The Quote -

"Nope, I don't really have anything new to say. but then, I always have something amazing to tell about things that you already know!!"


Monday, November 19, 2012

Love her smile- A poem

The Poem-

Of Latin celebrated;
Coliseum scarlet painted;
An epoch of aristocracy sainted;
Dagger tips tainted;
Lips regal anointed;

Matins of a Red satin empire
A culture cooped on attire;
Sung &
In a land of Caesars departed-

In Rome –
The home of glass blowing;
Silica Silver warm & glowing;
Fair slivers of-
Flair Rivers;
A million colors; them pillion weavers-

Raining away those brush strokes of light;
Loaning away lush rainbows in flight;
Glazes of glass;
Lazes in class;
Shades shivering in pastels & all ells;
Shimmering allure; their simmering azure;
Such a lovely art; of arcane sort;
Simply lost!
Quite simply lost!!

All the etchings; plaid in pane;
Glass blowing in plain;
Simple lost!
Quite simple lost!!
Its mystery lost-

And all she did was simply smile.
Just smile.

The dip of her lips;
The curve of its nips;
The Dew drop dimples;
The few prop pimples;

Her crimson smile
Thy blooming isle;

With summer's sparkle;
A bit of winter's crinkle-

Just let her smile-
Just once, Oh please-
Just... Let her smile

Oh!! for 
I love her. 
I love her. 
I love her smile.

Author's note-

I wanted to write a poem where the smile of a girl is put in a sublime and poetic way. Hope you guys like it. I learnt the facts of glass blowing and the influence of roman empire on it from wikipedia. Kindly look into it, if interested further.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The shopping safari-

The snap-

The Tale-

I was out shopping with my mom and my sister last weekend. And as always, it was one of the most enlightening and enriching experience, I am destined to have as a guy with a girl (be it mom, girl friend or wife). It’s not just about lugging around their purchase, trying to keep up with their trails that that tend to follow no known path. It’s not just about the ample amount of time that you are going to wait for her to make her choices. It’s not about you always having the right supportive comments even if it’s about obscure things like which is the best color for mattress mauve or amber (Yeah, yeah- I have been educated by the women in my family, those are indeed colors.) It’s not even about all the money that’s being eased out of your pocket with finesse. Ah, and there comes the punch line, putting forth the corner stone of shopping.

It’s not about you, at all. It’s about her.

And no, no questions are entertained by women on this part. Period.

I am pretty confident that shopping can be used as a litmus test to see whether you are ready to tie the knot with your girl. If you can sustain the slaughter for the entire day and still manage to smile at her when she calmly asks you, with a thoughtful pause whether she has bought too much, then hats off dude - you have just been perfectly potty trained. And hey, better hang on to her. You don’t really want to undergo the cumbersome training process once again with the next girl down the line. Do you??   

And yes, the trickiest part of the shopping yet- One that has stumped generations of men, one that’s still going to trip the unwary, the oldest problem in the book, the choice con. It all starts with a simple vacillation that she has and cannot decide between two colors and asks you for your comment. Of course you don’t really know the colors and knowing is not really going to help you when you are shopping for a garden hose but then this is the holy grail of shopping. And what you are going to do here- she is going to remember forever.

Whether you were there for her or not?
Whether you care about her selection or not?
Whether you are interested in her purchases?
Whether you were paying any attentions at all or not? (Of-course that question’s rhetorical)

My mom can spend all day trying to decide what color hose to buy and she would still need some more time. She might even purchase the damn hose and then will have a feeling that the other hose was aesthetically much better. It’s like being mesmerized by the bottles of a juggler. The women, they are too skilled in this arcane art swindling their choices and tastes around their limber minds leaving us men totally lost.

And to know that it all started with those few words my mom uttered with genuine puzzlement “I think red hose would be good but I am still thinking”.

And how are you going to face this?
How are you going to claw yourself out of this one?
How are you going to prove your mettle to her?

Tough questions-

And no, I don’t know the answers. If I would be that lucky bastard who knew the right reply, I would be out there teaching it all those men in need out there, not writing this blog post.

And yeah, a final question begs to be pondered.

 What’s so unnerving about a women selecting a sari* -

May be it’s the way she makes the sales guy show her almost every single sari in the store;
May be it’s the way she asks exactly what is not available in the store without even realizing it; May be it’s the way in which she asks for the first sari she was shown after making a huge pile;
May be its way she looks calmly at the sales man after causing all the ruckus in the world to select a single sari and then demand a discount with all the cool and reserve in the entire universe.

How do women get away with it? When I asked my mom, she just smiled and answered me –“hey we are women and we are entitled to certain things”

“Like” I quipped

She calmly looked at me and just smiled for an answer. Go figure that.

*Sari – the most common attire that women wear in India. It looks real good on a girl. Trust me on this one.

Author’s note –
Though the post can be construed as a puerile attempt at humor, I would like to stick to the idea that truth can also be humorous.

