He saw her in his dreams; eyes closed
A maiden fair and beautiful
Her eyes as clear as the morning dew,
Skin so fair of the white sandy beach
Like the morning rays were her kisses soft
Cheeks as soft as the morning breeze,
Her hands, oh how he loved those hands
As graceful as the eagle's flight
Pure at heart, clear in mind
Was his maiden of dreams. In light
He woke, his eyelids lifted, in front was I
In all my dreary self
One look he gave me, his eye
Widened, "you are her, my dream
You are her my dear". I refuse; deny
"I have not that elegance, nor grace
Nor beauty of your girl desired
I am not her, your dream, your love"
Long he looked, longingly he looked and cried
Out loud " 'tis true, you are not her
You are not her my dear, my dream girl
You are not her, for you are better"
And there did the love blossom.
Luck, is it?
If being forgiven is lucky,
Then lucky I am
If having a caring soul for yourself be luck
Then lucky I am
If being given support and encouragement is luck
Then, again, lucky I am
If unconditional, undying love begotten be luck,
Then, God knows how lucky I am.
For you, oh Soul my own, personify my luck
Having forgiven my sins of stupidity,
Having borne my crimes born out of ignorance,
Having cared for me through your pain
I see your eyes, I still see
In the beginning what I did see
A love so strong, so steep
And see something never before seen
A pain so sharp, so deep.
My sorrow lies in those eyes two
Where pain profound I see
Look closer, I see your heart,
My sorrow lies, the pain is me..............
Then lucky I am
If having a caring soul for yourself be luck
Then lucky I am
If being given support and encouragement is luck
Then, again, lucky I am
If unconditional, undying love begotten be luck,
Then, God knows how lucky I am.
For you, oh Soul my own, personify my luck
Having forgiven my sins of stupidity,
Having borne my crimes born out of ignorance,
Having cared for me through your pain
I see your eyes, I still see
In the beginning what I did see
A love so strong, so steep
And see something never before seen
A pain so sharp, so deep.
My sorrow lies in those eyes two
Where pain profound I see
Look closer, I see your heart,
My sorrow lies, the pain is me..............
A different English.
This is a typical conversation between two IIT M students
A: Hey dude
B: Dude, like wassup?
A: Nothing, you finished studying?
B: No dude, I'm putting night out, the subject is just pain max
A: Pain only, I'm so sure tomorrow's exam will be a cupper only
B: Dude, like totally, I've to go put grub and put night out only
A: Some guys are like pack only, they don't even want to put fight
B: If I do that, my folks will like rape me. I need a 7 point CG dude
A: Ha ha, my parents know I'm one gib max guy but still make me put fight da
B: I know macha, it's all time rg ing only at home. That's why I never leave the insti.
A: So true. Only those muggus can get it all da
B: No dude, they're just putting pseud, they're no stud and all, they put fight for even slysha pain subjects
A: So true, anyway, I'm leaving, gonna go put arbit stuff for a while. See ya
And so on goes the conversation.
I'm sure you guys noticed something different about this language where there is only one verb "put" and there are the eternal suffixes "max" and "only". And of course, te certain words peculiar to the "insti" such as arbit, pseud, stud, rg-ing, rape, slysha, gib, pack, night out, "putting grub, putting fight.
It's not that these people do not KNOW proper English, it's just that we choose not to speak it. To us, this is our English. It happens all the time, everywhere. You notice you speak in a diffrent Engilsh with your parents; different with your friends; different with your teachers; different on stage; different in a debate. Each time the style is so different. Yet we are the same person. Aren't we?
What brings about this difference then? Why is the English spoken on stage the "proper" English? You get these questions if you read Amy Tan's "mother tongue" like we freshies did.
I don't know. I see myself using a certain english in the blog and different in my answer papers.
Why do I do that?
A: Hey dude
B: Dude, like wassup?
A: Nothing, you finished studying?
B: No dude, I'm putting night out, the subject is just pain max
A: Pain only, I'm so sure tomorrow's exam will be a cupper only
B: Dude, like totally, I've to go put grub and put night out only
A: Some guys are like pack only, they don't even want to put fight
B: If I do that, my folks will like rape me. I need a 7 point CG dude
A: Ha ha, my parents know I'm one gib max guy but still make me put fight da
B: I know macha, it's all time rg ing only at home. That's why I never leave the insti.
A: So true. Only those muggus can get it all da
B: No dude, they're just putting pseud, they're no stud and all, they put fight for even slysha pain subjects
A: So true, anyway, I'm leaving, gonna go put arbit stuff for a while. See ya
And so on goes the conversation.
