tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53129846502884144742012-01-28T15:25:15.098+08:00Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.comBlogger1111100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-24028371648627381872010-07-08T21:56:00.002+08:002010-07-08T22:03:56.950+08:00

It's been a long time.Nothing's cooking; still it's the onset of monsoon and how can one not think of new birth, once again. Thanks to everyone who visited even when we were dormant through the rough winter and dead summer.We shall take it easy and slow and decide soon if sprouts are healthy enough to meet the world.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-49851871792451880952009-11-10T21:03:00.000+08:002009-11-10T21:04:48.424+08:00

Perhaps there really is a tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow is not just a myth. Only time will tell.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-84982392233681645402009-10-25T14:27:00.000+08:002009-10-25T14:29:38.421+08:00

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-45160174684799827612009-10-08T21:45:00.003+08:002009-10-08T23:11:14.500+08:00

Creation is the creator--in part or in whole or in some other association: negative, opposite, or simply reflexive. Then whose stories should I believe? I have to find a story whose creator lived a life like mine, in dreams, in aspiration, in suffering, in joy. Rule out the mighty. Rule out the selfless sufferers. Rule out the truly vile. Rule out the pious. Rule out the messiahs. Rule out the

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-13515157561903923502009-10-08T11:50:00.002+08:002009-10-08T12:09:52.751+08:00

Daytime is my playmate, my child-friend: incoherent and unrestrained and always escaping and sometimes a delight and other times a nuisance. It is nighttime that I cherish as my confidante, my soulmate. The sun makes every hour brittle - every hour breaks in its passing; I sit and watch moments collapse, scatter, vanish. I am run over by this armada of time. It is my avowed enemy- this light,

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-32970212857038646232009-10-07T12:28:00.002+08:002009-10-07T12:31:28.461+08:00

The difference between a lie and a story lies only in the intention.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-69359878146165116312009-09-30T16:51:00.004+08:002009-09-30T19:04:41.941+08:00

That is the downside of being an amphibian: it is difficult to mark and guard your territory. I straddle boundaries with ease. These dithering differences between belief and non-belief, one God and many Gods, white skin and brown skin do not bother me. So it is with my life -- it swims from fringes of meaning and reaches absurdity without effort. The reverse is also true. But now I am tired of

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-38523843688343806772009-09-29T13:44:00.003+08:002009-09-29T14:12:32.835+08:00

It's not that bad thoughIt has french windowsand balconies and enoughsquare feet.Funny to think ofSquareFeet.Imagine walkingon angular feet.The walls keep the good sun out.The walls keep the bad sun out.Two sides of the same coin:pigeonhole- and in the same breath -"Yes yaar, at least an asset."What I would actually wantis a couple of shifting walls,(not more)each wall a unit of shifting

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-16688824956524030392009-09-29T00:35:00.004+08:002009-09-29T01:18:22.490+08:00

That soft spot between chin and throat--what all it invites--a kiss, a knife, a knot.A throbbing more seductive than the heart's, a pulse just palpable enough to insinuate life, this delicate cushion around taste and voice. Only barbarians would aim for anything lower, or even higher. My taste knows no other perfection on the body so ready to receive what I have to give. This gift of death that I

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-90349157556874828282009-09-25T16:32:00.008+08:002009-09-27T01:16:09.368+08:00

India to Russia had been a long journey. Through Canada first, then Dubai, then Oman, and Qatar and then back home. Only then had he circled that job ad in a Hindi newspaper with the word 'Russia' written in bold and 'tough winter conditions' hidden somewhere in the periphery of that black rectangular printed box.Canada didn't count much because he had been deported from the airport itself. "You

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-84744559051146621902009-09-21T23:58:00.000+08:002009-09-21T23:59:32.132+08:00

The alchemy ofnot forgettingwhat you want tonot forgetis a difficultscience.It could have been artbut then thosetimorous littlesqueaky voicesrefuse to lapseinto a roar andthe next thing youhave to do is writean algorithm fornot forgetting.Well, not write writebut inside the headplay things step by step,you know.You wish to amplifywhat was swallowed-philosophy and lovesand conversations andpoetry

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-81369621122635178372009-09-13T14:20:00.002+08:002009-09-13T14:38:01.387+08:00

Why do they hate us? Oh, that is a one-sided question. Ask again: why do we hate? Because hatred is the boiling concoction we turn to when love gets lukewarm on cold nights. Because hatred is an icy salve, such instant relief when vapours of stale love make summer noons unbearable. We don't always pour hatred on the ones we love; we invent animosity with other things to intensify the love for