And guys, I would love to hear—your take on the topic.

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Celebrating Diwali – A short Story

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 33; the thirty-third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'Celebrations'

This fiction won Silver in Blog-a-Ton 33. A warm thanks for all the readers who voted for this post.

The Tale-


The twelve year olds gasped as the bottle rocket leapt up into the sky, drawing an arc of glittering sprinkles and burst into a million lights. The inky night’s sky carried around the echoes of the bloom, still reverberating on the lucid eyes of the playful lot, as they stared up into the void waiting for the next dazzler. Anticipation welling in their chubby faces.

He looked at his street peers and sighed to himself as he walked to light the next cracker. He couldn't help his chest swelling a bit in pride, with each and every fancy cracker that he set ablaze, with the swirling showers that bound forward into the celestial heights, the litany of colors that shot out of his hand held sparklers, swirls, twirls and the light pearls, the middle of activity and celebrating frenzy. He let loose another bevy of fireworks and turned to look at the fascinated faces of the street kids. Pink, Violet, Amber and Magenta – a bunch of curious eyes followed the myriad lines cruising from the spilling sparks seething unbridled into the darkness of the night.

“Burst some more!! Burst some more” the street kids shouted. 

He sighed melodramatically pleased with himself, at the magnificence of the firecrackers that he was bursting and at the bevy of requests that piled up at him for his consideration. He smiled and responded. Once again, the street exploded into a plethora of colors brimming with incandescence and life. The poor kids jumped with their hands up, floating up along with them; their faded clothes raised and riveted, its torn rims scuffling in the passing wind, their dirty hair puzzled but still pandering to their delighted leaps, their lucid voices tethering in jubilation. Somewhere beneath their bare bucking legs laid forgotten the dirt sack- filled and tied tight with all the thrown away pieces of clothing and the bits of recyclable plastics, still rank with lurid fungus, an assemble of things that they thought was worth something from the streets and the occasional dustbin, their bag of scavenge, the bag that was to pay for their latter supper, if they were to get one.

But then, when in bliss now, why bother about later.

And just when the volley of crackers went down, he took out the real big ones, the 1000 walas* and held it out to them like a showman magician putting forth some object of great mystical value and a brief proud smile glinted down his lips just for a moment. And just as he sprang to the middle of the road to light the crackers, the kids scampered with frantic cries and hushes to a safe distance, just safe enough to be at the foot of the excitement. And the crackers did not disappoint. Even as he scuttled away with heroic sweeps of his legs after he lit the fuse, a jumble of drums rolled pitching and patting ripping out from a litany of lights skewing the borders of fun and festivities.

The Snap- 

And then finally, he brought forth his last show piece for the day; His most favorite of the lot; the last pack of bottle rockets; with special double shot; ones that exploded not once but twice in the sky sending out reels of lighted petals. And with each and every whoosh, boom and boom of every single rocket, he savored with vigor the fireworks, all the attention sweeping around him, the joy he threw open for everybody and most of all, just the bumbling binge of life that pumped around him.

After bursting all his crackers, he turned to his house with a dazzling smile and walked in, his strides smart and confident. His mother was in the kitchen cooking, his father as usual in front of the television with the news channel playing, its volume tuned up.

“Papa….” He whined “I want to see cartoon network…”

“Not now chotu*” his father retorted “Don’t disturb me. You can watch your cartoons later”

“P… L… E…. A….. S…. E….” He pitched up his voice dragging raw the bare legs of those syllables.

And just as his father turned at look at him, with irked lines crossing his face, their home went dark; A power failure. His father cursed to himself, got up and went out to look at the fuses. The house shone a melancholy amber, bathed in all the liquid light that the array of Diwali lamps put up; its hallowed luminescence drawing sweeping arcs of their shadows as he went along with his father to the front porch. And just then, he heard sharp jubilant laughs and yells coming from the street.

He went and peaked outside the courtyard gate.

Amid-st the dust being kicked up and the bunch of legs that warred with each other, a rough version of football was being played by the rag-picking kids. They pushed about each other trying to get their ball into some invisible goal, their ball that rolled around with gusto, their ball that clinked and rattled with each and every bounce, their ball; the bottle, his bottle, his own bottle, the one he used for lighting the fuses of those rockets, the one he got from his father after quite some tantrum, the bottle he simply forgot and left in the middle of nowhere, skittered across the street bumping from one tiny feet to another, chased and paused by the same bundle of feet.

And just then, the bottle rolled and landed right in front of him, kicked by one of those kids still soaked in the slime of their celebrations. They turned and looked at him, their brown limpid eyes expectant.

He looked at them and at the bottle and felt himself torn with indecision. Some part of him wanted to get his bottle, his bottle from these kids. Some part of him urged him to kick the bottle again and join in the game. But how can he?? It’s not like he hated them or don’t want to play with them. It’s just that, it felt somewhat awkward, him playing with them, the rag pickers. He stood there caught in a rut vacillating, his heart pounding in his ears, licks of sweat lining his underarms; his fingers pulling tight his shirt tails.

