Rain, Rain

The rains are finally here.
Not feebly trying to encroach into summer and hastily retreating forces, but here in all its burgeoning grey, brobdingnagian glory.

Who doesn’t love rain? Who doesn’t love lazing around? And who doesn’t love good literature?
So, to celebrate, I’ve put together a few excerpts from some of my most-loved poetry, quotes and ramblings(to do rain in both. negative and positive connotations), coupled with a few rain-themed photos I’ve clicked. Enjoy!

[Note: Click on the image to enlarge it to actual size]

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“Several years later, from a taxi, you will see someone in a doorway who looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade the driver to stop. You will never see her again.

Whenever it rains you will think of her. ”
― Neil Gaiman

“On the fifth day, which was a Sunday, it rained very hard. I like it when it rains hard. It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty.”
Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time

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“Heaven opened and the water hammered down, reviving the reluctant old well, greenmossing the pigless pigsty, carpet bombing still, tea-colored puddles the way memory bombs still, tea-colored minds.”
― Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

“It rains
And rains
And rains.
But there is a sky above the rain,
Nothing can rot the sky.
Earth has turned to mud. What of it?
The heart of the planet is made of fire, of ardent sun.
(from “A Rainy Day”)”
Visar Zhiti, The Condemned Apple: Selected Poetry

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“somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands”
― E.E. Cummings

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I am beautiful pearls, plucked from the
Crown of Ishtar by the daughter of Dawn
To embellish the gardens.
I am beautiful pearls, plucked from the
Crown of Ishtar by the daughter of Dawn
To embellish the gardens.
The heat in the air gives birth to me,
But in turn I kill it,
As woman overcomes man with
The strength she takes from him.
-Song Of The Rain VII, Khalil Gibran.

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And this might be considered a little nefarious of me, but-
“Soft as rain and strong as thunder
Between coffee breaks,
You tear me asunder.”
-Me, from a song I’m writing that is underway.

Hope you liked it :)
Now go out and catch a cold.

The Grey Envelope

The Grey Envelope

This is what Armageddon looks like. From the 23rd floor. Of Essar House.
Oh, and there was a fire in the middle of a mountain somewhere to the east.
Loving this day.

I think it’s unnatural to be brimming with this much glee at the thought/sight of an impending Apocalyptic-looking scene, but I think fellow Mumbaiites will understand where I’m coming from.

I can’t wait for that smell.
It’s finally here :D

Zaza, Queen of Peculiar

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Meet Zahra,  my boss at the current temporary internship. 
So she looks like your regular yuppie,  who has been in front of the camera so frequently that it would take all of 0.26 seconds to go from normal to photo-ready-stance,  case in point :this picture,  and wears lace bows from Accessorize and has Garnier Long and Strong (I actually hate Garnier ) hair.

So what is so remarkable about her,  you ask?  Well,  obviously,  lots of things,  every person has remarkable things about them which I have probably not had access to because I hardly know her,  but discounting that fact, 
Here’s what:
On my first day of work,  she didn’t come in.  She was sick,  I’d heard. 

Viral?  Food poisoning? 
More like,  think of the most bizarre thing that could render a person indisposed and top that by about 70 points.
She dislocated her jawbone……whilst laughing.
I mean,  seriously.  Come on.
How does that even happen in real life?! 

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And that’s not all.  She keeps a couple of brains,  yes brains,  in a jar next to another jar full of a green colored goop-looking substance on her work desk. 
When I nervously questioned as to its use she promptly replied,  “It helps me think”.
Like ‘Ohhhh, yes,  this is absolutely, irrefutably the  most unquestionably normal thing to do.  Keep brains in a jar to stimulate my thought processes.  Of course.’

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Today,  she got stuck in this award-worthy position with her hand in a crevice behind a desk. 
Why am I not even surprised? 
Give it up for this girl who is a specimen of awesome. 
(Note: I don’t always look like I aged 60 years and like someone tried to fit 12 Easter eggs into a human face,  thanks).

Scream

This is a guest post by my talented writer friend,  Wayne,  whose blog is called FromBad2Verse.  It’s a fervent and bodacious poem,  I loved it!

Scream
Scream out my name.
Call it out. Loud. Fierce.
Let it echo in these concrete hills.
Screech, shriek, let you voice give out,
As neighbours hear your muffled shout.
You are my 3am cry, my afterglow sigh,
You are the sweet wetness on my lips, the rasp in my voice.
All you.
So all I ask is this.
Scream out for me, once, like you did before,
And I shall be yours,
Forevermore.
For you shall never entice me by your whisper, now that I have heard you roar.

Crepusculum

Crepusculum

(This link  is a piano song, that when I heard, was a musical echo of what I just wrote).

It’s that time of day. 

Heading home, commuting, tired. 

But the twilight envelops you, and the fallen leaves dance at your feet 

And the children run with their canines

And the crow dips and swirls in time with your train.

 

But the twilight envelops you, awakening your heart,

 

Swimming in gumption and saudade,

Awakening you to embrace the crepusculum.