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-16298137613771651952009-09-07T13:59:00.003+08:002009-09-07T14:07:34.681+08:00

Do not crack the whip of your will too hard on yourself.What if the whip breaks?What if you break?Free will as a form of self-flagellation is an interesting perspective.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-81580839720837643292009-08-28T20:05:00.005+08:002009-08-29T11:04:35.049+08:00

An insane hunger had lunged me to these gates-- a hunger for love and wealth and peace, and most of all, a hunger for belonging. Panther-pawed, I had sneaked into the city. Yes, I came here as a scheming carnivore, ready to devour palaces and temples and dances and songs and women. Nimbly, I set my weary foot inside these famed walls.But the city turned out to be a bigger beast.It crouches

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-79728682985632514152009-08-24T12:43:00.001+08:002009-08-24T12:43:51.213+08:00

Even the illusion of a mental illness is a mental illness.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-12191573672002323642009-08-24T12:09:00.004+08:002009-08-24T12:49:25.895+08:00

When you arrive in the Indies--no matter who you are--you will find people waiting for you. They will find you sooner or later, without you having to look for them.If you arrive in the Indies, you arrive at the right place. That is the unbroken rule.It matters little whether you are a prince or a slave, whether you are a Moor or a Jew, whether you hide a fortune up your arse or clutch a penny in

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-83649610358910349722009-08-24T11:55:00.002+08:002009-08-24T12:04:37.271+08:00

If only you couldbundle all your longingsand hurl them intodeep deep seasand comb your heartof miserly achesand snuff out legionsof unfulfilled impossibilitiesand sit there calm and limpidlike shallow water, still over rocks,basking in sunshine of the moment.If only...But the mulch of life is thestench we cannot do without.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-27664162434230695582009-08-21T23:57:00.001+08:002009-08-22T00:01:04.403+08:00

Interviews: stray questions; pet answers. Nice game.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-66664294196020186862009-08-19T11:56:00.001+08:002009-08-19T11:57:47.478+08:00

You will hate it when it's perfect.Hail the charisma of imperfection!

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-51593580137026191662009-08-04T14:10:00.004+08:002009-08-04T18:01:25.785+08:00

Imagine a world where creation takes place without death. More and more new things birth, sprout, grow and linger on for eternity.On a time-space axis, space gets cramped but time gets sparse. There is too less of space and too much of time.There is never death and always life, more life, more breaths, more time, more more more...Can you feel the claustrophobia inside this moreness?-*-Death

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-79245200825455821362009-07-12T13:32:00.010+08:002009-07-12T19:02:35.763+08:00

A huge chip falls off me as I walk a crowded street.I look down. It is rust: layered thin slice, brown-red.Inscribed on it: "OVERUSED MEMORY"."A huge piece -- that one," yells someone.I am embarrassed someone has seen rust falling off me. I pick it up and begin walking again.It must be a sign of age. No one likes ageing in public. It must be a private affair.The person follows me and with eyes of

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-35149745971195768052009-07-07T13:25:00.003+08:002009-07-07T13:54:27.068+08:00

This 'Who am I?' a question worth answering. I feel I am the formless concentrate of tragedies histories religions loves hates of countless peoples continents times. That is why I speak to you: I must demonstrate my imposing formlessness. This 'I' is insufficient because as I speak I often forget if I am speaking of myself or my forefathers or yours or ghosts of massacred millions or the newborns

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-50390927729881517662009-07-06T12:56:00.004+08:002009-07-06T13:10:10.551+08:00

July is a month of rain and delicate beginnings.Sprouts. Births. Seedlings.Who and what will survive to see the next summer?There is also this chilly smile of approaching winter.You must know what winter is to prepare for it.The new-borns: they will face winter without even knowing it.It is too early to talk of winter.They are still suckling the rain gods.Who will survive the weaning?We will

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-21008181444798422452009-06-29T00:51:00.000+08:002009-06-29T00:52:06.436+08:00

"Yehudi," she whispers so gently, I can see the air from her mouth arrange itself into patterns of sound and graze the inside of my ear, "you fill me up."What fills up a goddess? -- not always flower and fruit and incense and butter. Sometimes it is dung and piss and spit and waste -- like Gaia: Mother Earth, the bearer of us all, the goddess beneath our dirty feet. What mother, I say -- eats

