthrew the Dasus or dark skinned people and pushed them to South India? And what are they called now? South Indians. People mimic the way South Indians talk, but I think they speak good English; they only have an accent that’s Indian and that’s perfectly fine. But what about the Americans? They speak terrible English and mispronounce every word because of their scrawny, airy accent. But they aren’t mocked; they are followed just because they are ‘white’.
White means heaven, white is pure, clean, superior and black is shown as dirt, scum, filth, dust, devil. That isn’t fair.
In addition I don’t think that the ads should put wrong things in people’s heads. They show a dark skinned girl as a poor girl, with a sweaty face, and icky oily skin, dirty teeth and grime, they make the audience feel revolted and swear that they will never give a job opportunity to any dark- skinned person. Then comes the magic cream, she undergoes the change; they show her coming as a fair skinned person, with lovely soft pink and white skin and pearly teeth and lovely clothes and dainty heels and a beautiful smile. It makes everyone want to abandon their teddy bear and cuddle her instead. I don’t think creams should be made to make a dark skinned person a white-showy one; they should instead be made to improve the complexion.
We are Indians, come on, we are dark skinned, that’s our original skin colour, we will earn nothing following the West and behaving like them. Development and progress is good, but on the account of totally trying to cut yourself from your roots; forcibly putting on an accent and desperately trying those useless creams to turn 'FAIR AND LOVELY'.
Come on, we have our own riches, our country, our ways of dressing, behaving, talking, reacting, we have our special Indian accent, our own slang, our own unique personality and most of all, our skin colour. I’m dark skinned, but I don’t care, I’m feel beautiful and intelligent and I’m proud to say I’m a South Indian.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Adding to this, look at all the sucessful actors and actresses, Kajol, Bipasha, Rani Mukerjee, Ajay Devgan, Arshad Warsi, Johnny Liver, to name a few, who are dark skinned, but very good at their jobs [ and sucessful too]
We're learning 'Roll of Thunder, Hear my cry', by Mildred D. Taylor which talks about a coloured child, Cassie's trials and tribulations in a white dominated society. its a really sad book, with lots of gory scenes and sad truths, taught to tell us spoilt brats how safe and privileged we are in our society compared to the Logans [Cassie and her family].
A must read for all you folks who liked this article.
when I read my article today, I thought it was really sweet. I liked my strong opinion of things then, which shows that I'm growing up to have a mind of my own. This usually gets me into fights with my dad who thinks I don't listen to or respect of other people's opinions. well, I do listen to, and respect opinions from others, but that doesn't mean I have to agree to what the majority think or what he thinks [ his idea of respecting opinions is agreeing with them]. like I said I have a mind of my own........
My name is Rheaa Rao. I’m an eleven year old girl studying at Dhirubhai Ambani International School. The article you are reading now is not about me. It is about my biggest problem, people differentiating between skin colours. Always favoring the white and pushing the dark skinned to a corner and making them feel humiliated.
All ads about beauty creams have the same irritating, unfair saga. A dark skinned lady applies for the airhostess post, they reject her because she is dark skinned, a few days later she puts a cream and becomes fair, she goes for her job interview and men jump out of their pants of awe and immediately give her a job. Are these ads trying to say that fair is lovely and dark is ugly, aren’t dark people beautiful or handsome, aren’t the fair skinned ugly?
Why are dark-skinned always meant to be felt small, and of a low caste? And why are the white meant to feel big, handsome and superior? Is it because the British who took over us were fair skinned? Is it because the white were the Aryans who overthrew the Dasus or dark skinned people and pushed them to South India? And what are they called now? South Indians. People mimic the way South Indians talk, but I think they speak good English; they only have an accent that’s Indian and that’s perfectly fine. But what about the Americans? They speak terrible English and mispronounce every word because of their scrawny, airy accent. But they aren’t mocked; they are followed just because they are ‘white’.
White means heaven, white is pure, clean, superior and black is shown as dirt, scum, filth, dust, devil. That isn’t fair.
In addition I don’t think that the ads should put wrong things in people’s heads. They show a dark skinned girl as a poor girl, with a sweaty face, and icky oily skin, dirty teeth and grime, they make the audience feel revolted and swear that they will never give a job opportunity to any dark- skinned person. Then comes the magic cream, she undergoes the change; they show her coming as a fair skinned person, with lovely soft pink and white skin and pearly teeth and lovely clothes and dainty heels and a beautiful smile. It makes everyone want to abandon their teddy bear and cuddle her instead. I don’t think creams should be made to make a dark skinned person a white-showy one; they should instead be made to improve the complexion.
