The LoudSpeaker

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Saturday, June 3, 2017

Shorts 6 / Old Classwork 1

The third cue-word in this post was given by my English teacher in Class 10, as classwork, to practice for the composition portion of our ICSE examinations. Written in limited time by a much younger me, it qualifies both as a short and as the first part of my new series, Old Classwork. Being an assignment, the piece carries a title different from the cue-word itself, as we used to be required to supply. Though it contains certain word choices I would not make today, I have presented it here unchanged.

The second cue-word is mine.

The first cue-word was suggested by:
Ritwik, the all-knowing, all-encompassing, philosophically massive presence that pervaded the atmosphere of the CMI campus for over half a decade. A few of his myriad mysterious strengths lie in coding, gaming and dispersing gyaan. His chief weakness is being an extremely annoying brother. He wears ugly glasses on his ugly head. Disclaimer: this bio totally carries may carry extreme personal bias.



It is a constant battle of tactical revelation. If I tell people too less, I miss out on the understanding that I unavoidably require to survive. If I tell people too much, they tend to guess what is wrong, and when; and then, it is worse then ever, because I've spread my darkness to other souls, and the guilt consumes everything else that I could or could not feel. All my life, too many that should not have been trusted (and, were not -- how strange) have convinced me that I am a source of inconvenience and trouble, a cancerous and depressing burden. Now, when light is offered, I can never tell how much is too much to ask without offering nothing in return.
Nice people. Gratitude. Friendship. Sympathy. Wonderful concepts, these, and also awful sources of torment and confusion. I am convinced that I cannot escape, and burden be I or not, a burden I sure do carry. My greatest fear is that the burden will have its way, and that is, on most days, worse than the idea of making some other lives a bit darker. If I forget all honour, what stops me from crying in front of others? Am I selfish? Am I a thief of happiness? Am I cheating the trade, gaming the system, swindling people out of light that is theirs? I shall never know, because my burden sits on my eyelids and my brain. It's on my throat, my limbs, my tongue, and it hurts. 
I don't tell you, but it hurts.



Right at this moment, all over your face and eyelashes, there are tiny mites living, crawling and having sex. All around you, electromagnetic waves are carrying speech, sound and words -- making memories, breaking hearts, and saving the world. Hence, the small and the seemingly insignificant appear quite important to you, if you think about it.
These days, I feel small and insignificant in the hierarchy of who you consider worthy of your company, love and approval. To you, perhaps, this moment is what decides if you will wish for a time machine, and to have never ever even met me. At the least, when you know, tell me before you go.



Pane of Pain, Pane of Joy

Could you imagine a foreboding castle, in an impenetrable fortress, rising before a stormy skyline with its imposing towers -- but without a single window?
Could you find a happy home, full of love and laughter, lacking only in that quaint little opening in the wall -- decorated with dainty curtains with frills and fringes galore -- could you?
Could you imagine how Rapunzel's story would turn out without a window in her tower, how journeys would have been if trains and cars had no windows, how school would be if the classrooms had no windows?
Sad thoughts, those. Sad, because conversations with the neighbours through the kitchen window keeps the homemaker entertained; because schoolchildren spread their innocent joy and cheer to the world when they yell and wave through the school bus's windows; because bereaved mothers, jilted lovers and betrayed friends weep beside the window, wistfully staring into the middle distance.
The window is a perfect little outlet for that yearning in all of us to be one with the world outside; despite our attachment to the safety of closed doors, we can communicate with the outside world -- feeling its vibrations of feeling and bursts of colour -- when we open a window.
The window is also an opportunity -- an opportunity to feed the birds, smile at strangers, be inspired to write poetry -- and for the neighbourhood's lovable five-year-old Robin Hood, an opportunity to steal a little something for his best friend, the son of his housekeeper.
The quintessential charm of a window increases manifold, and the window metamorphoses into a jolly theatre, when it is no longer stationary. Who can deny the charm of watching cows grazing in the fields, women drawing well-water, and people of all ages working in the farms, in the green little villages flanking the railway tracks?
The everyday person does not have the courage to brave all dangers and live in the open, but people like you and me will always have our windows. Families will always dine on mother's excellent cooking, the old man living alone will always play the piano, the ex-serviceman will always polish his weapon, while the stranger passing through the street looks at them through their windows.
As night falls, the lullabies sung to kids will always involve the bright white lights in the sky, playing hide-and-seek with the child from behind the window drapes.
Miserable is the man who lacks a friendly window.


More cue-words are always welcome.

