I think it is time.

This homely niche of the web that I have declared my roost, my territory, by imbibing my literary scent among the plush verdure and foliage of the internet is in due time for a refurbishing. A renovation. A revitalization.

As a creature of egregious procrastination (the astronomical difference in dates between posts being the case in point), I have imposed an overbearing tragedy of the commons upon myself as I expend midnight oil upon midnight oil, fraught with the need to write prose to “perfection”, while I deplete the world’s fuel reserves. Time was gaining purchase in my pursuit for it because if my sloth was night, I had become nocturnally enslaved. The world around me was a cranked up merry go round while my circadian rhythm ran on molasses.

Then, my mind slipped upon a revelation that was the catalyst for this realization.

I was predisposed to become a mule to highly shelved expectations.

I was hampered by the onerous burden, the weighted gaze, the cumbersome load of anticipation from every cardinal direction in existence. And the mule obeys. Even when it’s vertebral fluids are seeping with anguish, clamoring for catharsis. This aggravated and ironically rewarded my procrastination for I upheld such dogged determination that everything I wrote was “not good enough”.

The conception of this blog was also not of my own ingenuity, rather, it was birthed from the unsolicited advice of a well wisher. To prevaricate disappointment and dissention, I pursued this premise of blogging. And it wasn’t wholly out of my own volition. The steering wheel was thrust upon me but the direction was unbeknowst. I was lost. My compass was skewed. It was superfluos to resume without light at the end of the tunnel.

I was a fickle will of the wisp and haphazardly posted arbitrary articles that were deemed fit for this site. This space was soon to be a well curated paleantology museum, an archive of sepulchral corpses that were my posts. The words were lifeless, limp and coerced into labour. There was no defining purpose. I desired not simply a futile steering wheel. I craved the keys.

I am aware that this blog is far from the apothesis, the magnum opus of my writing. This period of consternation and contemplation has compelled me into chrysalis. My gluttonous caterpillar self, having been satiated by this creative stagnation has concurred into a sensory deprivation cocoon. An exhile and a honeymoon. Striving to irrevocably live the vagrant, ravishing and unbridled life of a butterfly, pollinating a plehora of insightful content implored me.

And that is what my mushed up caterpillar/butterfly amalgamate form suspended in chrysalis aspire to be one day. To be truly severed from the merciless shackles of expectations and to abolish the exectution of creativity at the guillotine of “perfection”. To exhumate the grave of something so foreign; the expired notion of a purposeful drive in my writing.

To become a butterfly. Carefree and unabashed.


The Sacrifice of Rain

Thundering Silence.

The escape of sound as if time stood poised in an ambush as a predator will to prey.


The pitter patter of unsteady feet dithered of its destination,

like the wavering stagger of the inexperienced.


Like the fluff of a dandelion flirting with the breeze.

Like the parting wisps of the colorless dawn accepting defeat to day.

It’s drizzling.

An applause of tears hailing from the overcast gloom of thoughts.

A dismal shroud that grows ever depressed.

Uproarious in an instant.

Lightning seamlessly cracks the porcelain of the sky, its canvas.

Thunder belts out a brash, quaking melody.

War waged in the heavens.

A battle of flashy moves and shattering cries.

The state of a tormented mind that never felt blessed.

Wolves of the wind.

The gale howls painstakingly, an accompaniment to the booming thunder.

A natural orchestration of a dampened mood.

But on earth,

The plight of the aggressed voices never felt this great.

Euphoria collected in the bowels of drought.


Nectar rained from the rejoicing torrent of clouds to nourish

the cracked soil and flowers that brood.


Lightning played hide and seek on the grounds of the sky.

Thunder boomed its celebratory beat.


The sprightly spring of the drops of life that will resurrect the oasis that once flowed.


Alas, the rivers burst with frenzy, like an overflowing sink.

The tap that refused to flow reclaimed its previous feat.


The sky profoundly loves the earth, to shed tears for it to flourish.

That the rain never asks for joy from the earth, the earth that drinks from tears that nourish.