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-64115255083317416172009-06-26T21:28:00.000+08:002009-06-26T21:29:13.409+08:00

A Guzerato soldier once told me of a saying in his land: whatever is in your hand must serve as your weapon. What's in my hand?-- a heart turned to stone. It serves as the most ruthless weapon; unlike sword or spike, it grows sharper and sturdier with use, almost invincible against metal or mortar.A stone heart has affections of the most violent kinds: it demands blood and death to commemorate

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-20698567576577296492009-06-24T15:21:00.007+08:002009-06-24T22:24:42.325+08:00

Nature runs amok at Ta ProhmMore than the sum of her parts: Ta ProhmWhere the temples are green and the trees are brown: Ta ProhmEngulfed: Ta ProhmOn the way to Koh KerWalls buckle under the weight of time at Bantey SreiA temple with braces at Koh KerA god's hand just brushed by:collapsed columns along a walkway at Koh KerSpring water perpetually washes Vishnu's feet at Kbal SpeanShiva Linga:

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-65492164076272426152009-06-17T21:15:00.004+08:002009-06-17T23:11:43.109+08:00

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-43968106136971295982009-06-11T14:54:00.004+08:002009-06-11T15:43:19.207+08:00

Some truths are more than just ugly: they are violent. Ugliness you can disregard, but an assault you must tackle. There is only one right way to deal with the violence of a truth, and that is to let it tear you apart in a single ruthless blow.You don't want to be shredded one breath at a time for a life time. Do you?

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-67510150612184369642009-06-10T11:07:00.010+08:002009-06-10T23:48:13.336+08:00

There was a time when I used to live with degrees of dislike. Exclusively.I met those whom I disliked less. I spent an hour or two more with those whom I disliked lesser. It worked fine. Until love came knocking.Love wakes you up. You don't always wake up shining and bright. Sometimes love wakes you up on a gloomy night. Moonless. That is how I woke up on a moonless night. With love.You don't

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-83822774314282656452009-06-10T07:50:00.002+08:002009-06-10T07:51:06.350+08:00

If you must, and if you will, write to feed yours and others thoughts. It's a hungry world, I tell you.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-22355913550708483142009-06-09T16:50:00.005+08:002009-06-09T22:47:41.588+08:00

Beware of what you crave for. Freedom. Love. Wealth. What you don't have is a gaping hole, inviting and deep, through which people will reach for your innards and pull you inside out. If there are no people, you will do it yourself, to yourself--one on one, an intimate raging act of self-realization and self-immolation. May be you will survive. May be you will turn into someone else.Beware of

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-7716732139057857602009-06-09T08:49:00.006+08:002009-06-09T13:05:55.599+08:00

A woman must guard her emptiness. That is what a man will fill. All of it.The world will soon follow and then you will be filled with so much that is not you, you will refuse to see what you once were, not because you can't, but because it will be too painful.In the bigger scheme of things that is how it is supposed to be. The yin and the yang. The receiving yoni.But the bigger scheme of things

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-23427632440626519332009-06-08T18:05:00.005+08:002009-06-08T18:35:50.238+08:00

Memories succumb to a slow rot.Like all things life, they don't dry up instantly.It's a slow process, more like drowning: they go down they resurface they go down again they resurface again they struggle splash gasp for air. But it does end, eventually.Like all things life, memories are mortal.Unless you make stories out of them.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-55923822265619366122009-06-08T11:48:00.001+08:002009-06-08T11:50:17.622+08:00

Nightmares are free thoughts you tried to strangle during daytime.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-47429929193788921312009-06-07T21:02:00.006+08:002009-06-07T21:07:58.599+08:00

Just because a book changed your life does not mean that the illiterate do not have epiphanies.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-25557113803882034342009-06-05T22:28:00.006+08:002009-06-06T02:52:20.008+08:00

Questions tend to go astray, particularly if left unanswered and unattended inside the head. Often, it all starts with some primordial weakling: a doubt, a hesitation, a wiggle of thin suspicion. Then it begins to blossom and branch and that is when the trouble begins.Questions travel dangerous and forbidden paths and often lead you to places you wish did not exist.Questions like to curl up in

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-79754822066007868632009-06-05T12:23:00.009+08:002009-06-05T13:37:21.500+08:00

Round and round his life had moved in circles. Beginnings, then middles, then ends. And then, yet another beginning. What went by once, came by again, in another form, another shape--sometimes only the names changed--the subjects and objects, as with many other human lives, remained the same set of revolving obsessions: places, women, wars, kings, princes, priests, poets, friends, years, months,

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-53529962591406789022009-06-03T09:03:00.002+08:002009-06-03T10:37:42.259+08:00

"The unbearable part of religion is that it denies a man his struggle to find his own answers.""Why find answers to questions that have already been answered, and answered well?""And that is where lies the trouble. The answers don't lie in the answers. They lie in the finding."

