and the night is nearly done,
for miles and miles the dark blue sky spreads its wings over us,
and dreams set in,
of subconscious battles half won.
I dwell on memories.
They burn me inside out,
forgotten and dreary,
but I must go to sleep,
before today sprouts.
I wish I could play ‘silence’ on my headphones,
for the voices in my head,
They make noise and walk around the bed,
they don’t drown,
eager, aware and profound,
I fall in a stupor,
and dogs still howl,
nightmares still abound.
Give me a word and you’ll have a picture,
woven round it in a clumsy mess.
Perhaps it won’t qualify your stringent censure,
but I’ll call it my baby,
and see it grow,
in misty dreams,
atop abodes of snow and fleeting down frozen streams.
But you won’t understand,
why I so passionately love the scenes,
that I churn out of mere words and phrases.
embracing my wild imagination.
And it enthralls me more than your physical touch.
In leaps and bounds I can sense the passion,
running in my thin veins.
And your breath in my ears falls flat due to its very vulgarity,
the only necessity of having your heartbeats at my whim and fancy,
makes me tremble.
And so you would never understand,
why I cry when the character in the novel does,
and how he even makes me sigh,
while you just wonder,
why you fell for a woman of words.
I am travelling to Gaya today, a city in the neighbouring state of Jharkhand. My father accompanies me as I am not yet expected to travel out of station alone, it being really unsafe for the fairer sex these days.
So I’ve decided to track down and mention any unnerving incident that puts me on my guard. We have boarded the Dhanbad Gaya Intercity Express and fortunately enough found ourselves seats. I am sitting in the middle of two women while my father sits with two men on the seat facing us.
Already I have found a scourge and he’s this man sitting on the left and facing me. He seems to be of age more than around 25 and is constantly staring.
Now, if people wish to know if staring makes any difference, IT DOES.
It unsettles me and makes me feel low on self confidence and comfort. It is hugely awkward to be in the knowledge that someone’s eyes are following whatever I am doing. I become extremely conscious of myself and the feeling is very repulsive. What do I wish to do? I wish to ask this scoundrel squarely if there’s something wrong. But I can’t. Now that would seem strange, doesn’t it? But I can’t because I can predict exactly what shall follow next and it won’t be in my favour. So I just have to sit here and wait untill his eyeballs pop out and fall down.
But I would surely like to ask those very people who make a mockery out of a woman’s dilemma, why isn’t it even possible to travel without men staring? And let me tell you something. It is a worrisome scenario that these perverts are part of the very society we’re proud of and go bragging about! Culture, morality and the like are the aspects that we shower on others about our Indian pride. And this pride is clearly manifest in the way you treat women.
One day I’ll die.
And the world, forgetful as it already is,
in hibernating spell shall lie,
unaware of the tragedy.
What happens then,
of promises that weren’t kept?
Does it remind them of an untrue me,
who in a painless hurry,
What happens to bed time stories?
Of passion flaring up in a fluid love,
of the bedside now unclaimed, empty and undone.
The burly arms often held in embrace,
now seek assurance,
of renewed presence,
of a body that was mine.
Of a heart that beat against a heavy chest.
Heavy with fear and despairing request,
to relish and bless.
I’ll be gone, to never return.
And with me will be washed away memories.
Waves on shore bring nothing but remembrances,
of those times that I was here.
And now I am gone,
you’ll have to live,
with false assurances,
of ‘Everything will be fine.’
While deep down you want to shout,
Leaving me in agony alone!’
‘Want to keep a track of your dear ones whereabouts in this unsafe world?’
Sounds lucrative. Doesn’t it? And who’d even say no before the product is placed across and is tagged at about ₹3000? Perhaps this sense of insecurity is what the Russian telecom major JFSC Sistema wants to tap into in future.
It is soon to launch a mobile phone embedded with a special chip through which people who give the phone to others can recieve their location on their mobile phone, irrespective of whether it is on a GSM or a CDMA network. And that too, anytime of the day.
Glonass is the navigation and tracking system based on a network of 24 satellites around the globe that has been developed by the telecom provider.
Sistema has built this system as an alternative to US owned GPS (Global Positioning Systems) which is used by most mobile phone consumers in India to avail locationing services.
According to Russian estimates, about 10% of all smartphones in India already contain chips that combine both Glonass and GPS technologies.
How does Sistema intend to get a breakthrough in this market in India?
A deal was recently struck between Sistema and state owned BSNL to jointly develop Glonass services and applications here.
Now is Glonass set to compete with the already popular GPS? Although Russians explain that the two technologies are meant to complement each other, on fact that turns the tables in Sistema’s stride is that unlike the US that blocks out satellites in certain troubled regions, Glonass does not.
While the ‘safety’ angle rings a familiar objective in our minds, the real inclination of consumers towards this system can only be gauged once it comes into operation.
I’m drawn to you
like a moth to the fire.
And lies here in extremity,
the wildness of platonic desires.
You are a sight to behold
and a heart to open upto.
And as our story may unfold,
I will write down in words the rendezvous.
It pulls me in like a mystic black hole.
And I dissolve,
my very self.
I lose the empty whole.
I am unwilling to withhold,
lie out in the cold.
Like a moth!
I am consumed,
burnt by a blazing aura.
Burnt into ash.
Like a silly moth!
The sonnet, that originated in Europe, mainly Italy, has found amongst its doting practitioners the likes of Milton, Gray, Wordsworth, Elizabeth Browning, George Meredith and many others. The earl of surrey and other English experimenters in the sixteenth century developed the English sonnet that was different from the Petrarchan form in the aspect that while the former fell into three quatrains and a concluding couplet (a-b-a-b c-d-c-d e-f-e-f g-g), whereas the latter consisted of an octave and a sestet rhyming (a-b-b-a a-b-b-a c-d-e c-d-e) with slight variations in the concluding lines.
But who, at the very onset, introduced the beauty of the Italian sonnet to the English? It was Sir Thomas Wyatt the elder (1503-1542) who tried to imitate and translate the Petrarchan example and brought it to the notice of his contemporaries and their followers. He himself was one of the founders of the vogue in love poetry of the mistress being cold hearted and cruel. (How much of that was influenced by the flamboyant lifestyle of Henry VIII, the reigning monarch, is a part of a larger context. It is said that at one point of his life, Wyatt had been in love with Anne Boleyn, whom Henry VIII later married. This and the subsequent execution of Anne along with five men on accusation of adultery might have brought forth much of the helplessness and despair that is evident in those works that belong to the later part of his life.)
If we look at the period in literature that preceded the sixteenth century, it was hugely dominated by Chaucer. But apart from Chaucer’s immense influence, the period was barren of any considerable development of verse as a popular literary genre. In fact, none of Wyatt’s works were published during his lifetime. The first book to contain his poems was printed fifteen years after his death in Totten’s Miscellany Songs and Sonnets (1557). 97 among 271 poems in the book have been attributed to him though controversy still exists about the ownership of a few of them.
One main mark of individuality that Wyatt evolved to distinguish his sonneteer capabilities from Petrarch was the novelty of using a rhyming couplet in the end. He was also a master of the iambic pentameter. His sonnets are serious and reflective in tone and display rigidness in construction due to the very adherence to the classical format. Through the expression of his feelings on a range of matters that concerned his life, he added a personal note into the English poetry. Even though he did follow the classical method closely, he talked about his own experience which was new in the sixteenth century.
Clicked this beautiful little butterfly which had a discontinuous lower left wing probably due to an injury. Yet she flew, undaunted. Teaches us something, doesn’t she? We are only as weak as we think ourselves to be. 🙂