Schools Should Encourage Nerdy Behaviour

Their encyclopaedic knowledge make them an indispensable member of the group. They know the best tech specs and they may be reclusive but, really, may come out as a resilient and determined mind. They are voracious bookworms, devouring pages in minutes, do Math homework during class and rewarded with extra credit assignments. Who are they, anyway? Nerds.
“Be nice to nerds, chances are, you will end up working for them.” Bill Gates stated. And it’s true. From this statement you can deduce that nerds are indeed capable and sufficiently competent to run the world. So do you think nerdy behaviour really counts in school? Not convinced? Nerds aren’t just an intelligent monochrome, they do have their own phantasmagorias and fears, making them just as unique a person plausible. If school authorities did take up the exertion to embolden nerdy behaviour it would benefit the school as well as exhaust the student’s minds to take up additional learning. Furthermore, nerds have the yearning and instinct to have a singular passion about an academic pursuit. However, many people do instigate that nerds are socially ‘awkward’ and introverted. I contradict that. If schools do take up encouraging nerdy disposition, most nerds may feel comfortable working with their counterparts and they may finally end up in a promoted position later in life; think confident, bold and ecstatic nerds. Nerds are renowned for their quirkiness and eccentricities (I am not trying to convey that clowns used to be nerds, not my point). Thomas Edison, Isaac Newton and Alan Turing (if you didn’t know- was a half hero, half scapegoat in World War II) were all quintessential, influential, free-wheeling nerds! I implore and prompt that we stand with nerds for their quick witted genius and creative juices and far flung wisdom. Therefore, schools should encourage nerdy behavior (I assure you, you will not regret it).

A Nerdy Studio. Nerds are creativity enthusiasts!

A Nerdy Studio. Nerds are creativity                                enthusiasts!                                                             Artists Studio Number 1- Look Mickey. Painting by Roy Lichtenstein






The Jabberwocky

Hey there, readers! Here is “The Jabberwocky”, a poem by CS Lewis, transposed into prose for you to relish!

A balmy afternoon, it was. The lithe toves frolicked and bore holes in the tussocks of the forest vegetation. The borogoves were downcast and the raths blared their riveting whistles. In their cosy cottage, at the outskirts of the wilderness that bewilders, Father paced with hope and anticipation, enlightening and cautioning his budding warrior, his son. “Be wary of the Jabberwock, those jaws that paralyse you, those claws that perplex you with nimbleness that it never reveals. For it is a monstrous, hideous creature with gory instincts! Be cautioned of the paradoxical JubJub Bird and the slinky Bandersnatch!”
The boy, with chivalry and aplomb thriving in his heart, encumbered his vorpal sword in hand and vanished into the monotonous hum drum of the wilderness, trudging along the plush strewn foliage. He rummaged, he meandered, and he called out to no avail. It didn’t dishearten him. He was as determined as a savage fly out for blood. A momentary reverie crossed paths with him, distracting him impromptu. As abruptly, the daylight was spilled with a gargantuan shadow. A pair of eyes; eyes of burning cruel zeal and fervour came with disturbing intent. The Jabberwock had arrived. The audacious lad stole into action. Beneath the forlorn Tum Tum Tree a combat slashed between good and viciousness. The boy’s apprehension melted like a forgotten lolly in the sun. He hacked the blade of the vorpal sword dexterously and in one! Two! The Jabberwocky, splattering blood like ketchup oozing from a bottle and menacing, gasped for a final breath. The lad galumphed with triumph and jubilance. He strode off and away with the mighty dominating head of the Jabberwocky as a hunter would be satisfied with ample game and to the applaud and rapture of the father whose joy knew no bounds. And good indeed was and is and ever will be victorious.

The Poetic Words of CS Lewis Jabberwocky

The Poetic Words of CS Lewis:         Jabberwocky 

A Dragon in the Mountains

This petite quirky encounter was written when I was probably in third grade. Enjoy!