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-47420021319207428332009-05-31T22:11:00.006+08:002009-06-01T06:53:24.606+08:00

Need one explain what is great writing?--one that directly hits the marrow of your toughest spiritual bone.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-76626438972239219722009-05-31T21:26:00.017+08:002009-06-01T14:20:44.991+08:00

One was the assuring kind of love; the other: inciting. On one extreme was ennui; on the other: insanity. The line was drawn clear but a choice eluded her. With any choice, she knew she would get pulled to its extreme. There was no middle ground--perhaps, a small room for death of all beauty and truth, but that did not count, because in the first place the dilemma existed in consequence of having

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-53770605668523641542009-05-26T04:46:00.015+08:002009-05-26T13:00:34.253+08:00

A successful city is a seduction of the soul. Admire its panorama; bargain its offerings; lose yourself: it is a temptation without shame.A successful city is a vastness with narrow exit. You enter it with pride and wholeness but if you must leave, you must leave it in a trickle.A successful city is a fascinating but tiring sight.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-69312569961896355782009-05-21T08:23:00.007+08:002009-05-25T13:16:51.673+08:00

It was hardly the lavish oddity he expected it to be. In a dense row of thatched huts stood the lone building that had open space around it--a two-storeyed cottage with a modest compound, the Star of David prominent and proud on its walls and gates. This could easily have been a merchant's run-down home back in Cordoba, except that the star would have been branded very small and only once on the

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-6891603689773222892009-05-19T08:06:00.004+08:002009-05-19T11:59:02.585+08:00

Some demons cannot be killed; they must be fed--and fed well.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-4134161850943331722009-05-17T22:16:00.003+08:002009-05-17T22:37:17.922+08:00

"You are so busy collecting glue," the old man laughed."What do you mean?" he asked, laughing along with the old man."It seems you want to build one beautiful piece from gathered bits. But somehow, you can't. With one hand, you collect bits but you let them fly away. With the other hand, you collect glue and let it stick to you. Look at you. Knotted in meaningless knowledge. Now listen son, you

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-51888494435830127382009-05-17T21:30:00.009+08:002009-05-18T17:35:04.807+08:00

"I must remind you that excitement is for kids and foot-soldiers, not generals and statesmen.""You forget that I prefer to retain my wisdom and simplicity, both.""Tricky!""Risky, rather. My bets are always large.""Allah save you then.""You first, and then, if and only if He has time, He should bother with me. As you can see, I have been good at saving myself so far," he said, speaking as much

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-67786711430957774132009-05-14T20:48:00.004+08:002009-05-14T20:58:50.071+08:00

Since wisdom is a characteristic of life, listen less to those who talk well, and more to those who live well.Often, advice is acquired wisdom that did not know what to do with itself.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-2219600926312867802009-05-10T19:04:00.001+08:002009-05-10T19:10:08.762+08:00

"Inhale deep the vapours of Indies, Diogo. Come, let's begin our new journey with the smell the eastern riches," Alavaro spoke with a broad smile on their first morning on the Indian shores."Eastern riches smell strange--unlike riches, rather," winked Diogo."Your nose suffers from nostalgia--little else. Here, smell this oil hard--strong enough to rout all diseases related to memory."Diogo

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-13141815676347334962009-05-07T11:50:00.003+08:002009-05-07T14:32:30.194+08:00

One of the more practical rules is to break rules with discretion.You don't have to be a philosopher to be wise.Scholars and philosophers are different breeds of intelligent people.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-63682880541182640952009-05-03T00:30:00.002+08:002009-05-03T00:39:40.888+08:00

Some fences cannot be mended.Dishonesty is a survival mechanism.Minding one's business requires strength of character.It is difficult not to show off when you are surrounded by an eager audience.Aspirations are secondary to how you live your daily life.Killing time can be hazardous to health.Pride is a temporary relief.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-82145286328131864232009-04-28T10:06:00.003+08:002009-04-28T10:17:01.505+08:00