We are Indians, come on, we are dark skinned, that’s our original skin colour, we will earn nothing following the West and behaving like them. Development and progress is good, but on the account of totally trying to cut yourself from your roots; forcibly putting on an accent and desperately trying those useless creams to turn 'FAIR AND LOVELY'.
Come on, we have our own riches, our country, our ways of dressing, behaving, talking, reacting, we have our special Indian accent, our own slang, our own unique personality and most of all, our skin colour. I’m dark skinned, but I don’t care, I’m feel beautiful and intelligent and I’m proud to say I’m a South Indian.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Adding to this, look at all the sucessful actors and actresses, Kajol, Bipasha, Rani Mukerjee, Ajay Devgan, Arshad Warsi, Johnny Liver, to name a few, who are dark skinned, but very good at their jobs [ and sucessful too]
We're learning 'Roll of Thunder, Hear my cry', by Mildred D. Taylor which talks about a coloured child, Cassie's trials and tribulations in a white dominated society. its a really sad book, with lots of gory scenes and sad truths, taught to tell us spoilt brats how safe and privileged we are in our society compared to the Logans [Cassie and her family].
A must read for all you folks who liked this article.
9 Feb 2007
ATTACK !!
I wrote this story about a year ago. Its about an anthill that exists as a whole new world of its own....
If you ever visit Sanjay Gandhi National Park, you will see rows of ant hills, each with their own unique characteristics. One such anthill was a beautifully designed one. It was like a spiral cone, so the rain drops will just slide by. It was red and green in patches which made it look very artistic, like it was covered with mosaic from head to toe [the secret was fresh and dry leaves carefully stuck on mud and cemented with wet sand.] The ant hill had twelve gates. Six for coming in and six for going out.
The queen of this wonderful palace - like anthill was a systematic ant. She was an ant of many interests. She was a master in interior designing and architecture and the mother for more than one lakh ants, each of them very well bred. The anthill extended more than twenty feet below the ground. This place was used to park their leaves. Each ant had their own leaf to help them get out during the floods. They also stored their supplies for the winter here . Heaps and pile of sugar, bread pieces, snake skin with salt [ methods of preserving] and many other wonders lay there. It was kept a strict eye on, by the Food Department, that was in charge of all the administration [ in matters of food] in the ant-hill.
The upper part of the anthill were filled with tiny houses. A special section for the soldiers, a special one for the workers. The queen ant who lived on the top with her princesses [ tenth set of eggs], sent out instructions through her special scent to the organs of her anthill, [like the brain]. Also there was a small room called the radio department where different channels were broadcasted and would reach any ant, as long as his/her antennas were straightened. The ants were allowed to listen to the radio only before bedtime and during the afternoon. There was also a small party area for the ants [ usually used for the little princesses birthdays]. This whole anthill was like a miniature world.
One day there was an unusual excitement in the anthill. At two a clock, just after the show, ‘ Recipe-o-ant’, [sponsored by the food department] the news channel, ‘ Ant news’ reported that there was a golden creature just five inches away from the ant hill. It had a strange face, with two hands stuck on it. It had twelve –thirteen bruise marks on it’s face. It was injured as it lies motionlessly still and that this was the best opportunity to attack, before the other ants grab it.”
All the ants in the anthill listened intently. The soldiers were all ready to attack. The chef ants put on their caps and got out their vessels. The food department remained alert. How wonderful it would be to have this creature for lunch! They had eaten snake tarts, elephant meat, rat soup, now they were waiting to taste this new dish. It sounded lip smacking. All of them waited for the queens instructions. But the queen climbed to the top of the anthill, looking at the gory scene. The soldier ants from every anthill [ but hers] were fighting for the creature. She sighed. She knew, just when her children described it to her, that it was a golden watch. This war was a complete waste!
In the mean while all her subjects sat as still waiting for her voice. She told them the news. There was a nasty silence….. and then a hearty laugh. A golden watch! Imagine eating that! Soon everything came back to normal. The anthill was buzzing with work again, and then, just before tea, the workers brought in…. snake tarts… yumm! What a feast they had.
