I have no fingers to feel with,
no one to reach out for.
My breath comes in little wisps,
pale ghosts telling me
I'm alive.
In the twilight darkness,
my mind is hypaethral,
perhaps even transparent.
Quis operor sequor?
Est is sententia
vel est is flumen in suus tractus??
Lacuna es decessio mihi.
English est haud diutius meus castrum.
(What do I follow?
Is it thought
or is it a river in its course?
The words are leaving me.
English is no longer my forte.)
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Poem
Lights sparkle, fiery and hazy
in lukewarm water jets
pounding my numb skin.
A taste of being almost home.
Back when I was little
and a bath
involved
me and one of my parents,
in a bathroom
filled
with bright plastic buckets,
I'd close my eyes
and enjoy the feel of water
pouring over my face,
warm and caressing.
I didn't know then
what it meant -
I am just beginning
to understand the real meaning
of home.
When the simple sensation
of water coursing down my face
and washing away tears
feels like a caress from all those years ago.
When I can almost smell
the flavors
in my mother's kitchen -
fresh coriander,
tamarind,
freshly-grated tender coconut
for festivals
I can no longer track.
When I dance on the edge
baring my heart
for strangers to read,
trying to find a niche
I can hide in.
When all I want is my freedom
and a kiss, maybe a hug -
so badly that it almost hurts.
in lukewarm water jets
pounding my numb skin.
A taste of being almost home.
Back when I was little
and a bath
involved
me and one of my parents,
in a bathroom
filled
with bright plastic buckets,
I'd close my eyes
and enjoy the feel of water
pouring over my face,
warm and caressing.
I didn't know then
what it meant -
I am just beginning
to understand the real meaning
of home.
When the simple sensation
of water coursing down my face
and washing away tears
feels like a caress from all those years ago.
When I can almost smell
the flavors
in my mother's kitchen -
fresh coriander,
tamarind,
freshly-grated tender coconut
for festivals
I can no longer track.
When I dance on the edge
baring my heart
for strangers to read,
trying to find a niche
I can hide in.
When all I want is my freedom
and a kiss, maybe a hug -
so badly that it almost hurts.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Snow, windiness and a rant about terrorism
I WON NANOWRIMO 2008!
Yes, I wrote a very bad 50,558 word novel in 30 days. Well, I wrote about 30000 in the last five days, but who cares so long as I finished in time to earn my brown winner's badge (look on the right... its there, I promise)!
Its been snowing the last couple of nights, and since yesterday there has been this pretty layer of untouched, inch-deep powdery snow everywhere. Its a beautiful winter wonderland. I love winter, snow, and everything else about winter. Watching snowflakes falling, floating down slowly, dancing on the wings of the wind, soothes and calms my mind no matter how often I see it. Even if I'm on the street and it snows, I love it.
I'm not even from a snowy place - my hometown dosen't even have a proper winter. The only way you can tell its winter is that you aren't sweating when you wake up. So I don't know if it is the mutant gene that made me go into medicine that also makes me love winter.
I was sick on Thanksgiving day - I had a migraine, I threw up twice, lots of fun. Then, I heard about the attacks in Mumbai. Eeek. Mumbai. My hometown. YIKES.
Thank God my family is okay, they arent hurt or anything. But seriously, who creates the indoctrination that killing is right? For any reason? How insane does someone have to believe that doctrine? How heartless do you have to be to knowingly orphan a child? How freakin insane do you have to be to torture a human being - a person - to death?
What ideology, what holy grail could possibly inspire young people to kill and be killed in such a bloody manner? What sort of faith is it that teaches its followers that they would go to heaven for killing others? There wasn't even injustice involved - these don't seem to be revenge killings - I mean, look at the destruction, the bloody remains, the indiscriminate shootings at CST.
Mumbai is resilient, and we're all sick of the repetition that we hope will aid the recovery of this beautiful, historical, wonderful, warm city by the sea. But how do you deal with wounds that scar the psyche of a people?