Morality is an attempt to tame the difficult part of being human.Too many morals can make you less human.A life devoid of morals can be as difficult as one hinged on morals.The middle path can be boring.Extremities can get things done.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-61192333476674539222009-04-27T09:28:00.008+08:002009-04-27T10:55:26.281+08:00

Spoken words have the power to corrode the tongue.Appreciation should precede clarity.Search for meaning can be futile.A clean solution may demand a messy process.Every intelligent person must create.Consumerism can be a way of feeling one with the world.Reading is high-brow consumerism.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-69312755531053901692009-04-26T16:53:00.001+08:002009-04-26T16:55:01.841+08:00

acrylic on canvas

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-70195947921467656652009-04-25T15:46:00.003+08:002009-04-25T16:11:35.070+08:00

You are a fan of everything you believe."If I had more time" is a faint and hopeless plea for immortality.If you must apologize for who you are, let the apology be short and ruthless.Reading is an attempt to buy someone else's truths.Style is a matter of discipline.Wisdom is what you find after an honest quest. Every other thing you find on the way is mere accessory.Honesty is overvalued. So are

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-90165664293064629172009-04-23T08:36:00.005+08:002009-04-23T12:44:10.503+08:00

Wriggle back to the masters of the past. Become a voyeur of unalterable truths. Live in the present but do not trust it too much; see how you laugh at history's many follies; future generations will have much to laugh at you too. Then, what in the present is worth a thought and not a chuckle? Open the oldest surviving text and toil your way to the last page. The period of the last sentence has a

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-68541127655538492542009-04-18T19:10:00.002+08:002009-04-18T19:16:07.947+08:00

work-in-progress

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-26256210380291807472009-04-14T04:47:00.005+08:002009-04-14T05:34:50.201+08:00

Being trapped in a well is better than being trapped in a completely transparent glass cube: you are saved from the spectacle of unreachable possibilities. That is why people surround themselves with opaque things--shopping malls, loaned walls, fancy food: for survival.-*-True minimalism is the abundance of depth in a scarcity of information.-*-To say: I am weak, is an invitation to predators and

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-32436394999074752952009-04-13T16:13:00.001+08:002009-04-13T16:16:17.784+08:00

I will be the stonethat keeps evenits silenceto itself:buried.Did I justsay that?

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-40318365557845789232009-04-11T16:51:00.004+08:002009-04-11T17:00:51.638+08:00

In faraway landswhere they have neverheard ofPassover or Seder,(and perhaps willnever hear)where they are notthe chosen people,this spring,mundane slaverywill triumph withunmanly whimpers of:"Thank GodI still have my job."Yahweh will listen,choose more peoplewith fair skinand quietlyclimb back in bedagainfor another eternityat least.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-21311643890218698352009-04-07T22:12:00.002+08:002009-04-07T22:15:53.204+08:00

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-33999609042160396262009-04-04T11:00:00.000+08:002009-04-04T11:01:19.550+08:00

Is tickling the dead a bad joke?

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-74240657025643351822009-04-04T10:35:00.003+08:002009-04-04T10:39:49.084+08:00

Heart:stay suppleSummer hasunfurled thethawing ofresolvesBut look atsummers gonebyDid not thewetnessof past giveway to newrains?

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-76770328427234157022009-03-31T22:01:00.004+08:002009-03-31T23:14:54.843+08:00

Befriend stories but take care not to worship them, especially your own: this is a lesson that I know I need to learn, but I haven't learnt it yet. Every time I break away from my story, I carry with me the guilt of a neglecting devotee. If only it were my friend, I could return to it more easily--not bothering about whether it will walk away as soon as it sees me pressing keys in front of a

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-41559397773569670882009-03-27T15:29:00.003+08:002009-03-27T15:36:47.262+08:00

What do you do with accumulated failures that look curious and smooth like pebbles collected from many shores--soft-looking but hard-surfaced? You pocket them and feel happy for having been a child, even when the world tries to remind you that they must have weight.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-24879814571633255752009-03-21T16:59:00.004+08:002009-03-21T17:25:25.817+08:00

This paranoia about the future--we have inherited from the West. In this part of the world, we had always been hopeful about the future. Because the present always seemed liked dawn. Because the past always seemed like night. Even if you 'timed-out' you had a legacy to pass on. You had a new generation to take over. With the very mention of legacy and a new generation, came hope. Now, we have