I'm sure you guys noticed something different about this language where there is only one verb "put" and there are the eternal suffixes "max" and "only". And of course, te certain words peculiar to the "insti" such as arbit, pseud, stud, rg-ing, rape, slysha, gib, pack, night out, "putting grub, putting fight.
It's not that these people do not KNOW proper English, it's just that we choose not to speak it. To us, this is our English. It happens all the time, everywhere. You notice you speak in a diffrent Engilsh with your parents; different with your friends; different with your teachers; different on stage; different in a debate. Each time the style is so different. Yet we are the same person. Aren't we?
What brings about this difference then? Why is the English spoken on stage the "proper" English? You get these questions if you read Amy Tan's "mother tongue" like we freshies did.
I don't know. I see myself using a certain english in the blog and different in my answer papers.
Why do I do that?
One night..
All alone, she did moan
"She wanted to be alone",
They cried, yet didn't cry
She tried, yet didn't try
And ended up being the survivor lone.
Does a sad limerick count as a limerick?? This is mine.
"She wanted to be alone",
They cried, yet didn't cry
She tried, yet didn't try
And ended up being the survivor lone.
Does a sad limerick count as a limerick?? This is mine.
The memory of an Angel
This is a short story I wrote for a creative writing competition in my hostel and was awarded first place for. The topic was the story should end with the sentence "Shit!". Incidentally, first time writing fiction. Total bomb!
It's hard being a doctor in a small town in an obscure county. Specifically when half the town was hit with a strange epidemic of diarrhea. Asking people about their ways and times of disembowelment was not my idea of glamour when I entered Pre-Med at Oregon. Listening to old ladies offer me their opinion as to why their shit was coming out too fast, however, was something entirely different. At least the former didn't make my stomach want to churn itself out. How I ended up here is a mystery; one I always end up trying to figure out over these lonely lunches in my depressing, square office.
I'm an unmarried, middle aged, slightly balding guy, who's had more than his fair share of girlfriends, hookers and porn. But strangely it wasn't the fascination for the naked female that led me from being a top rated M.D aspirant to a small town doctor on an average pay. It was the clothed female; an eight year old one, to be specific.
I saw Angela on one of my hospital tours, my first to be exact. One look and I knew she was the most delicate thing I'd ever seen. Her soft, curly, brown hair fell all around her face and was being tucked behind her ear by a weeping lady I suspected to be her mom. I was instinctively drawn to the child.
"She has leukemia.", her mother said
"How bad is it?"
"The doctors are giving her two days to a week", she said with a sniff.
"it's an irony" she went on, "Angela always talked about becoming a doctor and setting up her own clinic and t-t-to think she'd end up dying in one..", her voice trailed off and pretty soon, she was in hysterics. I, out of practice, signalled a nurse to take care of the woman.
Turning to Angela, I could almost see her dreams in her closed eyes. I patted her on the head and brushed her hair aside, and vaguely thought about life and death the way it'd have been thought about in the movies. Mine was more abstract though. I wasn't able to put it into words the way they do in the movies.
As if on cue, her eyes opened, big, brown, and hopeful. And suddenly I felt the loss of my sister hit me back with a vengeance. Probably because I'd lost her the same way too, to that stranger called leukemia.
Tears stung my eyes.
She was trying to say something. I could hear her struggle to breathe. Slowly,
"...c-c-clinic...Angela's clinic.." she managed to say before those round eyes closed, hiding me from her.
Something about the serene look on her sleeping face kept me there.
Around ten minutes later, she opened her eyes again. They were almost pleading this time.
"you'll..you'll do it f-f-for me won't you..?" She asked me. I fingered through her hair and I think she saw me nod before she drifted off once more. She drifted away.
Before I had time to think through how I got from there to my clinic, "Healing Angels", my phone rang; insistently at that, snapping me out of my reverie. And instinctively, as I remembered the reality of my diarrhea-hit town, I knew what the call would be about. "Shit!"
It's hard being a doctor in a small town in an obscure county. Specifically when half the town was hit with a strange epidemic of diarrhea. Asking people about their ways and times of disembowelment was not my idea of glamour when I entered Pre-Med at Oregon. Listening to old ladies offer me their opinion as to why their shit was coming out too fast, however, was something entirely different. At least the former didn't make my stomach want to churn itself out. How I ended up here is a mystery; one I always end up trying to figure out over these lonely lunches in my depressing, square office.
