Write to Love.

Sticky Business.

2011-07-19T05:45:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time
In a land far, far away
There lived a little piece of tape
Who dreamed of going to Bombay.

And he held onto this dream
With all his little heart,
This dream, that had begun
When he was in a shopping cart.

It was in this little shopping cart
That he met
A wonderful packet of curry powder
Who called herself Audette.

In the 10 minutes they had together
They talked about tigers, food and Bollywood
And when they parted ways
Our little piece of tape vowed to become India's Robin Hood.

But then he met Shrek,
And said, "Oh, what the heck!
To hell with robin hood,
I want to work on a pirate's deck!"*

With a new strength in his back
And courage in his heart,
Our little piece of tape
Changed his name to Lancelot.

Seven years he spent at sea,
Ahoy-ing and Aye-aye-captain-ing.
Wishing he could gaze upon the Lady Audette,
Whom he had met one mid-summer evening.

At last our beloved Lancelot had had his fill of the sea,
So he left the ship,
To seek out his one true love,
With the earnestness of a potato chip.

After what seemed like eons,
He finally found his dear Audette,
Romancing with none other than
Monsieur Baguette!

And so our plot thickens
With the arrival of a new character,
Who had a certain charm
That all women prefer.

"Stand back, you cur!" demanded Lancelot,
"For that fair maiden is mine forevermore."
To which M. Baguette responded,
"I challenge thee to a duel that is worthy of folklore!"

Hence, a great duel ensued
Between tape and baguette
And all this was to win over
The fair maiden, Audette.

Twenty-four hours later,
Our little piece of tape
Defeated his rival
By turning him into a grape.

At last he had won the heart
Of his dear Lady Audette.
He presented her with a rose,
And summoned a string quartet.

Thus, our sticky tale comes to an end.
As the love between Lancelot and Audette
Was as pure as unicorn laughter.
And therefore, they lived happily ever after.

The End.

____
(*) This stanza was contributed by Tanvi Karwal.

A Life Worth Living.

2011-01-26T22:26:00.000-08:00

My grandfather doesn't like Fiction. "Figments of some foreigner's fantastic, frenzied imagination," says he.

Incorrigible Twaddlespeak. Why waste your time reading about dungeons and dragons and distressing damsels when you could be reading about the way things used to be? Bapu says:

"At my all boys boarding school, we were all taught to sit straight:
Hands folded, shoes shined, hair oiled, cuff links linked, teeth brushed, jaws clenched..
No one could blink.

The older boys would jump over the monotonous, gray stone-cold wall and watch the 11pm screening of Dharmendra's latest film, while drinking a cup of Ramu the Chaiwala's world-famous elaichi flavored chai and smoking a 1 rupee beedi with the demeanor of a king.
They would spend the rest of the month savoring, recreating the magic of that rebellious night.
_____

I remember when I was very small, about 5 or 6 years old, we were given coupons printed on cheap paper instead of real money and we could buy a loaf of bread for 2/3 of a paisa. This was 1939-1940 after all. We weren't independent yet.
_____

When I got my first government job, we couldn't afford a car, so I used to ride a cycle there and back every day. We lived in a one-bedroom house. I made 250 rupees a month.
_____

From that to this. This is the product of hard work and a quality education, my dearest grandie.

I want you to become a lawyer like me. People treat you differently. They respect you, they revere you. They're scared of you.
You'll belong to a special place on the shelf of humanity."

A lifetime of wisdom. An afternoon of reminiscence. That's all there is to it, isn't there?

The Edge of Seventeen (and eighteen)

2010-09-29T11:06:00.000-07:00

In the next 1 minute, I will turn eighteen.

There is so much I can say about this birthday, but I don't know where to begin.
First and foremost:
I am so very grateful to everyone who has been a part of my life. The whirlwind of friendships, relationships, etc have left a distinct impression on my mind and have shaped me as a person (hopefully for the better).

These last few years have been... complex... on so many different levels. Each experience, whether good or bad, has brought me one step closer to recognizing the main purpose of my life. Don't worry, I'm still not sure what that is :] But I would like to think that I am well on my way.

It goes without saying that I am most thankful for having the best family I could possibly have asked for. One that puts up with my various idiosyncrasies and creates a web of nurture and comfort that I know I can always fall back upon, despite my bad judgments.

Mom, Dad and Anya

I will always remember the Nancy, Nancy and Nancy stories...

