One lone voice

There is still hope. With people like Bloomberg, the Muslim-hating American stereotype does go down a notch. It is difficult to go against the flow of conventional thought and opinion without being politically incorrect. Bloomberg has managed to achieve the very opposite. 9/11 was as traumatic for the Muslims as it was for the Americans. What is interesting is the fact that Bloomberg manages to draw the usually much-blurred distinction between Al-Qaeda and Islam.

Thank you.

I have often wanted to write a long song for those who mattered. But emotion is cheesy and hence overrated. There is no way to express certain things without seeming pathetic. There are so many regrets, memories and wishes that I can scrape together from the past. Mash them all together and you will get one bowl of angsty teenage crap. The sad part is that all that crap has made me the kind of person I am today.

My antidote to the excess emotion is a state called hyper-rationality. Take out all that emotion and subject it to the operating theater and some cold formaldehyde. There is nothing more effective than that. Think of everything as being part of a chain of cause and effect and you will see that you have reduced yourself to nothing more than a machine with interconnected gears. One moves and then they all do.

Once you have been clinical to yourself, all those half forgotten memories, times when you should have apologised, moments when you shouldn't have stopped fighting, shouldn't have let go...they will all become nothing, but mere "anthropological inevitabilities."

Thank you.

The View From India: The Indian Railways; A Culture Chronicle

http://blog.gale.com/speakingglobally/the-view-from-here/the-view-from-india-the-indian-railways-a-culture-chronicle/

After the mad, comes the ravaged...

The mad child ran and left in his wake,

rubble that crumbles

and came back the prodigal storm.

He walked backwards through the broken wake.

Now he is wasted, a wasted child.

Red eyes and dusty hair.

He brings mad to the sane

and sorrow to those who need it.

Happiness is no longer a drive.

Blind.

From a distance, the sunlight was blinding

I saw red skirts running around and chattering.

bright smiles and peaceful hands

when they turned I saw their faces

One of them was mine

but she was a thousand years old.

They ate dusty fruits and giggled all the way home.

I stared at them from the interiors of a steaming tin furnace.

The red skirt and the white shirt are long forgotten now.

The blue corridors have eaten them up.

Pome

It is the yellow light that does me in every time.

The sun and the stars make for very corny love rhymes.

The heart does very bad things to the grammar that I have learnt.

Mystery throbs and I go mad.

Sad, and there comes your smile.

The lovesongs play on loop and make sense.

the child dances inside the caged cell and I jump too.

the ripples and the pebbles stream along with unbroken rhyme.

when you are ugly, you are not overrated anymore.

The View From Little Lhasa: Tibet, in Exile – Speaking Globally

The View From Little Lhasa: Tibet, in Exile – Speaking Globally