A Fraction

A random conversation,

"So, you believe in life after a death ? a soul?"

"I like to. It's a possibility, one that I like."

"Heard of evolution? Believe in that?"

"Yes. But, what makes you think that, that is all? What if that is a sub-set?  What of beyond?"

It began. “How?” you ask..

“There must be a cause.”

But, now I ask that

If there was,

What brought that there?

What caused the cause?

The more I think,

The more I blink,

In confusion and in clarity

The more I know,

The more I grow,

The more I learn of my naiveté

 We learnt that one

Was where it begun

The smallest ever count could be

But, part by part

Later we learnt

That one was what

They yearn to be

What we know now

Is Less than one

A fraction of infinity

This poem seems incomplete... befitting I think. 

Why? Because.

Opinions are formed: Neither stolen nor borrowed, both ideally and grammatically.

When we are kids, we are taught things. Out of the inherent curiosity in a human being, we ask why. In an ideal world, that question should be answered. However, mostly it isn't. So we hear children parrot opinions, and proudly assert that they are true because:

• Mommy said it is.
• Daddy told me.  
• Miss told the class.

Cute.When a grown up does the some, not so much. 

Unfortunately, most kids are either told not to ask too many questions or fed the universal, "because that is what it is...because I am telling you..." You can either be curious or believe that, the latter seems the popular choice. Growing up is not limited to age or size. Growing up should ideally entail the ability to hone your judgment and form your opinions. I very specifically say, form. They either form out of your own experiences, or from thought you put into forming them. If it is borne out of a discussion with someone else, it should first be filtered through your intellect and judgment, and eventually, if satisfied, be added to your list of opinions. Without that process, you have just borrowed or stolen someone else’s opinion and repeated it.

I am generally a very opinionated person, and always have a lot to say about them, ref: blog and my incessant talking. Leads to many arguments at times too.. Oh well. Even so, I am very particular about saying; I don’t know when I don’t. Or, I have no clue, when I haven’t. I may sound a fool saying that, but I find it better off than being made a fool by pretending otherwise.

The quality to be able to answer the why following an assertion is rare, and personally very much appreciated. You might choose not to answer, for whatever reasons, but one shouldn't fail to.

Ignorance when admitted is knowledge, when pointed out, stupidity.

This is what it is

It might not be all stars or gazing from the balcony

 It isn’t what I knew or what I thought it ought to be

But now I know, this is what it is

What it feels like, what it should be

It might be a little tough

A little smooth, A little rough

But this is what it is

What is ours, what is meant to be

Marilyn Monroe

Sketchy

I recently rediscovered my love for doodling. Like most of the things I do, I'm not really good at it, but they give me joy, much greater than my talent for them. Figured could put them up here to have them for posterity, I'm not really good with saving hard copies, since I just draw anywhere and everywhere. I also have realised that I need a pencil. One shot attempts in ink do end up in some really scary sketches. Although, a part of me likes the fact that I get just one shot. Anyway, I'm not really much of an artist, so they might just offend aesthetics mostly. Also, hope to hunt for some old drawings when I go home, might find a few.

TerriblyTinyTales #3

What hurt was not the hand that pushed, but the shattered hope that pierced the heart

Took me long enough...

I was probably eleven or twelve when my entire school, both my closest friends included started going on and on about Harry Potter. They talked about muggles and you-know-who… scars and cloaks… about moony and prongs… it made no sense and I felt curious. But more than that I felt this strange detachment, this resolve that I would never read Harry Potter. I would feel left out, yet weirdly self-righteous. That it was somehow an insult to be one of the zillion kids reading Harry Potter.  

I think in the eighth or tenth standard, one of my most dearly loved teachers gave us an English project… we were divided into different groups and had to illustrate our group’s theme somehow.. with charts… skits…the works.  I was in the group of people who had either not read Harry Potter or hated it. It was a tiny group, who were clueless about what to do. We had to talk about the villains; I spoke about you-know-who, Lord Voldemort. Somebody wrote a page, and I read it out. Very consciously trying to just recite the text word by word and not understand a word of it. Some people came up to me and asked whether I had been in some sort of a trance. There was a group of my friends, who had enacted Snape and Lockhart’s duel.. and it had become an instant hit, re-enacted multiple times for different teachers and students. I thought they were hilarious, but most of it made no sense to me and I preferred it that way. I could neither understand my detachment from these books… nor explain it.

Didn’t watch the movies either, was forced to watch one when I was about sixteen… Harry Potter and the Goblet of fire. Again, consciously ignored most of the movie, paid attention only to Cedric Diggory.

Over the years however, I understood my antagonism towards the world… I realise I have this weird thing… some sort of possessiveness or jealousy over the books that I read.. I understand now that I did not want to read those books then because my friends spoke of them with such familiarity that it instantly made me shut them out.

So, last year I decided out of the blue, that I would read Harry Potter. Most of my generation, and the previous and the next had already read them, watched the movies and moved on. Those who didn’t, show a similar detachment as mine. I felt maybe I could now indulge my curiosity.  I just finished the seventh book. Deliberately taking breaks and reading other books, to prolong reading the final book. The journey has been incomparable and inexplicable.

As I devoured the pages I had bits and pieces of my school-life fall into place. Pallavi and Aanchal… Moony, Padfoot, Prongs suddenly made sense. Zoya as Lockhart and Palak as Snape played out that very duel in my mind.

I could not count if I tried to, the number of books I have read; but although quite different, the best of them could not compare to the world that I became a part of.

I cannot help but wonder whether I would have found the world more magical as a twelve-year old, less touched by reality or do I appreciate the magic a little more now… as the world grows more real ?

Although I might be a little late in saying this, Thank You J.K. Rowling