TEDxAhmedabad Preparations

2010-09-17T14:04:00.000-07:00

Exactly 2 weeks left. Until TEDxAhmedabad.
I am a bit overstressed, overworked and tired, but it's worth the effort.

I want to change so many, many things in the city, nation, and ultimately the world. Still, I need to take the first step towards this endeavor.
In a way, TEDxAhmedabad serves as an excellent first step. Organizing this conference has given me a truly remarkable and unique chance to peek into the exhilarating future of the city of Ahmedabad, India. Each and every person I have come in contact with over the span of the last three months has transformed the way I view my world and forced me to rethink where I want to invest the bulk of my energy.

I have realized that I want to help. I want to help the people of Ahmedabad live better, cleaner, healthier lives. The list of problems in this city is extensive, but the solutions are infinite. The organizational process for TEDxAhmedabad has required me to meet several inspirational individuals who are tirelessly working to ensure a brighter future for the newer generations.

Sadly, this "newer generation" as a collective whole is hardly lifting its pinky finger to propagate any sort of development. Even initiatives taken by a plethora of persuasive NGOs, which involve members of the youth going to poverty-stricken areas and offering free education, have eventually fizzled out.
Like a brief fire in a violent thunderstorm.
If we are to use this simile, the fire of course would represent these various initiatives. The thunderstorm would, in turn, symbolize the reason why these projects are rendered unsuccessful. Many would expect this reason to be a "confounding variable" of sorts. One that cannot be controlled by these members of the youth, such as governmental involvement or a deathly plague.
The answer is quite simple: LAZYness.

I will not ramble.

My point is this: I want to devote much of my time over the next few years to discovering and fighting for a cause that I am most passionate about with the hope of improving my beloved city of Ahmedabad and inciting a revolution within the youth body of the city/country.

Would anyone care to join?

In Lieu of India's Independence Day

2010-08-14T12:42:00.000-07:00

When I go around looking for speakers for my conference, TEDxAhmedabad, I often encounter people who commend me for my sense of ambition and for taking the initiative to "do something" for the city. I, of course, thank them for the compliment and then continue on my own way. However, between the time I switch off the lights and fall asleep, while listening to my favorite Doors CD, I find myself pondering the big questions in my seemingly uncomplicated life.

One of these questions is: Where is the Indian Youth?

Members of the Indian youth (at least the Ahmedabadi kind) hang around local chai laaris (tea carts), discussing the enthralling relationship statuses of celebrities, or in elephantine malls, commenting on the monstrous price of a skirt that would be available in the street markets for one-tenth the price.
I don't mean to harp on an obvious truth that is apparent in every dusty corner of our nation, but I must address it as it has become near and dear to my heart.

We all know, in theory, that the Indian youth needs to become more involved in the future of its country; this is well exemplified through the oodles of popular Bollywood films like Rang De Basanti.
However, no one has truly examined the current situation and come up with a viable way in which the youth can be motivated to take over the country.

I believe that what the Indian youth lacks is a sense of apna-pan, as my mother puts it; in plain English, this means "ownership."
The Indian youth has a tremendously limited sense of ownership over this nation. It prefers to let corrupt, white-haired oldies bear the burden of steering India into the 21st century and whines about what a poor job they are doing, instead of taking the initiative to fix its country's problems.

So now, the key question becomes: How do we inspire the youth?

Inspiration does not come easily. It can take as little as one person or as much as a million people to spread the "inspiration virus" among the youth.
While we wait for that one person to step forth, the one million of us must take matters into our own hands and inspire the youth to take charge. Break down the barrier between the youth and the rest of the country by showing the youth that nothing is impossible.

In its own way, TEDxAhmedabad has become a symbol of sorts to my family, friends and acquaintances, representing the idea that even a kid has the power to make a difference if he or she works for it.
This is not a matter of immodesty, but rather a fact.

Therefore, in lieu of India's Independence Day, I encourage everyone I know, belonging to each and every demographic, to take ownership of the country and mold it into whatever you want it to be...

As a wise man once said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world."

Five Minutes of a Wednesday Evening

2010-06-30T13:34:00.000-07:00

I wrote the following post during my sophomore year of high school. I would like to think that my writing style has matured since then, but this is one of my favorite high school pieces because this is when I fell in love with writing.

...FIVE MINUTES OF A WEDNESDAY EVENING...

5:12 p.m. May 21st 2008.

A constant flurry of activity surrounds me.

Amongst the low rumble of cars during peak, rush-hour traffic, citizens of Palo Alto continue on with their fast-paced lives.