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-78800817154868626782009-03-17T10:25:00.001+08:002009-03-17T10:26:55.922+08:00

sun calling, acrylic on canvas, 20 x 20 cm

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-45759959916715576592009-03-14T12:36:00.004+08:002009-03-18T11:29:43.488+08:00

What a pityto have made faithfulness a virtue.Blind me to allthat summons mein its depths.I cower at the thoughtof gathering somany vices in one lifetime.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-37314938958460956322009-03-13T11:30:00.003+08:002009-03-13T11:37:30.742+08:00

Let the spring flower know that I sing for her, that memory is now just a pickle: not deserving of copious indulgence but oiled and shrivelled--a dash of sharp flavour, small accompaniment to other colourful offerings. And yet how the mouth waters, just at a simple thought!

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-16168852710002232432009-03-12T18:17:00.015+08:002009-03-12T23:40:57.662+08:00

There was a time when you didn't have to sit thinking whether your life, your work, your contribution mattered. It was a given that it didn't. Because--let's make it very clear--then, it was also a given that you didn't matter as an individual. You were a mere thread in the fabric. You soaked in what came through others. You passed on what was passed on to you, adding your own flavours. In the

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-42712984272488721502009-03-12T18:00:00.003+08:002009-03-13T14:04:58.319+08:00

Like the shame ofmenstrual bloodyou come and gowith weeping moons.Each time remindersof unborn possibilities.They say age is the remedyfor all such illsand I tell themyou talk as ifyouth were a disease.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-19282943114097829282009-03-10T00:01:00.005+08:002009-03-10T00:26:51.755+08:00

That is the day Chaos became so unbearable, it had to be shaped into definite relationships-- the same day when they made God and devotee, husband and wife, father and son--the day when love turned into a duty.It was then that Chaos was relegated to deep dark corners of civilized hearts, corners that came to be known as Secrets.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-75973313114958202902009-03-08T23:18:00.001+08:002009-03-08T23:25:39.424+08:00

Countless where's and what's whirled in his mind. What was the Indies: this Al-Hind, this Hindostan? Was it bound by the Al-Bahr Al Hind, the doria-e-hindostan, the Indian ocean, or was it a huge island in the middle of that great river--or was it seven rivers--or ten? Did it extend from north to south or east to west? Where did it end and where did it begin? No one ever had answered these

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-71329719446700109012009-03-08T17:21:00.003+08:002009-03-08T18:01:01.044+08:00

When I talk of naked truth, you start imagining its luscious breasts--now that is why I need a story--to save truth from lechers like you.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-54636166302612488972009-03-08T17:13:00.008+08:002009-03-08T17:36:26.762+08:00

When the pages came out of the reviewer's desk, its passages seemed like dense, nutritious bricks of crushed oatmeal--worthy of being eaten only by the strong-teethed and the long-intestined. She remembered how the words tasted different the first time over: more air-filled and joyous and light, and most of all, honest.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-60783585239067378412009-03-08T14:51:00.002+08:002009-03-08T16:57:17.552+08:00

Inside, in the corridor, a few unfamiliar tongues tried to make meanings out of sounds. Malayalam, Portuguese and Arabic wandered listlessly from mouths to ears. Everything was heard. Little was understood. From behind the green satin curtains, two nieces of the king eyed the visitors with excited glances. Still pubescent, breasts budding over glistening, dark chests, thin waists holding the only

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-80398248519236333282009-03-05T16:31:00.003+08:002009-03-06T10:34:33.567+08:00

It will take another life to meet you. Even if you said you could meet me in ten minutes, and you come by the stroke of nine, you would still be wrong, because each moment feels like eternity. You are doomed to be late.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-48848347134281500772009-03-05T16:02:00.001+08:002009-03-05T16:02:55.375+08:00

Stories have endings--that is what makes the idea of eternal love bearable.-*-Some days feel like a prolonged waiting for death, despite the knowledge that it will not come soon.-*-The most unwieldy gift handed over by society is shame, wrapped in the blinding shine of a tin-fibrous security blanket.-*-Many lives run dizzy on the fringes of freedom, circling the same circle, both enamoured and

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-52969170195893370192009-03-04T12:12:00.003+08:002009-03-04T12:21:43.572+08:00

"Tamil is Sanskrit's sister, an equal. Both are devabhashas, the language of the Gods in their own right. But Telugu, oh, it's is a mere desabhasha, the language of the land, trying to wrap itself in Sanskrit and hoping to betray the mind's eyes with a beautiful attire. What do your poets do, except take long Sanskrit compounds and add a mere 'u' sound at the end to make it sound like Telugu?

