The Happy Wanderer

The young priest delivered his sermon at the local church. It was Christmas, a decidedly busy day for him, both at home and at work. At any rate, he should maintain the sanctity and quality of his sermons. He stooped down, tied his shoelace, checked his watch and paced down to a taxi stand. If he had forty cents, well and good, for they had a deal. They drove down to Checkers' Avenue. It was a short ride that gave him a chance to glance over boutiques, salons, bookstores and one café. He stepped down, handing over the cash and thumbing his next lift. This time around, the destination was farther away. His pockets were empty, yet he confidently sauntered in, put a plush rug over his feet, and sauntered out. The Big Ben let out a chime. No one said anything. He walked in to Cosco Square and shuffled up to the bookstore. When he came out, his mufflers were up and he had a brown packet in his hands. He craned under the hawkers and slipped away to the Barrington's across the ...

Book Name: The Red House Mystery Book Author: A.A Milne Have you heard of Winnie the Pooh? Sure you have! You'd have seen him, at least, peering out of a hidey-hole in one of your storybooks, or referred to in a literary context. He's a rotund, ever-smiling, yellow bear, who usually wears a red shirt and blue shorts and doesn't bother to change. And if I've got the attire wrong, it's because it doesn't matter. That speaks for itself, doesn't it? Winnie-the-Pooh is a simple fellow. Who created this pally, enthusiastic, honey-loving bear? The chap's name is Alexander Alan Milne, commonly referred to as A.A. Milne. Not a frilly man himself, Milne has concocted several other lucid, easy characters who are lovable by virtue of their sheer honesty, if not anything else. An excellent storyteller, Milne's style of writing is light, simple and guileless. You aren't deceived- instead, you are handheld for as long as it's possible and then you can...

I’m thankful that I can walk up and down, Every other day, and know the world is not an impoverished place. Although I know that millions go hungry in pockets, I am not confronted by the stark vulgarity of it- I don’t grimace. My words do not resonate in a colosseum, Where I may be beheaded on account of political inaccuracy! We aren’t stranded in a once-bombed Cathedral, or Concentration camp, Where every next breath feels like ecstasy. But I don’t know what it really means to be thankful- To canter, while your heart is trotting, To paint from an imagination clouded by the gore of war, To be headlong, knee-deep in violence- but express the music of freedom in a jotting. Have I seen the change- the resurgence, Have I come to learn its true meaning? Have I been the merger of plight and placidity, Have I toiled every time my heart gave that wavering beat? I have not- not as yet; That ripple of an aberration has not yet abounded. Have I br...

"Where to, son?" "French class, and then violin soon after." "Splendid. Which reminds me, didn't you perform in London last summer?" "Oh yes. All too well! We're planning to get an orchestra together soon."  "Brilliant things for brilliant minds. Aren't you trying one of those coaching classes?" "No; which ones?" "The ones that crowds are surging to, of course. A handful of names and handfuls of people!" (smiling) "The Maths and Physics classes? I love math, but I don't like hard-core math. There's a lot of math in music, you know. And in languages too!" (patting the other) "Better keep in touch with what some of the other folks are doing, you! A tip for a tuppence. They'll leave you behind before you realize it." "Oh, sure." (casually) Humanities. They are contexts in which some people would shrug when they heard this word. It's a lovely word inde...

Little woman, you are growing, I measure you against the firs. Little woman, let me mark your presence, Against every specimen along which the brook skirts. Little woman, do you remember chasing the fowls? Do you remember how you shrieked when they poached them at dawn? Do recall that moment in the fall, When you heaped the leaves on a sudden call From the wind? Creeping stealthily against the motion of the fawn, Through the woods of long-ago, now pruned into lawn, They are all the more beautiful for it, little woman, For all their rounds, you've aptly set the tone. Little woman, hurry home An errand is waiting for you- How can you be so stoic, Little Woman, when there's so much to do? Crouch, little woman, under the pine, Enjoy the shade of the spruces, Make the most of the moonshine- It'll soon be swept away in rows and truces. The men are coming- on horses With weapons and arms galore, They have no taste for the tales that are nestled, Among...

May nobody forbid, as the morrow lies, Is the path along which the crow flies. Eager as we are, we follow its trail, And course the dangers it might entail. Where the morrow lies, there is a birch, A bird flaunting its priceless perch. For the feathered dear isn't feather-brained, It's found the morrow, who are we to disdain? The copious green of the morrow says, The true and convinced can only stay. Green might wilt and other colours may reign, But the morrow wants decisiveness, not crane. The braided paths of the morrow twist And brood and sweat, lament and pine, The clearing that they culminate at persists In declaring the ways, true and divine. Who can stop us treading down, The morrow once twilight creams into dawn? The morrow comes, the morrow goes, We can reach it heavy-toed.