He looked down at his bottle once again, his bottle, his own bottle and then at the kids. It was not like he needed the bottle. But, why should he give it to them? He was not there playing. He was not there in the middle of things. He was not even involved. Of course, he was the one who forgot the bottle. But then it’s still his bottle. Right? And he doesn't really need any permission from anybody to take back the same bottle? Does he? Why shouldn't he? 

He started to edge towards the bottle; measured steps; One eye still on the bottle; one on the street kids. The bottle shimmered alone in the distant light of the diwali lamps. Its once smooth contours, now a parable of scars and lines, its fine features chipped and nipped in countless places, the bottle kept its silence for once, maybe it sensed the drama unfolding around. And just as he got near the bottle, he heard the clear voice of a girl from the bunch shouting.


He paused and looked blank at the bunch of kids staring at them; as blank as a deer caught in the severe lights of a racing truck. He just stared; lost for thoughts. The kids, like the kids they were jumped into the band wagon and chorused “KICK…… KICK…… KICK”. Their eyes alone shining in the darkness, along with those few diwali lamps still left with oil to continue burning.

Their throbbing voices flooded him in waves, their joy, their openness, their friendliness and the easy invitation to their game. He suddenly felt beaten, ashamed. He had wanted deprive them of their ball. He had wanted to stop all this fun, all this delight and rejoice, all this warmth and games; Just because he wanted back his broken bottle, his old wasted, broken bottle; His bottle that was going to end in the dustbin anyway; His bottle that was a another piece of litter for him; his bottle that he did not really have any lasting interest in, His bottle, his own junk bottle but their coveted ball.

His throat clenched with emotion and his young eyes welled up. He looked at their them warmly. Their eyes alone shone in the darkness, sparkling with rapture and exalted delectation. A fete embellished and garnished with innocence and life. The kids were wanted their balls. It was their ball. He took a deep breath and moved forward to kick the bottle to them and to join them in the game.

And just then, the power came back on. The front porch lights blinked suddenly illuminating the expanse of the street, replacing the kind and warm lights of diwali lamps with the harsh and static shine of electricity. The new brilliance spilled the realities that the diwali lamps had kissed and missed; The torn dirty ragging clothes flapping free in the wind, their dry dejected hair, their dingy bare feet with nails rimmed with grime, their noses dripping with phlegm and their bundle of dirty rags left to stink in the corner of the street. And as he hesitated, in that split second, he heard the sharp voice of his father calling for him.

“Chotu*, where are you?”

He turned and walked slowly to his father, leaving the bottle right where it stopped in the first place. His strides thoughtfully slow.

“Hey… Why the long face? What happened?” his father quizzed.

“Nothing” he said.

“hmhm .... Really!!”

“hmhm hmhm” he nodded.

“Okay, come on” said his father as he led him by hand into the house. “I am hungry. Let’s see what your mother has made for dinner.”

And as they went inside hand in hand, he could help but hear the rampant jubilation of the street kids and their game of football, still celebrating Diwali.


*1000 walas - a firecracker that is made from 1000 smaller pieces and it very famous in India during the celebrations of Diwali

*Chotu - Colloquial call name for kids. (translates as small one in Hindi - an Indian Language)

Author’s note-

When I first contemplated this tale, I was thinking of giving it a happy ending with the kid joining in for the football game. With Diwali celebrations ahead, I wanted to write something that will uplift the moods of everyone reading this post. My sister, my first critic – did not like that ending. She simply told me that you cannot sacrifice a good story, in order to provide a happy ending and a cliched one at that. So, I revised the story – to work in a more practical manner and that gave me this bitter sweet ending. Hence, I share creative credits of this story with my sister.

Also, I take immense joy in wishing a very happy and a memorable Diwali to each and every one of my friends, reading this post and their families. I bid you guys’ good health and great spirits in this festive season. And ample luck to all my buddy - blog-a-ton participants. Hope you guys have a great time blogging this holiday season.


Diwali is an important festival of India that usually comes around in November.  It is celebrated with bursting crackers, exchanging sweets and savories that are home made and decorating nights with rows and rows of Diwali lights (trust me, you should see the resplendence of the them. Its from these lamps that Diwali also gets the name as Festival of lights ).

In my native, Tamil Nadu- the festival marks the victory of Lord Krishna over the Demon Narakasura. It is said that the demon himself when dying at the hands of the Krishna, requested to him, that he did not want to be forgotten and would like for his death to be celebrated with the bursting of  noisy crackers(the tale as told by my grandmother). There are several other origin stories for Diwali and to know more about them and to know more about the festival itself- Kindly visit the given link.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: BLOGGER NAME, Participation Count: 05