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-71208988883338093462009-03-04T12:11:00.004+08:002009-03-04T14:43:26.992+08:00

There is pleasure in wandering. Wander, if you like whispers of breeze in your hair and rustle of leaves under your feet--faint hints of true beauties of this world. But, if you feel that the most splendid truth is a secret hidden from humans, then also know that it is surely not wafting free in the forests. 

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-13095532642901107912009-03-04T12:11:00.001+08:002009-03-04T12:11:55.876+08:00

"The yogi will say, devo bhutva devam yajet--become a God in order to worship God.  And the Sufi will argue, saying, what nonsense, you can only cease to exist in God. You can never become God. A few days ago, another Sufi traveled from Persia and said, I have discovered that the path they showed me was misleading. If one elevates oneself with attributes that are God-like, one might think of a

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-19800725248014326282009-03-03T15:49:00.004+08:002009-03-04T12:27:44.270+08:00

"But an alert pupil tries to think, meditate, not on words, but on ideas. He is nourished by what he chews not by what he swallows. And the one who swallows," he paused for a smile, "ends up like you, worse than a complete ignorant, all his learning stuck in his throat, croaking like a heron in pain."

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-4032353436281694392009-03-02T15:40:00.005+08:002009-03-04T12:47:47.613+08:00

"You see, a statue is no longer just a polished stone.""Yes, that is what i am saying. I feel sad for the stone. And I feel sad for us. Don't you see how much we lose in trying to become more civilized?""Oh! You are a primitivist. Aren't you?""I don't know. But I never could put my faith in polished surfaces. I'd rather bow down to a tree trunk than a tortured rock.""Then, we would still be

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-38538297894604051562009-03-02T14:15:00.003+08:002009-03-02T14:26:57.207+08:00

Unforgiving nailsdig into unforgettablematters.Finally, a glimpse ofblood lying sourand cold.How naive to thinkthe sun had curednights too.Crisp morning vaporshaze over some achesbut vanishsoon.Leftovers still insiston a dance,tragic in theirpersistence.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-72017142812297507822009-03-01T11:36:00.007+08:002009-03-01T20:59:02.928+08:00

His intense feelings gushed out through his trembling, disfigured fingers. He tried to wipe the sweat off his forehead but his hand shook so violently with the passion in his thought that it looked as if he were drumming his head to the beat of chaos inside his mind. Ahmed's eyes remained locked to the intense pain on the visitor's face.He continued speaking, lisping more with each word: "I could

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-81152872077762265762009-02-26T15:43:00.003+08:002009-02-26T15:55:21.294+08:00

At Fort Canning (a bleaching sun but still pleasant)

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-3292703171516662372009-02-25T20:36:00.006+08:002009-02-26T09:12:47.910+08:00

"I say, accompany me to the debate of scriptures, for it is not for us to judge which belief is superior, but it is for us to see which philosopher is better at making fools out of us," the prince laughed."I have immense respect for these learned men," he continued more gravely, arranging his silk sash, "but I do not go to hear them talk. I go to see the spectators. You should enjoy the sight of

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-33735565563495889072009-02-24T08:25:00.010+08:002009-02-25T12:26:51.040+08:00

After everyone left for their evening prayers, he finally got to read her message in the privacy of his tent:"It has rained. Flaming yellow leaves lie soaked and quenched on puddled walkways. Even the heart asks for some respite. Why couldn't the rains bring some news from you? As your thoughts sear my mind, I realise I am only a temple-dancer, a slave to your desires, a woman caged in fantasies,

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-31850023795915027562009-02-21T22:28:00.004+08:002009-02-21T22:55:42.027+08:00

ખંખેરી દીધી બધી રેતી મોહ માયા નીતો પણ ક્યાંક કોઈ કણ અટકી બૈઠો છે,દરેક શ્વાસ ને કરડે છે, કહે છેહું તો જીવન છૂં.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-29971638732732592452009-02-21T15:09:00.004+08:002009-02-21T16:01:03.339+08:00

Strictly speaking, a Truth spoken by someone is not yours until you discover it yourself. A truest Truth is a discovery, not spiritual entertainment. And that is why a wakeful person is not the one who takes pleasure in hearing truths; a wakeful person is the one who steps out into the chaos of contradictions, wanders through the many roads,  and bears the pain of discovery on his own. Vicarious

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-50313492908335616742009-02-20T14:23:00.004+08:002009-02-20T16:53:28.806+08:00

To say: I am the best of all people I know, is to give a positive spin to: I do not know anybody better than me.-*-Let the young do, and let the old listen, and the world shall be fine.-*-There was never a smile that did not go stale, except in fairy tales. 

