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....
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