Macavity

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The Baking Diaries

I tried my hand at baking even before mum would let me flip chapattis on the tawa. Though now she berates my utter indifference to the kitchen save when my friends come and my apathy at her plight to also cook (at least 4 different kinds of meals) while she works. She expects me to help, in the least, but my revulsion to household work spares me the guilt pangs. Ummm… Let us get back to baking… As these words get typed I have put my clumsiest ever cooking into the oven. The Oven , you see, is hardly ever used in our house. We are vegetarians (where the kids now have come to eat eggs) and that too of the baser variety. We eat simple food (save the brother who is a monstrous epicurean and still vegetarian) which has always been made that simple traditional way. But, the father is a spontaneous shopper. Sometimes even to things which are least required in the house. So, one day he surprised us with this, creamy, big, well exquisite Oven! Space… ah! That shall be the rant for anothe

That Which Never Began

It was terminal It could never begin It was drawing It got happening It was anodyne It started beaming It was boundless It kept flowing It was in fragments It was replete Consummate Without ever beginning

Moonbeam

I don't feel the compulsion to write too, but I experienced a surge of emotions, yet unlived. Of being revealed of my poverty, yet of my plentitude! The misplaced ego gets amply quelled when a brighter, more powerful and compelling luminosity shines upon it. It is left bare, pared of its sheen, in utter submission. The glow is mesmerising to a point of rapture. The realisation that you are yet discovering it explodes the possibilities of it, that be. That it chooses to be just as attracted by you is befuddling. You are just glad that it was you. That you found such a place to be where the moon struck, Where the beam illuminated your being, of which yet unaware Where moments; countable, satiate When having felt the glow, you have found that you have come to life

I want to Fly Away

I want to fly away, right away Now, not soon I want, by my own, I find my own Not be told, not here on I want to taste the sky Roam the night Walk Paris, the cobbled streets Sip the wine, Golden, Sparkling I want to dance the night Prance in gowns Burst balloons Flirt around Mesmerise Capture that time Freeze my dream Toss the coing Flip it all Let go And still go on

Persistence of Vision

For the profundity they carry, certain images get imprinted within us. I had to take a particular bus at 8:50 in the morning to make it in time for the 10 'o' clock class. If I missed that, I'd have to change a bus or take an auto for one-third the distance, take that much longer to reach, and pay thrice as much as the direct bus ticket. I'd reach before the lecturer alright, but all along I'd be trying to calm and tell myself that think as much as I may that the bus needs to move faster, and the traffic needs to clear sooner, the journey will last as long as the distance is not traveled. Once, 200 meters away from the bus stand, five minutes past the scheduled time, I saw the bus pulling away. It was yet picking up speed and the thought crossed my mind to chase after it. While I thought, the bus accelerated. As it did, I almost decided to run, but before I could, I discounted my chances to catch up with it. And while that happened, the bus, easing out of the

In Consonance

A semblance of peace alone can embalm calmness. For no particular reason, one feels at ease and pleasant. It is like driving at 60 on a good highway. The scenery is not particularly picturesque, but it ain't pallid either. It is just fine. Cattle might cross your way, but you break at a good distance, stop and watch the cow slowly tread past without losing your cool. FM is playing on the stereo, hitherto mindless to the gibberish, you cue into the odd good song that plays in. The feet juggle the peddles fine, the hand steers away. You are neither cautious not careless. You just play to the rythm that has set into existence and let that be.