It was a scorching hot day on the Tempest Mountain ranges. My family and I were mountaineering over there. The blistering sun was burning us to ashes. I was sweating profusely. The jagged rocks bruised me on my knees. And to hold the stones- they were as hot as cakes right out of the oven. After all that tiring climbing, we all sat down languidly on our comfy picnic mat and drank water and ate food gobbling them up ravenously. What a relief it was when that good food tumbled down my empty intestines. I made a grab for three fried chicken that was left over, and pushed them in my pocket. Then, I decided to take a stroll down the valley- to see if there are some white daisies to make a daisy chain. Sadly, there were no daisies to be found but I suddenly felt a thundering vibration under the rocky and uneven floor. I felt the urge to go down and see what made that abrupt vibration. I climbed down to see a huge cave. I took a few steps in and to my greatest surprise, there lay five tall and fat eggs, about my size, in a dark and dismal corner. They were all brown and seemed just like eggs made of copper. I was curious to know what lay beyond them. I walked a little deeper into the growing darkness of the cave until I reached a door. This door was a weird type of door, not the usual ones you see. It was an oblong bit of wood which had no door knob but in its place there is a coal black mark–it looked like it was burned. All the sides of the door was also burned. The ‘door’ had a crooked signboard too. It said “Mrs. Dragon is sleeping. Please knock to enter.” Who is this Mrs. Dragon? Is she a real dragon? If she is a dragon, those eggs are dragon eggs. But dragons are fiction, aren’t they? When all this things started to hypnotize my brain, I just shoved open the door and cautiously tiptoed in, closing the door lightly behind me. It was very dim in there- with only two oil lamps blazing on two walls of the room. The temperature rose too quickly that I was almost suffocating. I remember having a stub of a candle in my pocket- I struck two stones and quickly lit it. It became brighter now in the room. Then I held the candle out to spread the soothing light when I saw two, yellow, luminous eyes glaring at me. The eyes drew nearer and finally to show a scaly red dragon face. It was snarling maliciously at me. A long red tail with green plates wrapped me and gave me a ferocious squeeze that gave out all my breath like ketchup flows when you squeeze the bottle. My head was in a daze. The candle fell from my tight grip. All of a sudden, I remembered the fried chicken I grabbed after lunch. I struggled and dug in my pocket. I held one above my head. The stuffy air filled with a scrumptious smell. The dragon’s hold on me relaxed. It slowly started gulping down the tender piece of chicken from my hand. It shook itself for more. I calmed myself down with a great sigh of relief and handed out more. Soon the three pieces I longed to eat when I was hungry vanished. At least, the dragon seems satisfied. It became friendly to me. Soon enough I couldn’t stand the heat. I just wished to go out, so I forced my way out and began to climb up. It was evening- the sun’s last rays cajoled the brilliant sky. The dragon lumbered behind me and grabbing and tugging me by the shirt lovingly. I ventured back to the entrance of the cave and the dragon crouched in front of me as a kitten would do. She probably wanted me to ride her. So I sat on her. Her back was very bumpy to sit on. It felt like I was sitting on a bundle of rigid rocks. Her plates and scales poked and tickled me. Abruptly, she flapped her wings and a gush of air battered and gently touched my face. It was fantastic to feel the cool air come across your face when you have spent the whole day in the heat. The panoramic scenery below was spectacular. The glare of the flashy rocks bundled together in the faint sunshine, the microscopic blades of fresh lush green grass , the final calls of the elegant bald eagles and the brown heads of the peaks further down the valley was an intense and simply magical to picture. Soon, we came across our parents. I waved to them and they waved back. They stared at us-spellbound. The dragon swooped down, dropped me softly on an immensely springy and strong smelling mound of moss, near to where my parents were and touched her humongous and unexpectedly soft nose lightly on my palm before departing. I wish to see Mrs. Dragon again soon. Maybe her eggs have hatched and she is taking care of her little draklings by now.

Riding on a Dragon breathing Corollas of Magnolia Flames.

Riding on a Dragon breathing Corollas of Magnolia Flames.

The Witching Hour

When the night streets are austere when none stirs and speaks,

When the moon and stars vanish beneath the snow congealed peaks.

When the air is thick as if it’s holding its breath,

When everything around seems forlorn, vanquished with death.


All at once the gusty trees awoke from the whimsical spell,

There was a vicious cackle from behind the high hill swells.

And without content to wait any longer, out gawped a threesome of filthy witches,

The set of them had ghastly limps and hideous unruly twitches.


They smirked and muttered with their grime caked binders,

As they chewed at and spat at and sat at their grinders.

Stirring around the pot, at something truly ugly and unobtrusive,

Grunting about ingredients cheap and inexpensive.


“Eyes of toad and lizards tail

I’ m quiet sure it’s not to fail

Horns of ox and cow and bull

Tear drops sad, three cups full

Dead man’s nail clippings,

And fried snail snipping’s

Here I mix and there I stir

The perfect remedy for cross eye blur.”



Terrific Technology or Terrible Technology??