I am sitting outside Kan Zeman Restaurant with two pieces of paper and a pen before me. Anxiously tapping my foot, I wait for my mother to finish her haircut and blow-dry appointment at JUUT salon.

I glance at my white and blue Swatch every minute or so, wondering when she will finish this ritual of hers.

For lack of a better way to prolifically use my time, I click the pen, which, incidentally, was conveniently swiped from the Singapore Airlines Check-In counter by my grandfather when we went to India for the Winter Holidays.

Bored senseless, I write down my perception of the world:

A lady idly whispers “mhmm” into a standard pink Razor cell-phone, while clutching a redish-purple plastic bag that displays the words “Peninsula Beauty” in a large, block print.

A middle-aged man in a brown and mustard-yellow plaid sweater briskly walks along the sidewalk, with his eyes glued on the ground and his forehead plastered with a nervous sweat. He makes eye contact with me for about 1 ¼ second and adjusts the small white parcel cradled in his right arm, with about as much affection as a father who caresses his newborn infant for the first time.

Another girl, about nineteen years of age, glides along, sporting a scruffy magenta dress and accompanied by hair and lips that are the same shade of jet black. Her eyes are dazed, as if she were transfixed by some miniscule point in the distance.

A man of Asian descent exits the Starbucks and places his medium-sized, hot beverage on the arm rest of the wooden bench in front of the popular venue. He searches his coat pocket vigorously for something: a packet of Camel Lights and an antique cigarette holder. He carefully extracts a single, delicate cigarette from the packet and places it in the holder, which he brings to his lips.

He then reaches into the pocket of his blue jeans, and, after a quick glance around him, takes out a titanium, Zippo lighter and strikes it, in order to light his tobacco product.
The thin, white paper exterior and the brown, flaky interior briefly glow a bright orange.

1 second… 2 seconds… 3 seconds…

Our protagonist releases a dense cloud of gray smoke that was captured in his blackened lungs.

Three puffs and half a cigarette later, the man recollects that he had purchased a drink, which was becoming increasingly lukewarm with the sporadic wind pattern. He rescues it from the arm rest and takes a satisfying swig of the concoction.

Not a sip; a swig.

A sip usually reminds me of fifty year old British women in the mid-nineteenth century, decked in their gaudy and ostentatious Victorian attire and their equally garish parliament wigs.

Or it transports me to the damp February afternoon earlier this year, when I met my old romantic interest, [Sam], for a cup of coffee in Café Berronne. I shall digress…
I anxiously left for a bicycle excursion around 1:30 p.m. in order to have a humble break from my regular homework routine and of course, to rendezvous with an old friend.

As luck would have it, however, there was a light drizzle outside by the time I began preparing myself for this meeting. I had not seen [Sam] for ten arduous months, even though I had conversed with him on several occasions.
Therefore, I spent about an hour combing through my disheveled excuse of a closet, finally finding the perfect combination of clothes.

By the time I was ready to leave, it was 1:38 p.m.
Overcome with the fear that I would not reach the designated location on time, I pedaled quickly through the thundering rain that was pitter-pattering around me.
I arrived at the Café at 2:02 p.m. completely drenched, but unconditionally pleased with myself.

[Sam] had already ordered his usual drink: a cup of pure black coffee.
Needless to say, my attempts at beautifying myself for this particular member of the male species had been rendered a bit more than unsuccessful. The hair that I had spent twenty minutes straightening, hung around me in wavy wisps.

[Sam] laughed.
His smile lit his face up, all the way to his eyes. Those eyes.
A hazlenut green with flecks of yellowish gold.
Impossible to forget.

He brought his visage to the green mug of coffee and took a sip of the steaming drink.

A sip; not a swig.

A swig brings me back to the Asian man before me.
He raises his beverage to his lips and lifts the end of the Starbucks cup above his face in order to drain the last few drops of the delectable refreshment, giving off the impression that he was a destitute dipsomaniac.
He abruptly turns around, as though he was hit with some crucial realization.

Balancing the cigarette receptacle between the front and middle fingers of his right hand, he hurries around the corner…

5:17 p.m. May 21st 2008.

Re-Vamp

2010-06-28T04:51:00.000-07:00

Books: Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, Breaking Dawn, Midnight Sun. Vampyre Kisses.
Movies: Underworld, Underworld: Evolution, Underworld: Rise of the Lycans.
Television: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, True Blood, The Vampire Diaries, The Gates.
Facebook Applications: Vampires vs Werewolves.