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

This Could Well Be The Limit


A tiny spirit lurked
Where you used to be
Not entirely you, and yet
Not quite a part of me.

Sometimes, the wispy ghost
Laughed the way you did --
Head thrown back, eyes closed in mirth,
As would a gleeful kid;

Many a starry restful night
A shyly prodding finger
Of a smoky form touched my heart,
Resembling yours, dead ringer.

It whispered in my ears at times
And played your games with me
And with your voice, just like you did,
The ghost begged to be free.

Tonight, the apparition
Decided it was through
And I said I was done pretending
That the wisp was you;

And so into the artist's night
The spirit sang and flew --
I said farewell, and watched my love
Slowly grow untrue.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

When It Clicks

The original plan was to post this poem on the International Day of Music, but then I found this amazing artwork which just goes with the poem, so I'm gonna post it now with full homage to the artist.

Lift Me Up

In correspondence
And in scribbles and scrawls shyly hidden
Lie favourite tunes, tentatively offered
To souls momentarily mistaken
To have bested transience.
Songs, tears, and love are the same
Up to isomorphism.
The same songs play for years
And people listen in different ways
For whatever it means to them.
At times kept secret,
At other times shared inadequately,
Meanings change fast.
Fights unresolved by songs of love
Will end for the love of songs.

I shall be asking permission to feature the artwork within this post itself. Meanwhile, I'm making a playlist of songs about songs, and I invite suggestions.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Can't Be A Series, Maybe


Smelling of sex and sweet sixteen,
My old friend, where have you been?
You had no time to be a child
And too much sense to grow up wild.
The world is fevered and confused.
Softer things are still refused
In your left brain and strong right arm.
Remember, sweet, you do no harm
When you tell the purest truth.
Lies need not burden your youth.
Say sorry for your baddest day --
Twenty-one is far away.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

That's A Wrap :')


I was here all along
You were just behind.
But I kept you in my mind
In laughter and song.

And if words could cry
I'd have to be quiet.
If you were perfectly right
It wouldn't take so long.

Hands up if you'd noticed the game :D

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

It Wouldn't Take So Long


Holding you when the day breaks
Is like hugging a stray
Kicked out of the comfort that is sleep.
Looking into my morning face,
You bury yours into my knee.
Your melted will clings to my arm
For five more minutes;
Risking the fall from conscientious grace
I lean into your shoulder --
Your hair smells like inspiration
For the rest of the day to shine.

Oh sweet CMI, wake me up.

Sunday, February 26, 2017

If You Were Perfectly Right


My friend!
Look at us, asunder;
A river of hate between us,
Fed by affiliations
Assigned arbitrarily at birth;
Millennia of mutual mistrust,
Denial of common ground,
Denial of those who understood
The stories of both sides.
Look, my friend,
As we sit across a metal channel
That, for all it stood for, could be miles wide --
Look at us:
Look at who we are
To each other and the world.
Look and weep,
And wonder how we got here
And why we cannot hold hands
And why my body is the prey and your identity the predator;
Look and think
If it is the warring factions, or the two of us
That are the condemned, the dishonoured, the traitors.

Chennai. Buses, streets. Men?

Thursday, February 23, 2017

I'd Have To Be Quiet


Hello, mister.
Do I make a good jester?
Tell me, do I amuse?
Do my ways
On the worse of your days
Injure, or confuse?

Theatricals don't seem your thing
Unless they're fun and light;
Are simple words also not fun
If not your kind of right?
Take that big red nose off me --
I don't want this role.
The master-race of overthinkers
Don't like to console.

I made a bad pun. I'm not ashamed of the bad pun I made. Here I stand, in the light of day, let the storm rage on, the cold never bothered me anyway.
Also, Jigglypuff.

Friday, February 10, 2017

Not Half Bad

Wallpaper 65, 1920x1080. As per tradition, full-size files and details of the creation process are available on request.

Monday, February 6, 2017

And If Words Could Cry


Average persons like yourself
Can get away with being mean:
You could pretend you weren't there,
And hadn't heard or seen.

In dead of night, I broke in half --
Did you, then, have to ask
If those different from average
Had really left their mark?

The ones you think so special
Are more or less like you;
But, when it comes to niceties,
Less far between and few.

Pardon me for staying away,
But I'm too risk-averse --
You are one of nearly none
Whose asking makes it worse.

Anyone who bothers with the funda behind my poems will have a hard time with this one. Is it serious? Is it allegory? I'm not telling. Haha, I'm evil. Fear me.
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