Seven years ago, I sat transfixed as I watched the twin towers fall in New York. I couldn't believe my eyes, I couldn't believe that one of the places on my must-see-before-I-die list was no more. Seven days ago, I sat horrified as images of my burning city, my wounded hometown, my bleeding people streamed in front of my eyes live on my computer. And I couldn't believe that this was happening. Both times, I was equally sickened by the loss of life. This time, it was the horror that this is home.
We will heal, somehow. We will move on. But the horror will remain. Forever.
I am medicine because I have this lofty dream that I want to change lives for the better. I want at least one life to be better because I touched it. I want to be heroic and save a life. Several lives. This loss of life saddens me. The perpetrators are probably not the ones who died. They will just come up with more of these brainwashed victims and have them believe that they have "seen the way, seen the light." But these young men who held a city to ransom are not much older than I am, they seemed to have been educated, handsome young men who might have had successful lives. What went wrong, what flicked the wrong switch, is something we might never find out. It grieves me that I, who is training to change lives, am powerless to stop the horror touching my own.
Yes, I wrote a very bad 50,558 word novel in 30 days. Well, I wrote about 30000 in the last five days, but who cares so long as I finished in time to earn my brown winner's badge (look on the right... its there, I promise)!
Its been snowing the last couple of nights, and since yesterday there has been this pretty layer of untouched, inch-deep powdery snow everywhere. Its a beautiful winter wonderland. I love winter, snow, and everything else about winter. Watching snowflakes falling, floating down slowly, dancing on the wings of the wind, soothes and calms my mind no matter how often I see it. Even if I'm on the street and it snows, I love it.
I'm not even from a snowy place - my hometown dosen't even have a proper winter. The only way you can tell its winter is that you aren't sweating when you wake up. So I don't know if it is the mutant gene that made me go into medicine that also makes me love winter.
I was sick on Thanksgiving day - I had a migraine, I threw up twice, lots of fun. Then, I heard about the attacks in Mumbai. Eeek. Mumbai. My hometown. YIKES.
Thank God my family is okay, they arent hurt or anything. But seriously, who creates the indoctrination that killing is right? For any reason? How insane does someone have to believe that doctrine? How heartless do you have to be to knowingly orphan a child? How freakin insane do you have to be to torture a human being - a person - to death?
What ideology, what holy grail could possibly inspire young people to kill and be killed in such a bloody manner? What sort of faith is it that teaches its followers that they would go to heaven for killing others? There wasn't even injustice involved - these don't seem to be revenge killings - I mean, look at the destruction, the bloody remains, the indiscriminate shootings at CST.
Mumbai is resilient, and we're all sick of the repetition that we hope will aid the recovery of this beautiful, historical, wonderful, warm city by the sea. But how do you deal with wounds that scar the psyche of a people?
Seven years ago, I sat transfixed as I watched the twin towers fall in New York. I couldn't believe my eyes, I couldn't believe that one of the places on my must-see-before-I-die list was no more. Seven days ago, I sat horrified as images of my burning city, my wounded hometown, my bleeding people streamed in front of my eyes live on my computer. And I couldn't believe that this was happening. Both times, I was equally sickened by the loss of life. This time, it was the horror that this is home.
We will heal, somehow. We will move on. But the horror will remain. Forever.
I am medicine because I have this lofty dream that I want to change lives for the better. I want at least one life to be better because I touched it. I want to be heroic and save a life. Several lives. This loss of life saddens me. The perpetrators are probably not the ones who died. They will just come up with more of these brainwashed victims and have them believe that they have "seen the way, seen the light." But these young men who held a city to ransom are not much older than I am, they seemed to have been educated, handsome young men who might have had successful lives. What went wrong, what flicked the wrong switch, is something we might never find out. It grieves me that I, who is training to change lives, am powerless to stop the horror touching my own.
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