If youth of the 60s and 70s was obsessed with rock n' roll, the youth of the 80s and 90s with discos and raves, then what is the historical marker of the current youth population? That's right.. vampires. But not the cool, original crowd of vamps and monsters. None of the Count Dracula and Frankenstein types.
My generation seems to harbor a strange fetish for sissy vampires. Characters like Bella Swan and Edward Cullen from the 'beloved' Twilight saga. If vampires really are freakishly strong and immortal, then why would they need to conceal themselves from humans? Somehow, I find this whole ordeal analogous to a mouse hiding from the proverbial cheese. The point of this post is to encourage readers to re-examine their obsession with vampires. Do we really want to be remembered as the generation infatuated with mythological creatures?
So let's start thinking logically and separating fact from fiction.

Post Summer Blues

2010-06-12T23:35:00.000-07:00

There be no blues
Not in the summer anyhow.
Howzabout some cool blue slushie instead?
One that you can feel as it oozes down your throat,
drop by drop by drop by drop.
Not like a drip, more like a loose faucet.

There be no blues
Not in the summer anyhow.
We be going on vacation!
Paris, Milan, the Maldives...
The sky's the limit until your bank balance calls up
Oh wait.. that's later though.

There be no blues
Not in the summer anyhow.
Everythingza growing.
Seeds sprouting, Trees thriving,
Aahhh the smell of intoxicating life.
Consume it. Enjoy it. Worship it.

There be no blues
Not in the summer anyhow.
We be happy. We be loved.
So what's there to be blue about?
The thrill ain't gone.
It's revived, fool.
Think thin and do fast.

Light is a Distortion.

2010-03-30T04:07:00.000-07:00

In this post, I shall share with you a piece I wrote during my english class.

My english teacher conducted a really interesting activity where she first showed us a picture of Salvador Dali's painting "Geopoliticus Child Watching the Birth of the New Man," which is included above. She then gave us a bunch of words and phrases that appeared to be random and then asked us to compose a poem that was related to the painting in some way. After we finished our poems, she told us that the phrases she provided us with were not random, but were from the poem "This is a Photograph of Me" by Margaret Atwood. The following is my composition:

Light is a Distortion

You see something under the surface.
It was taken some time ago.
You will see a thing that is like some low hills, in the background.
It seems to be beyond that emerging effect of water.
Blended, Blurred, Smeared, Halfway Up.

Look long enough in the center.
How small I am!
I am just under a small frame of the picture.
Under the surface.
Emerging after I drown.

I am beyond that effect of water.

Be The Change You Wish To See In The World.

2010-02-12T09:34:00.000-08:00

Martin Luther King once said, "Judge me not by the color of my skin, but by the content of my character."
While the monstrosity of racial bias has mitigated since Dr. King's time, we now face a new discrimination: sexual orientation bias. It seems that as one era ends, the ante ceding one changes its mask so that it may be misconstrued as a whole different dilemma when it is actually merely a continuation of the first one.
Let's take the example of the 1960s Hippie + Anti-Vietnam War Movement. Back in the swinging sixties, Hippies/Flower-children were seen as oddities by the elite part of society because of their beliefs about "free love" and their anti-war sentiments. My own Grandfather, who was studying in New Delhi during the height of the Hippie era, told me about those who traveled to India seeking enlightenment and nirvana. "They were so unhygienic and filthy," he said. "They used to just roll out their sleeping bags and sleep on the streets. They had no sense of proper conduct."
What is proper conduct? Who defines proper conduct? I don't know the official definition, but I do know that the guidelines of "proper conduct" have been unquestioningly followed for centuries. Unfortunately, people who want to change it are too frightened by the notion of having to swim against the billions of those who progress in accordance with the ocean current. But now I'm digressing.
What I originally wanted to point out, is that the Hippie culture affected and shaped the 1960s in the same way Homosexual rights are affecting and shaping this decade. For example, Hippies had Haight-Ashbury to advocate their beliefs, Homosexuality Activists have Castro... They both faced/face great opposition from the main society... the list goes on. The only true difference is the cause each group addressed/is addressing.
Finally, I feel that my point is made: soceity, whether conciously or subconciously, tends to progress in the same way, following the beaten track. The difference between the past and the present is only marginal. Yet it is enough to fool people into thinking that it is massive.
Still, let's not get bogged down by the past or the present. Let's make the future one where we travel into the realm of the unknown. Maybe then we can find the solution to the impossible.

