The Happy Wanderer

 Let me start by saying that I'm not sure why I chose to write this. It may have been because I was too overwhelmed for the past 28 months to elucidate my feelings as anything coherent. Or it may, equivalently, be because I hold so much against the entire class that I felt that I just had to give vent to all of it before saying 'Adios, Sayonara, Au Revoir.' Well, you know I'm kidding about that last one. :)  "The years gone by." They have been two long years, haven't they? Rhetorical question. I know they have. Time usually flies like an ISRO Rocket diving upwards into space to launch the Mars Orbiter Mission when I'm in school. Now it just simpered through the space like a feeble paper-plane. It was exhausting, to say the least. Yet, in many ways, I'm thankful that these two years happened this way. I couldn't have imagined them any differently, because COVID had killed my imagination. I'm being honest about this, one hundred per cent. The...

  Let what is, be what is seen... Don't force me to clean the white-board, my doodles, my imagination, My math, my trepidation, My haiku, my not-haiku-  Don't urge me to rub these off...  For, even if it leaves marker-smudges or deep imprints, I won't. I won't wipe the white-board clean, If I hadn't intended to today, before you said you'd drop in. I won't wipe the white-board clean, Because it was never on my plan, anyway... I won't do it, just because you're calling on me today. I don't want to show you the spic-and-span, I don't want to show you an empty land, I want you to see what I've been seeing, What I've been doing, and not doing, And saying, and not saying- I want you, To be allowed, to decide, whether you want To read my white-board or not... I want to give you that fair choice. For caricatures are all fine, but not with good friends, And not with good people. I'll leave the easel threadbare, The canvas en forme pleine,...

  Dedicated to my youngest nephew (as of now), Rishabh Iyer, a.k.a. Rishi... :) N ÉE  Edmonton, Canada.. The temperature was minus-something degrees Celsius, Freezing, chittering cold clipping at bones and shaking teeth, When a young lad, hale and healthy, arrived to grace a household, Which, like every other, was plagued by a pestering pandemic. He was little, sweet, and playful- eyes like tiny stars twinkling into the snow, Hands like tiny shovels, ready to scoop all the fractals of ice off the driveway, A smile ready to ring in merriment in the form of shrill squeals and gurgling laughter.. An easy manner, a mild temper, an impatient presence, a sweet shyness- Everything a blessing, heralding warmth in a land where one was chilled to the marrow. They called him Rishi- short for Rishabh. I liked the name- I took a liking to it instantly, Yet, Rishi preferred to be led along the house and garden through a series of gestures, Rather than by the call of his name. It made everyt...

  The tree says Hi! My balcony was briefly an arboretum. Windswept leaves splayed over the floor  Like champion specimens -parts of a fine species- Careening into a welcoming sanctum That is otherwise empty- save for clothes on stands Or people on feet. When this tree paid its timely visit Luckily, there was nothing, no-one. It probably seized A rare chance- when it was out of anchor, fit and fine, In form- and the tiled floor bare. No sign of occupation. It bore its way past the metal rails that serve to Prevent our falls, but here cushioned the tree's. It rested its somber branches easily on the rail, Which is mighty strong and sturdy, as I can now discern. It snooped its slender branches threateningly over A cauldron of leaves. Green cauldron, green sorcerer. When I woke, there it was, unshakeable, unmovable. Oh, it was mobile alright. It'd have moved of its own will. It was merely enjoying its soiree in a forbidden land, Like we all do. But it just stared at me, with compo...

 My Journey with Basketball that has been as much of a roller-coaster as Sooley's, though in an entirely different way. Samuel Sooleyman. A South Sudanese teenager for whom basketball is life. It's what he does on the dirt-caked streets for the most of his day that he has to himself, with love, devotion and of course, tenacity. Aparna Iyer. An Indian teenager who feels proud just to say she can shoot a couple of baskets, no more, no less committed. And loves to hear the slapping sound of the ball against the board as it delicately curves inside the net. Not much of a resemblance, you'd say. Samuel towers over the rest, bracing the basket at a solid 6 feet 4 inches. And growing. Aparna cowers to the hoop at a modest 5 feet 3 inches. This itself could speak for the play, but let's say, size is misleading. Even then, maybe the common thread, for starters, is merely that both 'Sooley', as he has been nicknamed, and Aparna, love basketball from the bottom of their he...