The Happy Wanderer

I have a bias. Strong. It won’t hurt no one. You’d agree with me, If you were particularly fond, Not of strawberry or raspberry or blueberry pie, Nor of being earnest to the word as pi, Rather, Of an entity whose self-esteem, Has been suppressed to the extent That steam, Fountains out of its very cap. And it adds up to a lot more than That. Well, Let’s give the suspense a couple of seconds more, It won’t hurt, really No. Well, well, The celebrity is... Well, Number Four. The anti-climax, Is impossible to bear. Truth being, Four, Is lucky to me. Yes. But it adds up to a lot more than that. I know that everyone has a lucky number. But how am I to impress on you, That I have a certain association With Number 4, And how much it is to say, That said? Well, to cut a long story short, You’ve heard of partners. You have. Don’t lie. Stout partners, bearded, Lank ones with moustaches, Short and plump on...

Our tete-a-tetes with shades  of people never cease. Everyday, there is a new encounter, a new person, and...  a new character. Yes. All three. What gives a book the zest it needs to come alive? Not a distant spice, nor a metaphoric flavour.  Rather, something so concrete as to wish those remote pages to a place as dear and near our hearts as a toy that a certain William of an Enid Blyton adores, or a gritty young girl who wants to change the world...  A book unravels people. It paints a person out of a character. Yes. You cannot love a book for a character. That would be far too bland. You love it from a knowledge, from a feeling, from an experience or many. And that's what makes the book special- that's what makes the book yours.  Seeing that no reader can fathom reading blankly about mere characters, you can very well imagine the plight of woebegone writer!  Ahhh... (Puff)(Pant) It's harder than it appears!  Because...

Little pretzels siding sizzling toast, A pot of mustard at their melting core! Aromas and twinges foaming, frothing, But, my pocket's missing a farthing ! It's a splendid tea and a flamboyant dine, But is it worthwhile risking a dime ? Encore, Encore, Madame Castafiore, But the clock is ticking as I take in more!

My experiences in Grade 6... The school swarmed with bustle as thousands of fish dived into its waters. We were first grunting and purring, then we quietened down as tiny boats approached us, driven by competent fishermen with dexterous hands that picked us up and threatened us to put an end to the hullaballoo.   There were thirty seven of us- all in one boat. With Swaroop Ma’am as our head fisherman, an opportunity to know each other better and to become a part of each others’ lives presented itself to us. As we glided through the waters, an array of fishermen stepped on board, one at each port. They had different skills, different experiences and a horde of things to impart with us and preach to us about.  We learnt how to count the worms we caught, add them up, compare our finds; we explored what exactly was in the worms we devoured (x% carbohydrates, y% proteins and so on and so forth!!) , we were told of the different species of ourselves we would find aroun...

I woke up in a dark and dingy place It seemed to me like hell seems to you And because of immaturely developed senses Staying in was all I could do. It was a long journey from that day To the day that I started falling in love with that place I gobbled all that came my way Up to the time I saw your face. I didn’t want to leave, oh no! So I cried out loud when I was out And in this unwelcome place that I had entered I was pestered to hear people shout. Then I entered your arms, oh dear! And it was like a dream come true From the moment I had been inside your womb I had longed to see the person it belonged to. You have been with me all the way long Nine months before my birth You wiped my tears whenever I cried alone And laughed with me when I burst into mirth. You have made sure that you water me Till all my petals flourish You have made sure that you guide me So...

I looked at my elegant TITAN watch on the wrist of my left hand. It was seven. Quarter past seven. And as I looked at it, I could hear the faint ticking of my wall clock, followed by intense silence. I was thinking. These ‘thinking periods’ that I often went through were deep moments, during which all of my senses went numb. Only my brain was active during these minutes, and only the words inside it were audible to me.  Then slowly, as I began to release myself from this over-whelming silence, I raised my hand in the air and shouted out loud. “That’s it!” I couldn’t bear the wait any longer. I felt something boiling inside me. And that, my friends, was the very famous rage of mine which you must surely be aware of if you want develop an understanding for some of the very crazy things you are going to hear from me in the future.  I was an ordinary common man living in the busy city of Pune in India.   I said ‘I was’. I had no special talents or unique traits ...