I strolled the winding road of Crystal Drive, beside the prim young mulberry bushes and flowering moonbeams and ivy snaking around the front doors of the estate of similar whitewashed houses; a dazzling emerald in the stupefying, crisp midsummer sunshine. I swivelled open the weather worn, rusted, ajar gate of old, grime-coated, steel which still bore the faint, italic letterings which spelt “Sunshine on my Pot” . A tommyrot name for a house…
I sauntered towards the back garden, gingerly tiptoed past over trillions of carefully designed clay pots, vases arrayed against the cobblestone path, tipping slightly in the hint of a summer breeze. Harriet, (a clay pot making enthusiast, jovial and sometimes obstinate, with hazel curls and coffee bean tinted eyes) her eyes as round as tomatoes while absorbed in the shaping with serenity, was perfecting the wet clay transforming it to an oblong vase which went wide at the rim and round at the bottom. She was surrounded with loads more pots smothered with wonderful African and Chinese murals. I lingered closer and protruded into Harriet’s vision. “Hello! Do you mind placing this in the oven?” she asked vaguely and motioned me to take the vase from her hardened clay hands. I whisked it away and shoved it gently and swiftly in the oven as a split second later the gradual stuffy, blistering heat clapped over my hands. I gazed hazily at the slowly rotating figure of the clay as the crimson glow of the oven made that figure sturdier and solid.
Meanwhile, Harriet organized a picnic right in the back garden. She spread out an ancient Persian mat, its patterns of fiery red turned magenta with age, and laid out the snacks. The tea was lip-smacking- tuna and cheese sandwiches and toast topped with mulberry jam and freshly picked strawberries with custard and frothy cream. We washed up, splashing beads of water everywhere, watching bubbles fizz up and being a bit peckish we ravenously licked out sugar from dried apricots. Later, we played a fair game of chess and a more challenging game of scrabble in which we didn’t know who won! We peered out of the clear window and noticed the majestic sun, a brilliant orange (the shade of marmalade or like a massive orange marigold), casting its last few strands of gold before sinking down (like Titanic, I thought) through the wispy clouds of the silhouette of an evergreen forest.
A few years later… Harriet had moved to a spacious flat in the city…
I rang the doorbell rapturously, daydreaming about the same amusement, the same tech-free day we had when Harriet was still living in the countryside, in Crystal Drive. “Oh! Hello dear… Come on in, Harriet’s just doing her pottery in the bedroom…” Harriet’s mother said, putting on her best smile. I wondered on the threshold how Harriet can do pottery in a flat- let alone baking the clay. I briskly walked in towards the hall and it was like entering the parlor of the first class. Hanging unflinchingly on the ceiling like a bat in the woodlands, was an ostentatious, gilded chandelier, its counterfeit, diamond-like gems meandering down giving the impression of a winding staircase. A lone, ornate grandfather clock with its golden needles pointed out the time with two needles; a spindly and a squat one. A black, podgy leather couch with down cushions faced a Samsung Curve television glinting in the mellow light from the chandelier. The flat still smelt of the pungent smell of whitewash and of new carpets.
I walked in, finding Harriet’s room at last, the door was festooned with an enormous ‘Keep Out’ written in Harriet’s dirty scrawl. (I did have to search vigorously for it, every nook and corner).
The room was really crammed and cluttered up with all her lovely pots and vases wreathed with exotic designs, I barely could open the door! Harriet helloed and welcomed me in.
“So, where is the wet clay, the firing oven, the new pots and the templates for painting on the pots?” I questioned her.
“There’s nothing a question to ask… Everything is in there…” Harriet responded, pointing discreetly to an iPhone on the mattress.
Obviously an app, she introduced me to a digital pottery world she was fussing over and thinking it awesome how the vases came out of the firing house without a crack in it. Don’t get me wrong, I am not jealous but it was quiet irksome. Harriet grabbed my attention again when she showed me ‘Flappy Bird’ and ‘Temple Run’ and ‘Angry Birds’. I didn’t find it addicting at all but it was fun the first time I played it. After a good half hour of showing me the Samsung Curve, in which it was thrilling to see movies in, we ate a mouth watering meal we chose from Harriet’s iPhone (“Where are our cookbooks? Well, we don’t need those when we have our iPhones, do we? We have cookbooks, dictionaries and even the Holy Bible!” Harriet had exclaimed)
“Let’s go out and play tennis!” I suggested.
“We don’t need to go out! We can simply on my Xbox…” she wavered and then trundled onwards to on it.
We had to have the remote as a makeshift racket. It was a game of mere distraction, as the ‘ting’ of WhatsApp kept reverberating across the room. “Excuse me… I urgently need to reply to this joke.” Said Harriet, hurriedly leaving the room.
I shut down the whole system at once, scurried out of the wretched house as quiet as a church mouse- without anyone knowing, of course. Harriet had lost a friend for good…
Can technology be so addicting? I’ve never given a second thought. Technology can make things more at ease, much faster than manual. Touchscreen the biggest highlight. Can you live without your phone, nowadays? Are books really fading away? True, there are eBooks and Kindle but the smell and the feel of books are going to be missed. Imagine the jolly good old days when family dinners were all about knowing how each ones days were spent, and now everyone is just nibbling their iPhones instead of their food…