 

It’s a Beautiful Life (Playlist)

Good morning/ (afternoon/evening in the hope that I have some lone fan follower in like, St. Helena or something)all my lovelies!

This is an awesomesauce playlist I made. That you can play when you’re doing cumbersome chores or work or chilling in bed or….just loving life or whatever.
Peace!

The Epic Saga of Cake

So the maternal figure and I volunteered to bake a fancy  schmancy cake,  from scratch,  for my cousin’s Holy Communion.  

These are my  documented  results.  

Part Un

The Everything Everywhere.  

The chaos.  

The Invincible aroma of Freshly Baked.  

The Porous-y Circle that vanquishes Human Resolve.  Image

 

Part Deux: 

Delayed Gratification. 

Jammin’

Fake snow Flying snow Fake Flying snow. 

Rollin’. The hard way.  Image

Part Trois :

Intermittent disasters. 

Humidity Monsters.  

Making doughy memories. 

KNEADING IT TO END.  

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part quatre: 

Final Frontier.  

White as Cate Blanchett. 

Soft as cherub’s buttocks.  

The most Communion-y Communion cake.  

Whoopdedoo. Image

90’s Pictorial Film Rewind: Kuch Kuch Hota Hai

chantellemenezes:

I LAUGHED SO HARD

Originally posted on ImaanSheikh:

For 90’s bolly kids like myself, life would never have been the same if it wasn’t for this particular movie. I know how to weave a friendship band. And I know you probably owned a “C_O_O_L” necklace like Rahul at some point in your life, too.

Today we’re rewinding Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, because rare things feel as good as a solid kick to the childhood.

Kuch Kuch Hota Hai is a beautiful story about the triumph of conformity over everything else. It is a heart-touching film experience which strengthens your ancient beliefs — don’t be yourself, especially if you’re a woman. By the end of KKHH, one finds themselves saying “Jeet hamesha p̶y̶a̶a̶r̶  sari ki hoti hai” (L̶o̶v̶e̶  sari always wins).

As we have learned, all 90’s Bollywood super hits start with a scene where someone’s reminiscing about the good days. That’s what happens here. We see a very sad…

View original 1,659 more words

Closets Closets Closets Closets ( A Guest Post)

[To all the closeted, to all the afraid. This is a bluntly honest  letter on acceptance, that my close friend published. Share it with whoever you think needs to read it].

 

A letter to friends, but more to everyone else.

 

I’m Keith. I’m 20. I’ve chosen to be many things in life: a helper, a poet, an atheist. Bad roles as well: a manipulator, a thief. There have been people whom I have provoked, and some of these times I’ve taken joy in seeing them seethe.

 

But in November of 2013, I was reduced to nothing by a seething group. Stones were pelted on me in broad daylight. Yes, I mean to be literal here. A group of boys did this (I won’t call them men) because they were seething. They must have coupled it with a lot of name calling; I wouldn’t know, I was busy standing there and feeling like an absolute nothing.

Why, you ask? Surely this must be the climax of one of my ‘badder roles’ in life. 

 

No. I was reduced to nothing by my peers because of a role, one that I had, for better or for worse, no choice in playing – because I am gay.

 

Depression followed, and my friends whom I have only sporadically met through the past six months may now be given a reason for me avoiding them – I was busy trying to kill myself. I sought help when I was standing at the precipice, and I gulped pills worth enough serotonine to make me think myself worthy of life.

I told my mother about all of this a few minutes ago, it was a big task; I had to start at BASE 1 with a ‘Maa, I’m gay’, and she couldn’t even look me in the eye for a few seconds. She took her time and came up with a (-resounding failure of a-) reply, “Your fault. I don’t see why you had to tell the world about yourself.”

 

She’s my mother of twenty years. Twenty years through which I’ve stood up to my father for her. Go read what she said to me again.

 

Maturer people, who have the comfort of calling her ‘aunty’, tell me hers isn’t a generation that understands homosexuality. I’m more concerned with WHY.

When maa heard about me, and when the dudes were taking an aim at me, they both shared an essentially flawed understanding of who I am. They undoubtedly pictured me with a man. All I picture myself doing is being able to love.

Mum/The guys and I aren’t on the same page here.

 

We allow others to point a finger and laugh because we’re so insecure about ourselves. There are people I know (oh yes) who continue to stay in the closet and make things worse for themselves. What they don’t realise is that they’re making things worse for me as well. The closeted further the stigma because their inaction certifies the abuse. Their silence gives validation to those dudes who threw stones at me.

I can speak about liberty, dignity, and all of that. I can. But who listens? The point of all these pretty words is lost when people end up continuing to live thier lies.

 

I have fought others before the guys and mum, and I will keep fighting. I have a set of beautiful friends that will keep me going even if I falter. And all of this, my resilience, my friends, this isn’t unique. I am me, and my firends are mine because deep down I refuse to feel ashamed of myself. I love myself, and I love my friends; I refuse to hide because I don’t think my heart is ugly.

People may have skeletons in their closet, but it’s really sad if they’re it.

 

Love,

Keith D’sa.