If you ever visit Sanjay Gandhi National Park, you will see rows of ant hills, each with their own unique characteristics. One such anthill was a beautifully designed one. It was like a spiral cone, so the rain drops will just slide by. It was red and green in patches which made it look very artistic, like it was covered with mosaic from head to toe [the secret was fresh and dry leaves carefully stuck on mud and cemented with wet sand.] The ant hill had twelve gates. Six for coming in and six for going out.
The queen of this wonderful palace - like anthill was a systematic ant. She was an ant of many interests. She was a master in interior designing and architecture and the mother for more than one lakh ants, each of them very well bred. The anthill extended more than twenty feet below the ground. This place was used to park their leaves. Each ant had their own leaf to help them get out during the floods. They also stored their supplies for the winter here . Heaps and pile of sugar, bread pieces, snake skin with salt [ methods of preserving] and many other wonders lay there. It was kept a strict eye on, by the Food Department, that was in charge of all the administration [ in matters of food] in the ant-hill.
The upper part of the anthill were filled with tiny houses. A special section for the soldiers, a special one for the workers. The queen ant who lived on the top with her princesses [ tenth set of eggs], sent out instructions through her special scent to the organs of her anthill, [like the brain]. Also there was a small room called the radio department where different channels were broadcasted and would reach any ant, as long as his/her antennas were straightened. The ants were allowed to listen to the radio only before bedtime and during the afternoon. There was also a small party area for the ants [ usually used for the little princesses birthdays]. This whole anthill was like a miniature world.
One day there was an unusual excitement in the anthill. At two a clock, just after the show, ‘ Recipe-o-ant’, [sponsored by the food department] the news channel, ‘ Ant news’ reported that there was a golden creature just five inches away from the ant hill. It had a strange face, with two hands stuck on it. It had twelve –thirteen bruise marks on it’s face. It was injured as it lies motionlessly still and that this was the best opportunity to attack, before the other ants grab it.”
All the ants in the anthill listened intently. The soldiers were all ready to attack. The chef ants put on their caps and got out their vessels. The food department remained alert. How wonderful it would be to have this creature for lunch! They had eaten snake tarts, elephant meat, rat soup, now they were waiting to taste this new dish. It sounded lip smacking. All of them waited for the queens instructions. But the queen climbed to the top of the anthill, looking at the gory scene. The soldier ants from every anthill [ but hers] were fighting for the creature. She sighed. She knew, just when her children described it to her, that it was a golden watch. This war was a complete waste!
In the mean while all her subjects sat as still waiting for her voice. She told them the news. There was a nasty silence….. and then a hearty laugh. A golden watch! Imagine eating that! Soon everything came back to normal. The anthill was buzzing with work again, and then, just before tea, the workers brought in…. snake tarts… yumm! What a feast they had.
28 Jan 2007
an ad about the effects of drug abuse
We are learning about 'DRUG ABUSE' in school as a part of biology. we were asked to make a small pamphlet on drug abuse. here's the zany ad i wrote. i also stuck a picture of a beam balance saying 'LIFE OR DRUGS- YOU CHOOSE' with 'life' on one balance and 'drugs' on the other. i also included a quote by Charles Munger from 'Poor Charlies Almanac', one of the richest men in the world.
P.S- the final result was a lot more colourful!
Flash backs , Crashes of anxiety , fatigue, depression, aroused sexual activity leading to the risk of Aids and Hepatitis, bad, mood and performance , marital problems, disruption, crimes, violence , threats, debts to cover up illegal acts, loss of control, highway deaths, suicides……………………………………………...
Are entertaining when seen in K serials!
But these same scenes can ruin your life… for if you become a juvenile offender in drug abuse…there’ll be no one to cry at your fate except yourself…
So don’t use your hands to take in drugs…use them to write ‘drug abuse awareness’ pamphlets and discourage other teens to from using drugs instead.
“While susceptibility varies, addiction can happen to any of us through a subtle process where the bonds of degradation are too light to be felt until they are too strong to be broken. And I have yet to meet anyone in over six decades of life, whose life was worsened by fear and avoidance of such a deceptive pathway to destruction.”
- Charles T. Munger
(One of the richest men in the world)
Life without drugs will give you a new ‘high’
P.S- the final result was a lot more colourful!
Flash backs , Crashes of anxiety , fatigue, depression, aroused sexual activity leading to the risk of Aids and Hepatitis, bad, mood and performance , marital problems, disruption, crimes, violence , threats, debts to cover up illegal acts, loss of control, highway deaths, suicides……………………………………………...
