The Good O’l Days

Oh, I miss those days,

when all that mattered

was the next class —

carrying a bulky book,

and caressing with a love

that none understood.

I miss that thrill —

of having the book open,

of reading a piece of prose —

or a poem — yes,

I’d like that — a poem.

A war poem, perhaps,

with a touch of sarcasm

and plenty pathos

oh, I’d love that; reading

analyzing, and discussing

the figures of speech and

reading between the lines —

decoding puzzling poetry.

I miss being awed

by the ceaseless Caesar,

and Brutus back stabbing;

the hair that be wires;

and the stunned disbelief

when love’s not love.

I miss those days —

of classroom revelations,

of shared appreciations

and new born respect —

oh, for god’s sake,

I meant for literature.

Time for Some Romance

I don’t much care for romance — well honestly, I hate romance.

I can’t bear to read through sensous words of love in which the boy and girl look into each other for exactly eight seconds before falling for each other. Remember this the 21st century and our protoganists are computer programmers and classical thinkers; statistics matter.

Why don’t heroes gatecrash parties anymore? And fall for the daughter of their sworn enemy? What’s wrong with falling in love with your first love’s cousin — when your first love didn’t reciprocate in the first place?

This is why I don’t read romance. Because it’s too primitive disguised as modern.

But since everyone from my mother to my brother and my cousins (which was all, actually) couldn’t shut up about Love Story, I decided to read it.

Don’t get me wrong; when I say Love Story, I mean the love story, by Erich Segal.

Unsurprisingly, I loved it. And something in it will stay with me forever.

What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died?
That she was beautiful and brilliant
That she loved Mozart and Bach.
The Beatles. And me.

That made me read through the book, and that made me open my mind to romance. In novels, I mean.

I’m a Fool

Sometimes all you need is assurance that your foolishness will pay off. And since it comes from Roald Dahl himself (or so I hear), it must be true.

What a comforting way to start the weekend!

Certainly Uncertain

So many times in my life, I’ve felt it — that feeling of uncertainty, of not being sure of what to do, or how to do something. Anytime, any day, any where — there are doubts.

And then, from nowhere, comes clarity.

Sometimes, you just know what to do. You become so sure that you’re not even sure how you became so sure. You, who used to be so unsure of everything.

And that’s why I love Sylvia Plath.

I can’t even begin to say how much I relate to her words. I haven’t read one book of hers; just a few poems, but I already know she’s one of my favourites.

Every word, every syllable, is pure venom. Addictive, powerful and the only truth.

What a Mess, English!

English is a funny language. It’s not my first, and it certainly won’t be my last, but English, my dearest, you are one hell of a mess.

Well, English, how many languages have you borrowed from? Can you even count the number of foreign words you now call yours? But hey, we know that you didn’t steal any of it — I would never throw that on you. I love you, trust me.

But I don’t like some of the words you own. Like, for instance, the word “mentee.” I always considered it like one of those informal terms that corporate people dished out — a lot, mind you — just to sound high-profile. But this morning, I read an article about the signs of a good editor (like anyone knows that!), and I came across this word.

Mentee.

Yuck. Try saying that word aloud and slow. “Mentee.” The aftermath of the long ‘tee’ and the resonating sound of the ‘men’ (oops!) is detestable.

Of course where there’s a “mentee” there’s also a “mentor.” This, however, I can live with. I even daresay that I like the round “or” sound. It gives me the image of something wholesome and complete.

But the best thing about you — English — is that you are so changeable.

Is it just me? Or isn’t “ambidextrous” lovable?

Ambidextrous is beautiful. And why wouldn’t it be, it’s a talent after all! It’s attractive too. But the word, “ambidextrous” is beautiful in itself. “Dexter” — that’s right, and “dextrous” — that’s neat. I’m “bi” — two in character or ability. “Ambidextrous” — so much depth in one word. Oh dear, English, how could you contain so much technicality and also host a word like “mentee”?

Again, mentee! How can I relate that to mental or mentality? Has it got anything to do with men or tee-shirts? Isn’t that a little male chauvinistic?

Perhaps I’m thinking too much. Perhaps I should just indulge in my ganache filled brownie.

Oh, how good that sounds!

Ganache! Every syllable rings of rich chocolate and butter and all things indulgent. And not to forget, French!

Oh English, I can’t describe the way you make me feel. The way you swirl in my mouth, and the way you make me sound — sometimes dextrous, sometimes ganache-like. But most times, you just make me sound meh!

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