A Bend in the Lane

Do you sometimes go back to re-read your very own “great works” - essays you penned, papers you wrote for classes, etc? And when you do that, are you frequently let down by them when you discover that they are not as wonderful as you remember them to be? Usually I am. But there is one exception. Well yesterday was one of those Long Nights. I had nothing much to do. So I decided to post excerpts of this paper that I am very proud of. I wrote this paper for an English class (American Myth and Oral Tradition) in my sophomore year at Rice. This class was taught by Dr XX, who is notorious for being measely about giving ‘A’s (gives an 'A' once every two years to one or two students). After not being successful for two semesters, I took his class (you basically have to kill to get into his class). To say the very least, you could say, I slogged for this class. I used to take long walks around the campus loop at 1 am to agonise over the next word in the sentence. And I wrote like the D...

I am back from the faraway cold lands. Tonight, Sleep is sulking and does not wish to come to me. On long nights such as these, I think of that A E Housman short: When the bells justle in the tower The hollow night amid, Then on my tongue the taste is sour, Of all I ever did.

Lazy Sunday morning. I can hear someone playing a flute right now. Something very Indian. Is it Chaurasia on CD? Muffled through the walls. 'Tis transporting me back to home. I am home right now. Grandmama must be getting ready for an hour of puja. Grandpapa would be finishing up the last page of the 'Varta" . My cousin must have left for school wearing mismatched socks and the belt buckle un-done even before her day begins. Aunt must be hurrying with her maid to dish out breakfast for grumbling stomachs. My uncle would have gone out to the market/temple/ ? Definitely not the time to call them.

Yesterday I saw a snow-white bird. Pristine white wings, riding the wind. Like the sails reaping the winds on the Godavari . I was running in the bleak rain to work. Stepping over the filth everywhere – rotten produce, piled rubbish, decomposed meat, soggy marigolds (this is Buffalo Street at 7.15am). I looked up. Then I saw it – white and pure, soaring against the grey rain. For an all too short eternity, I soared with it. Then, I didn’t notice the filth around me.

Birthdays are excuses to loot others through subtle relationship blackmail. People have become trained to be blackmailed that, these days, one hardly needs to lift a finger for one’s birthday. Exasperated pal: “What do you want for your birthday?” Me: “24 gifts. Each for one year of my age.” With such subtlety, it’s hard to not to collect a bit ‘f loot, if you know what I mean. Here goes: Sister's card will reach me in another 7 days. It was mailed in a hurry the night before my Bday. The mere fact that I haven’t murdered her yet, speaks volumes about the deep love I have for my sister. Mama, braved a killing backache and a splintering migraine, to dish out a dinner for some special friends on the eve of my b'day. Pa bought this . ( Clearly, RR, could no longer stand my frenzied searches for the same book of AE Housman poems in my every library expedition. I jumped for joy upon unwrapping it and discovering this gem. The poems will be on my bed for a long ti...