Southwards, towards the Coromandel Coast, My native town does lie, My heart throngs to see it, With each blink of an eye. I know the people and the names of places, I know the native tongue, I know the colours, bold and gracious, And the sound of morning and night. At home, with family, with cousins and aunts, With genial uncles and solemn grandpas, With grandmas and their awaited grants! The leaves brush against my fingers, As I swing up and down, Picturing this very town, As a six or seven year old! If you know your geography, A banana leaf must surely figure, In the vague mists of your imagination, That I so far managed to trigger. But to eat with a dozen in your family, And cuddle up and share, What life has been dealing them, And what it has spared, With a full meal in front of you, With Rasam, Mor, and Parappu! And mind the kari and the uppu! We wade away towards the beach, Where the water froths and wets the sand....

Dear Rafael, I am not a tennis-lover, but your autobiography with John Carlin must have inspired millions and it sure has inspired me. It made me turn page after page in eagerness to find out which facet of your personality would be unveiled next. And sure and subtly enough, you have got me to know you very well! I liked the line in 'Rafa- My Story' which said that Wimbledon was one of your favorite tournaments, and the Wimbledon crowd, one of the best spectators. It was added soon after, that for you, it wasn't about the strawberry-cheese (a similar phrase!:) ) crowds, as much as the effort wasn't a 'strawberry-cheese' feeling- it was as real as the crowds and the routine and being both a 'pragmatist' and a 'dogmatist.' What really drew me in was your fascination for routines. Sometimes, I realize, it is hard to keep up routines and superstitions, but I also realize that they serve the purpose of giving one the kind of certainty, foc...

We were all born from one Adam and one Eve. Why then, are we all so different? Why are there surges and troughs in games like tennis, cricket and football for every country?  Recalling from History lessons, I can safely say that there were several races that shuffled across the world and time: the Jews, the Aryans, the Germans,  and so on. India had two primary races inhabit her: the Aryans and  Dravidians.  The geography of the planet shaped different needs for those on different parts of it. Rugged terrains demanded agility, stamina and strength, the seas demanded enterprise and readiness for a weather-beaten, risk-taking life, the landlocked mainlands demanded conquest and able leadership. And so, the neandrathal man developed accordingly. The sun tanned some, reddened some, spared some. Thus, professions came about, and complexions too.  'To each his own'. India was a self-sufficient country through the Ancient and Medieval Ages. This granted ...

The skies in faint sky-ish blue, their sheen lustrous, shining bright, Fluffy rolls of ice-candy, not flavored pink, but conventional white. The flaming red of our furious Sun, majestic in every respect, Reaches us as a shade of orange-yellow, giving life a new aspect. The prosperous king, His Majesty Earth, seems sunk in immobility, Concealing that His Majesty Earth, is in constant, though subtle, activity. We look at whom, when dusk arrives, once night dawns upon us, It's Father Moon, our night-saver, who is always going around us.'  It's Father Moon, our night-saver, who is always going around us

Halloa!  

"No, I don't want to grow up." "Why?" "12 is a wonderful number, isn't it? So rounded, so polished, so complete." "Oh. " "And 13- well, it's unlucky." "That, yes." "So I've decided that I don't want to grow up." "Time will not stand still, will it, Phil?" "It won't." "How do I make it stand still?" "Venture into a fairy tale and take the help of some magic spell. Pray do it. " "When is your birthday, dear?" "On the 5th of April." "Which happens to be..." "Tomorrow." "Ah." "And I am turning 13. " "Okay. " "Your proposition was a fair one, dear. Let me see if there is an alternative to your turning thirteen tomorrow. If there is, well and good; if there isn't, let's see how we can take the change, shall we?" Penelope smiled. "I c...

Holi is a festival that we all love- just like any other festival, it makes for time that can be spent in each other's company. The colors can fly through the clear sky, penetrating the clever sun rays, and slapping themselves on the person of many a person. However, we all have a very important choice to make- do we opt for 'true colors' or 'flying colors'?  Water balloons aren't a recommended option, and neither are pichkaris garlanding  mud. Every person and thing has a place, a place that must remain constant, a place that is best fit for it, and a place that it deserves. Why then, do we violate the right of a balloon to be pinned up at a birthday party or the right of a pichkari to contain organic colors diluted with water?   All festivals have a mythological significance.The story of Holi speaks of a valiant prince. 

When wisdom comes from unexpected quarters Like a Christmas bell ringing in the summer. It's a discovery to be made and a chocolate smoothie Is not a hard task .   It's lovely to cosy up and read a book, But it isn't possible always, you see, Your world is lovely, it's sweet, Your effort is tough, it's more real.

Twas only a fairy tale, Twas a bright Monday Morning, Twas O Henry and a scripture, Twas a fairy tale. Twas a classic, Sharper, stronger Bolder A Vibrant classic A vivacious classic. Twas only a painting A portrait of Mona Lisa Twas a painting in of Da Vinci's stride And Mona Lisa's chide. Twas everything. Twas archaic and quaint. Twas math and twas rhythm. Twas games. Twas checkers. Twas liquorice and lacrosse. Twas Alice and her Wonderland. Twas.