Tag: postaday

The Chronicles of Reading

chronicles of readingI’ve tried it many times, and I’ve failed every time. I can’t read ebooks. Guess I just have to accept that.

I’ve tried so hard to get excited about the modern revolution and the “all new” kindle that Amazon releases every now and then. But when I try to read a book on my device, I can’t feel anything other than the pressure of finishing a chore.

It’s like dandruff at the back of my head, hiding in plain sight and disrupting my sleep until I’m rid of it. I spend almost 12 hours a day at work going through research papers, Facebook statuses, tech magazines, how-to guides, blogs, forum topics, Twitter updates, technical documents, and even tips for the solo traveler. And at the end of such a day, if I have to stare at more fiction on a screen, I just can’t.

Pity plenty of authors nowadays prefer self-publishing and ebooks. As someone who wants to call herself a writer, it’s ironic that I can’t stand the non-existent smell of a shatter-proof scratch guard, and the heat of the declining battery.

I still want to feel the frayed edges of a book and curse the one who handled it before me. I like my mind nagging me every time I put a book inside my bag; what if the edges get damaged? I still strive to finish reading a book with the spine erect as if it had never been opened.

I enjoy the mild weight of a book nestled between my favourite pyjamas in my backpack while I travel home. I want to feel the thrill of flipping through a page, the dread that comes with pages attached to one another, and the quickening of my pulse when I reach the end of a dangling chapter.

And I still want to be able to shut a book with a snap, look into the wall opposite me and go, “Wow!”

I’m just an old-fashioned reader who wants to (one day) become a published author — the good ol’ fashioned way. I know the word’s moving towards electronic reading. It may not be the best of times for my kind of people, but — though Dickens may protest — it’s not the worst of times either.

Drama Queen

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.

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.

kodaikkanal lake

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.

The Unexpected

I’ve spent many a night waiting for the sun to rise. I’ve always wanted to be the first one to welcome the sun as it discarded its canopy of black velvet, reaching out to the skies.

It was a treat well worth the wait. I’d wake up earlier than the earliest birds and head to the terrace to watch the glory unfold in front if my eyes. I would be happy just looking at the sky turning from deep blue to purple to pink and then orange and then a deeper shade of orange until the sun was all out.

But then one day, I got a little more than I had asked for. I caught the moon lingering just before the sun was set to take over. It had been a full moon the previous night, and it’s one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. I had asked for the ice cream but got a surprise cherry first.

cherry