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Vacuum Cleaner for thoughts

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Mr.Blob is this dusty spot on the lens of my specs who is situated at an angle of elevation of forty-fucking-how-did-you-get-here degrees. He gets a real kick out of playing pee-ka-boo at obstructing my vision and sometimes getting on my nerves by making me squint to see properly. With time, I got used to him. I let him stay on and he became a part of the lens. On good days, when the sun rays hit Mr.Blob in the right mood, there would be a kaleidoscopic glare that I claimed to hate but if I were being completely honest I liked it quite a bit. Today, I picked up a cloth and an optical lens cleaner and wiped my lens clean, bidding goodbye to Mr.Blob. Having put this off for so long and so often, I must say this goodbye was long overdue. During the bus rides back home in the night, from project classes in final semester I would think about it frequently, this word, this degree, this designation – Engineer. It’s hard to explain the feeling it evoked. There was sure to be a h
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Four minutes to midnight

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Toss. Turn. Blink. Breathe. Stare ahead. Surrender. Parched lips. Pitter Patter. A slap in the face from a pillow that got tired of drying tears aroused the screams I had silenced. They came together imitating Edvard Munch’s famous painting The Scream and in a stern voice whispered words in a language I alone understood – “ Be. Beyond the reach of the ordinary.” Here she is now, writing about the ordinary. Lost in the vast sea of thoughts lapping the folds of our minds, going on and on as life goes on, some ideas come through in re-iterated waves of déjà vu, others don’t make it to the shore. I like to imagine them in a circular room that is whiter than the purest white you have come across, the squeaky clean glass floors reflecting glittering lights from the chandelier above. There are identical wooden doors with intricate sculpturing all around the room , locked away behind each door is a lost trail of thought. Who do these trails lead to ? The guy in House Gryffindor
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Analogy / The Woodcutter

Not black, not white. On a greyscale, A shade more on the darker side. Light hearted clouds in camaraderie, out for a cotton candy break. Condensed molecules of vapour no longer weighing them down. A drop that claimed to be distant fell upon a leaf who believed his claim. Sparks of callous connection trudged deep. How, why, what or when are questions for entropy (to answer). Entropy - who took on the role of Cupid, for an evening. He resigned that post, that very night. They began to dance, a slow waltz. Orchestrated by winds - carefree and young. The raindrop making his way through her veins. Wondering if they were real, she gazed into his eyes. In the drop was a reflection of a different time. He had stopped listening while her insides were still singing. As unexpectedly as he'd come, he left too. Slipped away with the ease that fluids do. The leaf tried to justify her drop. ( hers, was he ? ) She did, for quite some time. One day she took off
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Requiem for the lost child

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The first thing that caught my attention today morning as I was parking my vehicle near yoga class ( my dad threatened to stop paying for dance lessons unless I joined yoga. Only happens when you're an Advocate's daughter.True to the bone. And am so grateful he did that cause two or so months hence, I can't imagine starting my weekdays any other way ) were these three puppies huddled together, dozing off in a shallow pothole, drawing warmth from each other. I can tell they have already grown since that one time they chewed the laces of my shoes and dragged one of them away to the middle of the humble tar free ground they inhabited. Rest of the day progressed with glancing a few poems , reading few others and off I went to make changes to the project report that always seems to need changing. Fast forward to the part where it was raining on my way back from dance class ( favorite part of the day. Duh ! ). I chose to drive home in the rain why ? I lack patience and am
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Catharsis and Hamartia

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At 9:00 pm today, results of Wing word poetry prize was announced. I had sent in what I considered three of my best works - Drapetomani, Human and Winds. I didn't win or make it to honorary mentions even. I scrolled and scrolled again, just to be sure you know. (Like that would magically put my name on the list) Next few minutes, I gulped down dinner hardly registering what am eating ( those close to me would know that's saying a lot my fastidiousness considered) , digestive system busy doing it's thang. The human body is thing of beauty, no ? Imagine having to consciously chew, forcefully swallow AND deal with an emotional breakdown at the same time. Staring at my favourite ice cream, I swirl the spoon till it (the ice cream) is liquefied. My mom had to intervene with her consolation and reassurance but those tears came down like a downpour on a summer evening, a necessary relief from the heat. Why am I being such a baby about one silly competition ? Frustration
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Drapetomani

Deep and darkening galore of dilapidated sheds. Treading on diligent dullness, lives the man I call master. The grass on his side greener, the smile on his face familiar. Whiff of fresh paint. Built on an elevation is his decadent abode. To the door ajar, do my bovine eyes wander. “...a flood hits northern parts of...” “...but I still love you...” “...new version is available for just Rupees...” Disrupted voices boom from channels being switched listlessly, on a TV aged six. Here comes master says Dhena, the milch cow. Tethered to a pole, I am. Master's will, the halter around my neck. I am. Here comes master dragging along his baggy clothes. Here comes master wearing a hat as old as him. Circles I draw. Confined by certain circumference, I draw. Defined by length of rope of master's choosing, I withdraw. Babhru's ruminating. Wasn't much of a talker, that one. His kind, the ploughing ones usually aren't. Master's limp
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Writer's Block

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[Around 10 pm,  28th November] When I woke up today, I had a list of things to do written on a flimsy sheet of paper with not so flimsy determination from the night before. As of tonight, I haven't crossed off one thing from that list. And here I am. Have you ever sat on a roof top, breathing easy and looked up taking in the immensity of the sky ( a sky taking a new birth with every sunrise, a sky vanquishing the dreary day with every sunset, a sky full of stars that commands the curiosity of artists, scientists, philosophers, preachers and all human kind alike) simply delved in the questions not really seeking answers ? Nothing like the cosmic perspective to shy away from the mundane.  So, my grand plan was to watch the night sky to derive inspiration except it's really scary to be on the terrace at this hour and I chickened out. Don't laugh. Try doing the same , you 'll know. xp [Around 11:30 am, 29th November] One month left in 2016, going t
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