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-45878513090472839922009-02-20T10:09:00.006+08:002009-02-20T20:31:04.689+08:00

"You seem to say discomfort is a good thing. You do not realise that I am a common man, not a yogi..." he said, using that word for the first time.  "You are unable to hear what I say. You hear the sound but you do not hear the meaning. See. That is what is common between you and the fools. That is why you are here, begging for truth, because you do not have the capacity to understand it yourself

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-51899566261525271822009-02-19T13:45:00.005+08:002009-02-19T15:19:54.379+08:00

Rasika, knowledgeable connoisseur versus samajika, lay audience: "who do you want to be judged by" is a question preceded by "who do you play for".

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-7718885587183581372009-02-17T02:20:00.012+08:002009-02-17T20:27:38.927+08:00

"They lust at you when you dance. There is lechery in their eyes, not appreciation for your art," he said with cruel confidence.She thought for a few moments and replied: "From all those who see me perform, even if a single spectator is able to hold one end of the thread that is knotted at the other end to my devotion to this art, to the purest part of me, to the divine in my performance, I

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-84697110205578032822009-02-15T12:18:00.000+08:002009-02-15T12:38:43.427+08:00

"I want to see if you have enough courage to deserve me," she said, plainly, without any play."That is a good point to start. What do you want?" he asked."I want the truth. They say you killed a child. They say you..." she began, but faltered, held back by his stern glare."You seem to be a woman of many questions. Perhaps you already know, but still I must tell you. It requires more courage to

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-14676479052467341362009-02-14T14:59:00.000+08:002009-02-15T10:41:24.973+08:00

I sang a whole song and all you heard was a sigh. Tell me you heard the music of unsaid words. I am the verse you did not get to write. Or am I simply a splinter in your soul? So much you bleed, the warm red of roses runs down as acid and melts the thorns away. And still I smile. There is no other way to live but to stab the unliveable with laughter.

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-71345943530345905912009-02-13T21:03:00.002+08:002009-02-14T10:48:15.820+08:00

"Freedom is reserved for the strong, and the light-hearted, and the simple-minded. Be humble in your pain for freedom celebrates no victories, raises no toasts. Of what use is it, if you wear it for the world, when only you can hear the laughter of your soul? And even when your pain has subdued, do not mock your freedom. Do not hang it around your neck. Seal it in your heart. And I say again, be

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-28205947242615156482009-02-12T18:32:00.000+08:002009-02-12T18:38:08.846+08:00

"Oh! All great men stand on the shoulders of past giants, you see. Originality is not built. It is built upon.""But what if one wants to stand on the shoulders of giants and piss on them from there?""By all means. But for that, you will first have to be stark, raving mad.""Fuck! How will I explain that to my dad?""Do you get along well with him?""Hell, yes.""Then, simple. Take him along. The view

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-31237667900763136362009-02-11T23:18:00.000+08:002009-02-11T23:22:04.215+08:00

It was with deceiving simplicity that a meagre-worded address was scribbled on this letter, completely belying its long and hazardous journey. Such messages poured into Malabar from as far as Masr, Damascus, Aden, and sometimes even Castile, and not in one, but multiple copies. The original copy of "To Abraham ben Cohen" had travelled from the trading house of David ben Cohen, the intended

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-50980124904759500742009-02-10T08:49:00.000+08:002009-02-10T10:06:03.067+08:00

Truths should have been beautiful and light, like butterflies. How any truth turns into a disease, a deformity, is the most enduring tale of civilization. Sometimes, even wise souls will deny the paradox of undignified truth. "How can there be any truth without dignity?" they will ask, with a proud cough and a patronizing smile. Well, there is. And that is why we have instruments of mass hygiene:

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-60948861938106643592009-02-08T23:19:00.000+08:002009-02-08T23:21:08.395+08:00

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5312984650288414474.post-10009869407605173862009-02-08T00:09:00.000+08:002009-02-08T00:35:14.722+08:00

at a cafe in NUS,derwent inktense with waterbrush on watercolour paper

Rashmihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11479769345799476082noreply@blogger.com0