Some say the world will end in fire
some say in ice
some call him a poet,
some call him lunatic
consulting he thinks he does
pissing people off as he goes
he’d seem so stern
and make you yearn
he’d tread smooth as shadow
but looks more like a strut
he’s a bot, a robot, a heartless wretch
just give him his violin to shut him up
he’d pull his collar up sans reason
show off his scarf whatever season
stands straight the slender snowman
scoffs at the opinions of other men
he’d play with criminal minds
break hearts as the game goes
The friend calls him drama queen
it’s Sherlock, obviously, he’s mean.
Tag: people
There’s a Lake in Kodaikkanal
When I sat waiting for my tea in a restaurant by the Kodaikanal lake, I didn’t know the lake staring at me was artificial.
I later learnt that most tourists assumed the lake was a natural phenomenon, when in fact, it was created during the British reign by the Collector of Kodaikkanal, Sir Vere Henry Levinge.
I’ve seen a lot of lakes since, larger and more natural lakes than that one, but the thought of it still amazes me. It was like Coleridge said,
“Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink.”
And just then, it started to rain. It was the monsoon season, and rain would come and go as she pleased. It was cold enough already, and the rain made me turn towards the kitchen to see if my tea was ready yet.
My tea and samosa arrived, and I welcomed the puff of steamy air that blurred my glasses. I sipped my tea and bit into the samosa. And some of the spiciest and heartening mashed potato masala landed in my mouth. I took a second sip of my tea and warmed up me from the inside as it trickled down my throat.
I looked at the lake, watching drops of water scattering ripples through the surface. It wasn’t a heavy rain, and I could see a few boats rippling through the lake.
Kodaikanal is a famous honeymoon spot, and sure enough, there were couples paddling away, while thousands of tiny fish surfaced for seaweed and breadcrumbs.
A few others – the restaurant folks, by the look of them — threw nets into the lake, trying to catch fish. The kitchens seemed to have run out of fish pretty fast.
I finished my snack and we retraced our way to the hotel. We had to drive around the lake for at least half hour. It was a centre hub, around which countless locals went about their chores while tourists shopped for fancy bead chains and souvenirs.
The lake spans 60 acres. As we drove on, we reached a part of the lake that seemed dented in one place. Somehow, the people who created the lake didn’t like flawless ovals.
The entire lake seemed like a giant’s idea of a puddle, and as if someone had made an awful lot of mess in one corner.
By the time I reached the hotel, I had been among such serenity that I felt satiated; eyes, soul, stomach, and all.
The Birthday Gift
I regretted my decision on the same day. It was David’s birthday and got him a motorcycle.
I had my reservations, but my husband cajoled me into gifting him the cycle.
After all, David had been asking for a long time. Perhaps he had matured enough by now. Perhaps he could handle himself. Turns out I was wrong. He was much too reckless.
He’s had it for just three days, and he had already crashed into a wall twice. He likes racing with his friends in the neighbourhood, and the poor handlebar was scarred beyond repair.
Mrs. Longstem next door had seen David with his motorcycle and had invited me to tea yesterday just to warn me. He was rash and snapped at anyone who touched his cycle. He had become too possessive, she complained. It was unhealthy, she continued as I tried to pretend the cat litter scattered around her living room didn’t bother me.
I hated that woman. And David! How could he be so irresponsible? If he continued this way, someone might end up hurt.
Just as I sat thinking about him, a biscuit in my hand and tea in front of me, David walked into the living room, his fists clenched, his knuckles white.
He stopped in front of me, “We had a fight. Bill took my motorcycle.”
My four year old looked into my eyes, tears in his.
Strike While the Iron’s Hot
Nations warred while drones dropped and homes exploded. The world was in turmoil.
Halfway across the world, a rich industrialist smiled.
Opportunity.
The Writer’s Day
It’s no big deal, he told himself. He had done it before, he could do it again.
He just had to sit and write.
Remembering an old article about the effects of crouching on your chair, he pulled in a little closer to the table. Now he felt comfortable. He moved a frantic finger across the trackpad, cursing the stupid auto-lock system. He entered his password and into his document.
Blank screen. As he placed his fingers over the keys, he noticed how dirty they were. Last night’s mustard lingered near the speakers where he had put his ear to check if they worked at all. He tried to wipe off the mess with his fingers making it worse. With a deep sigh, he stood and walked over to his cupboard to pick up a wet cloth.
He yanked the wooden door to see a pile of smelly underwear, masking a couple of laundered shirts and jeans that hadn’t seen soap in ages.
Pushing it all aside, he began looking for the cloth. After about ten minutes of rummaging, he decided he’d rather clean his cupboard first.
And so he began.
As he rearranged his clothes, he found the old letters from his once-girlfriend. She had broken his heart so bad that he could neither forget her nor hate her. He had hidden the letters to keep himself from falling into depression again.
He opened them, nevertheless, and sat poring over her words of endearment, smiling at the way she circled the dots of her ‘i’s and curled her ‘l’s. He loved her handwriting.
Before he knew it, tears started streaming down his eyes. How could she have left him? All of a sudden, he realised he hadn’t eaten all day.
Maybe I’ll be fine if I get something to eat, he thought. He walked over to the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator. There was some bread left over from two days ago, and he grabbed them without grace. Tossing a couple of slices into the toaster, he poured himself a large cup of coffee.
Five minutes later, he was back tapping on his trackpad, cursing the auto-lock feature. He took one look at the blank page. And then at the wall on his right. It flaunted covers of the New York Times Bestseller, with his name flashed in big golden letters.
That was five years ago. He had emptied his soul into that book, and it had paid off. But every day since then had been nothing but a blank page. The day his love stopped loving him, words did too.
