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ashokbhatia

My dear Blogger,

I think you have a magnificent blog. I just happen to be one of your followers. Allow me to share my plight with you.

De-mystifying my fickleness

To you, I sound fickle-minded. You work hard on creating a marvelous piece that you post. The absence of response 'The Thinker' : Rodinis maddening. You keep twiddling your thumbs, trying to figure out where the denizens of Blogosphere are. It is as if WW-III has broken out and all the followers have gone underground, scurrying for safety. At times, you create something in a jiffy, and lo and behold, you are flooded with likes and comments!

For me, the recipient of all your creative outpourings, yours is just one of the several other blogs I follow. Then there is so much else to be read on the world-wide-web we have spun around ourselves. Please understand that I have the unenviable task…

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ashokbhatia

A place grows on us. It offers a comfort zone which we get used to. We might dislike the place for so many things. But when we are away for some time, the gravitational pull again comes into play. We start missing the place.

Lakshmi Lakshmi

Pondicherry is no exception to this general rule. While here, we might bemoan the lack of civic sense, the streets littered with garbage, the reckless driving on the roads and the absence of adequate parking space in the town area. But take us away for some time, and we start missing it somehow. We yearn to get back to the humidity and the heat of the place.

What is so hot and happening about this quaint little town, perched on the Bay of Bengal, you may well ask.

Consider the following.

A small group of close friends

This is what makes Pondicherry so very special…

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I jumped off a cliff and survived.

I stepped into the fire and came out alive.

 

No matter how hard I tried,

Fate held the strings of my life

Knotted around their needles so tight,

And the bladders of my life’s oxygen didn’t seem to die.

 

It later dawned on me that it’s the

Handwriting on my walls that will decide,

For if it’s not yet time for the ferryman

To row me off from the living world,

Across the rivers Styx and Acheron,

Then I still have a purpose

And I still have shed loads of time

To stay alive and shine

And understand there’s no need for suicide.

Vaishnavi Sathish is yet to finish her schooling but has a flair for literature and fine arts. She lives in Pondicherry, India, and has recently published a maiden collection of 39 of her poems under the title Sunflowers of the Dark.

(Related Posts:

https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2019/12/16/the-live-rag-doll-a-poem-by-vaishnavi-sathish

https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2019/12/12/true-love-lost-a-poem-by-vaishnavi-sathish

https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2019/12/26/paradise-lost-a-poem-by-vaishnavi-sathish)

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The world has eyes of misconception,

The kind of eyes that will perceive

The brightest light, a shadow!

 

The world has a nose clogged with

The filth we dump,

For it is numb enough to be unable

To smell the most fragrant tuberose.

 

It has a mouth that will call

An honest man, a liar,

And hands that will title

The abused, an abuser.

 

A heart that has been frozen

Since the birth of time,

And a mind that will aid

In every single crime.

 

Nothing will ever be fair or just

Because the home we live in

Is cursed.

 

It is the ‘Field of Punishments’,

For the alive and the undead,

making us pay for what

Adam did standing underneath a tree

In the Garden of Eden.

 

 

Vaishnavi Sathish is yet to finish her schooling but has a flair for literature and fine arts. She lives in Pondicherry and has recently published a maiden collection of 39 of her poems under the title Sunflowers of the Dark.

(Related Posts:

https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2019/12/16/the-live-rag-doll-a-poem-by-vaishnavi-sathish

https://ashokbhatia.wordpress.com/2019/12/12/true-love-lost-a-poem-by-vaishnavi-sathish)

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In the night, they didn’t care about

All her dresses they tore.

In the morning, they call her names:

Slut, bitch and whore.

 

She was an object

Of concupiscence and pleasure.

If not for her curves and bust,

Would she be treasured?

She was alive,

Yet dead.

 

Unlike the men in her army

Who as soon as captured

Were beheaded,

She was locked up in a golden cage,

Touched by all,

Wore long gowns of silk

But was a mere rag doll.

 

Vaishnavi Sathish is yet to finish her schooling but has a flair for literature and fine arts. She lives in Pondicherry and has recently published a maiden collection of 39 of her poems under the title Sunflowers of the Dark.

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The wind blew her hair

As she stood still in front of

His tombstone in utter despair,

Letting the rough weather beat her skin hard.

 

She would have walked away

From the harsh winter breath

If it were any other day,

But not today, just not today.

 

His arms tried to comfort her

But they weren’t enough.

Instead, she craved for the ones of the man

Whose remains lay deep under the ground.

 

She recollected the times when

Her tiny self lay in the dim light,

Giggling to the stories he said

At half-past eight every night.

 

She reminisced the stories in which

The men in the village walked upside down

To cross the bridge with the Basilisk

To get to the ogres who planted roses of brown.

 

Her memories wandered to the times

When she didn’t have enough height

To reach the cookie jar kept high above,

The arms of her father would take flight

To scoop her up from down.

 

Finally, there was a time when

The cameras didn’t show her tiny silhouette anymore

Because she was as old as the Belle

From his stories now.

 

As she grew old,

It was not just his stories

She ignored

But also the old man

Of whom she got bored.

 

Now standing in front of his tombstone,

She let every single tear

Seep down the grass and into his bones,

So that she could give him a part of her

That she ought to have given him

During the last of his years.

 

 

Vaishnavi Sathish is yet to finish her schooling but has a flair for literature and fine arts. She lives in Pondicherry and has recently published a maiden collection of 39 of her poems under the title Sunflowers of the Dark.

 

 

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ashokbhatia

In our lives, you played the role of a dynamic and bustling airport,
From which we soared in life´s azure skies, enjoying our flights of high import;
Some took to exploring various corners of our Mother Earth,
Of diplomats, businessmen and bankers amongst us there is no dearth.

May 2014 049

Some flew literally high while others specialized in foretelling weather,
Some rose to positions of eminence in industries as diverse as IT and leather;
The allure of entrepreneurship and private sector careers proved irresistible to some,
Many found academics, social entrepreneurship and public services less worrisome.

May 2014 038

Probability theories taught us to manage uncertainty at life´s myriad stations,
Laws of motion led us to motivate people and have positive interpersonal relations;
Differential calculus taught us to analyze situations without tears,
Integral exhorted us to take an overall strategic view in all spheres.

0002 (86)

Structure of elementary particles made us discover forces of spirituality in…

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