In the song of the rushing torrent,
Hold on to the joyful assurance:
I will become the sea.
And this is not a vain supposition;
It is absolute humility, because it is the truth.

— Rabindranath Tagore



G-Talk, weekday afternoon. Typical conversation between parents (well, one of them is only pretending to be a parent) of a Delhi snob-school, spoilt-brat teenager.

“She’s given me material off the net and I’m supposed to edit it and make it 10th grade-worthy.”

“Leave it, I’ll do it when I get home.”

“No, you’ve got another one. Mine is coral reefs.”

“Oh okay. Mine is Thar Desert.”

Bunch of suckers.


43 degrees C

I take a shower
In seconds, like sprouting leaves
Drops bloom on the flesh.


The Moon wanted to turn over to its side

The Moon wanted to turn over to its side;
A million years with its face down,
its back was aching.
It shifted and stirred in discomfort,
oh, for a little stretch right there.
But those on Earth glared up at the slightest sigh.

The Moon cannot change face, they said.
We’ve mapped it out, sized it up, analyzed it, filed it for future use.
Our children have drawn its smiling face in school craft sheets,
Our artists have composed masterpieces
inspired by its rugged complexion.
And besides, we’ve spent millions flying back and forth.

No, the Moon cannot change face, they said.
And they called a global conference.
And had a referendum,
with unanimous votes saying Nay Nay Nay.
And they passed lunatic policies.
And the newspapers ran headlines proclaiming “Moon Forbidden to Turn!”

The Moon, with its face down for a million years,
Watched mutely, listened with despair, and read the news,
And shed a silent tear, oh, for a little love right there.
Then, with a glint in its massive craters,
While those on Earth watched with horror,
It turned to its side anyway.