I'm an unmarried, middle aged, slightly balding guy, who's had more than his fair share of girlfriends, hookers and porn. But strangely it wasn't the fascination for the naked female that led me from being a top rated M.D aspirant to a small town doctor on an average pay. It was the clothed female; an eight year old one, to be specific.
I saw Angela on one of my hospital tours, my first to be exact. One look and I knew she was the most delicate thing I'd ever seen. Her soft, curly, brown hair fell all around her face and was being tucked behind her ear by a weeping lady I suspected to be her mom. I was instinctively drawn to the child.
"She has leukemia.", her mother said
"How bad is it?"
"The doctors are giving her two days to a week", she said with a sniff.
"it's an irony" she went on, "Angela always talked about becoming a doctor and setting up her own clinic and t-t-to think she'd end up dying in one..", her voice trailed off and pretty soon, she was in hysterics. I, out of practice, signalled a nurse to take care of the woman.
Turning to Angela, I could almost see her dreams in her closed eyes. I patted her on the head and brushed her hair aside, and vaguely thought about life and death the way it'd have been thought about in the movies. Mine was more abstract though. I wasn't able to put it into words the way they do in the movies.
As if on cue, her eyes opened, big, brown, and hopeful. And suddenly I felt the loss of my sister hit me back with a vengeance. Probably because I'd lost her the same way too, to that stranger called leukemia.
Tears stung my eyes.
She was trying to say something. I could hear her struggle to breathe. Slowly,
"...c-c-clinic...Angela's clinic.." she managed to say before those round eyes closed, hiding me from her.
Something about the serene look on her sleeping face kept me there.
Around ten minutes later, she opened her eyes again. They were almost pleading this time.
"you'll..you'll do it f-f-for me won't you..?" She asked me. I fingered through her hair and I think she saw me nod before she drifted off once more. She drifted away.
Before I had time to think through how I got from there to my clinic, "Healing Angels", my phone rang; insistently at that, snapping me out of my reverie. And instinctively, as I remembered the reality of my diarrhea-hit town, I knew what the call would be about. "Shit!"
Writing about India
This is an excerpt from the article "How to write about Africa" By Binyvanga Wainaina. Amazing article. Sarcastic and angry way of telling people the African stereotypes that are repeatedly used by European author till date."
How to Write about
How to Write about Africa
Always use the word '
Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.
In your text, treat
Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African's cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it—because you care....... "
And it goes on.
As we laugh about the style of writing and as such, have you ever thought how this very article would be if written about India?
Always include animals roaming on the road and having perfect right of way. Make sure you give disgusting imagery of people defecating on the road, be it men, women or children. India is known for its population so always bring in images of streets filled with people to an insane level where no one can move. Wrinkled faces and bony hands, poor, naked children and roads lined with huts made of straw should always be present in the book. Snake charmers must always be mentioned at least once. Never play upon the fact that India had many scientists and an army among the top five largest. Always mention the inter caste clashes that happen with such absurdity. At least two sentences must be written about beggars troubling rich men, mothers insistent on marrying off their daughters into rich families. And of course make repeated mentions of the "glaring sunshine" "sweltering heat" etc. And remember, there should always be an inherent love story of a forbidden love......
Would that be it?
The difference is, when Wainaina wrote his piece, he was talking about false claims. I was not. 0_0
It was him.
Love like his I’d never had
Love it is I still know not
But Love it shall be for now
For it can be but only Love
Stood against me when weak
“Be stronger” he said
And stronger he made me
And set this Soul free
Stood by me when in need,
A comfort and counselor
When the world was up against
When my world was up against
His hands two my great aid
One hand holding mine
The other my shield; in all adversity
Never to yield
Guide me, he would
Many a time at that
Through anger; through sorrow
From the day till the morrow
You’re too angry, he’d say
You’re too moody, said he
You’re too volatile said he again
And there, that, that would pain
For though the words true
Would cut and bleed
For in the end, t’was true this
For in the end, the words were his
Nurturing a belief within his heart
Nursing a fear all the whilst
Scared for me? Scared of me
I’ll never know, neither history
Many a time his blood I tasted
Many a time he did mine
Though a regret naught I have
T’was that blood gave me the strength I have
Ever to impress; in no way disappoint
I strive along the way
Hoping not lose on the line
And yet end up losing that which is mine
To better him, my sole aim
To better me, his
And strive did we to better
End up losing one another
There learnt a lesson did I
We must not compare; him and I
After all, he is he
After all, I am me
Today we stand, apart and together
Today we stand bested by each other
I hate his love as he does mine
Yet I miss that love I hate, know he’s crying
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