Are entertaining when seen in K serials!
But these same scenes can ruin your life… for if you become a juvenile offender in drug abuse…there’ll be no one to cry at your fate except yourself…
So don’t use your hands to take in drugs…use them to write ‘drug abuse awareness’ pamphlets and discourage other teens to from using drugs instead.
“While susceptibility varies, addiction can happen to any of us through a subtle process where the bonds of degradation are too light to be felt until they are too strong to be broken. And I have yet to meet anyone in over six decades of life, whose life was worsened by fear and avoidance of such a deceptive pathway to destruction.”
- Charles T. Munger
(One of the richest men in the world)
Life without drugs will give you a new ‘high’
Flash Fiction- THE MESSAGE
Flash Fiction (also called micro-fiction or short-shorts) presents a simple challenge: tell a story with all the classical elements: a beginning, middle and end, a conflict and resolution, a credible protagonist.. but do so in a very limited number of words. the theme is message and i'm sending it to the Kala Ghoda festival. this is the first time i'm experimenting with flash fiction. the story is ambiguous and strange [ its meant to be]. enjoy!
His floppy ears cocked at the sight of the venomous monster. It made raucous ‘clink!’ noises and flashed its sharp, distorted teeth as it rode past him. A young lad with scruffy hair and dark, flaky skin rode it, with a large bundle flung across his shoulders.
Hari gave the monster a cursory glance and shrunk into his master’s shadow. They were coming for him… the same monster, shadowy lad, heavy bundle…exactly like the ones in lizard-lore…. Another death…. today would be his last night…
A sausagey figure with what looked like cigarette stubs for legs darted towards him. “It’s them!” Hari whimpered. “Run, Tango! They’ve come to get me…or you!”
“Ah!” snorted Tango, with a wild, playful look in his eyes. “I’ve lived two years of my life like a king. I need some challenges. I want to be a human next birth.” he added with a wag, “If you’re troubled, contact the B.O.N.E. for protection!”
“Yeah!,” said Hari, still looking a little troubled. Tango didn’t believe in lizard-lore, so he took the whole situation lightly. And there was Mumbai, brimming with them, those ‘Mauthwallas’! To people it simply looked like a laundry boy on his cycle. But they were monsters. They brought bundles of clothes starched with death and pain. They rang an odd bell on the porch of their next prey….
His master was hapless too. He wouldn’t be able to protect himself from these ‘Mauthwallas’. Hari struggled to communicate this message, but all he could do was cock his ears, twist his tongue and dart home, dragging his master behind him.
“We must try to avoid those cycles, or this dog will never walk properly.” His mistress mumbled.
Hari blinked at his owners and gave them a satisfied sigh. He had managed to convey his message!
His floppy ears cocked at the sight of the venomous monster. It made raucous ‘clink!’ noises and flashed its sharp, distorted teeth as it rode past him. A young lad with scruffy hair and dark, flaky skin rode it, with a large bundle flung across his shoulders.
Hari gave the monster a cursory glance and shrunk into his master’s shadow. They were coming for him… the same monster, shadowy lad, heavy bundle…exactly like the ones in lizard-lore…. Another death…. today would be his last night…
A sausagey figure with what looked like cigarette stubs for legs darted towards him. “It’s them!” Hari whimpered. “Run, Tango! They’ve come to get me…or you!”
“Ah!” snorted Tango, with a wild, playful look in his eyes. “I’ve lived two years of my life like a king. I need some challenges. I want to be a human next birth.” he added with a wag, “If you’re troubled, contact the B.O.N.E. for protection!”
“Yeah!,” said Hari, still looking a little troubled. Tango didn’t believe in lizard-lore, so he took the whole situation lightly. And there was Mumbai, brimming with them, those ‘Mauthwallas’! To people it simply looked like a laundry boy on his cycle. But they were monsters. They brought bundles of clothes starched with death and pain. They rang an odd bell on the porch of their next prey….
His master was hapless too. He wouldn’t be able to protect himself from these ‘Mauthwallas’. Hari struggled to communicate this message, but all he could do was cock his ears, twist his tongue and dart home, dragging his master behind him.
“We must try to avoid those cycles, or this dog will never walk properly.” His mistress mumbled.
Hari blinked at his owners and gave them a satisfied sigh. He had managed to convey his message!
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