Aristotle vs. Sartre = Typewriter

2010-01-20T10:03:00.001-08:00

Aristotle once said, "Essence comes before Existence."
Many, many years later, Sartre countered with the statement, "Existence comes before Essence."
What is the difference between Essence and Existence?

When I was enrolled in an intense debate camp two years ago, my fellow debaters and I were required to take some philosophy classes to better affiliate ourselves with certain opinions on morality. I remember one of my teachers giving me the distinct example of a typewriter to describe the two concepts mentioned above.

He told me that Aristotle would have said that one needs to be able to know how to make a typewriter before being able to create it. Sartre, on the other hand, may have claimed that one must first find a typewriter and then dissect it in order to understand how it was manufactured.

At the time, I thought that Sartre's idea was ludicrous. My narrow-minded and inexperienced self thought, typewriters can't drop down ready-made from the sky! Of course humans had to first decide on the process involved in manufacturing a typewriter before actually doing so.

Two and some years later, I find myself in a place where I realize that neither Essence nor Existence truly matters.

What truly matters is the here and now. The value of the present is something that few people, myself excluded, can comprehend.

Most people realize at some point in their lives that they ought to cease from fretting about the past, the future and the acquisition of material possessions. Yet they do nothing to save themselves from this urban disease of constant worry. Worse still are those who adhere to societal norms so stiffly, that they deem their individuality worthless.

It seems that I am beginning to digress. I will come to the point.

Essentially, to put my idea in the words of a Pink Floyd song, even though everything under the sun is in tune, we must remember that the sun is always eclipsed by the moon.

Today's Politician

2010-01-20T09:58:00.000-08:00

My, it's been quite a while since I last posted something on here. Anyways, here is a poem I wrote for a school project called "Today's Politician." Bear in mind that I wrote this in a grand total of 20 mins. I am not very happy with this and I'm quite sure that I can do a better job with this same topic, so I will try to improve on my own time. For now, here's the piece:

The world looks on as justice is conformed
From an idealistic state
So that it varies from place to place

Today’s leaders work to divide
The same people who provided
The votes that put them there in the first place.

The general mass called the public
Doesn’t see the corruption that goes on against it
The money that is traded for a woman’s pride
Or the democracy that has been thrown aside.

Our politicians
Propagate the demolition of free will.
They reap the benefits of the post
While the poor sit still.

The voices of those who choose to defy
Get stifled by the roar of those who glorify
Their unjust thoughts and actions
And total disregard for peoples’ prayers and petitions.

So now it is up to us, the people
To clean up our country and stop being feeble
Lets rectify the manifestation of greed
And set the future generations free.

A Casual Flight

2009-07-07T04:40:00.000-07:00

A dark bird flies
Over rooftops and hills
Looking for a prey
Looking for a kill

Looking for the innocent
Sitting quiet and still
Looking for the one
With a broken will

Looking for the man
Creeping out from the windowsill
Looking for the child
Singing Jack and Jill

Looking for the old
Swallowing prescribed pills
Looking for the labourer
Working in the windmill

Looking for the woman
With the blood-curling shrill
Looking for a God
That gives me a chill

A dark bird flies
Over rooftops and hills
Looking for a prey
Looking for a kill

Life as we know It

2009-07-07T04:38:00.000-07:00

The dreamer sees not the virtual realm in which his imagination lies, but the shred of reality in each dream.
The liar sees not his error, but only the fear resulting from ignorance towards the power of veracity.
The warrior sees not his moral wrongdoing, but only senses the blood of the opposition sliding down his fingers, powering his veins and restoring breath in his lungs.
The musician sees not the black bars on a music sheet, but the harmonious sound of life erupting around him.
The politician sees not the dilemmas of the public, but convolutes his admirers' opinions with lucid words that creep up like deceptive vines.
The pyromaniac sees not the fire of the matchstick, but the potential.
The shoemaker sees not the gaping hole on the side of the boot, but fondles the remainder of his creation with care.
The world sees not the droplets of optimism slowly eroding the canyon of pessimism, but rather prefers to wallow in baseless self-pity.
And so, life mozies along until the end of time.

Stop.

2009-07-07T04:36:00.000-07:00

deadly plague seizes nation. stop.
creeps into heart of existence. stop.
kills us quietly. stop.
called institution. stop.

wipes out ambition. stop.
dulls minds. stop.
destroys originality. stop.
called institution. stop.

people awake! stop.
reclaim freedom. stop.
smash stone laws on government sidewalk. stop.
stop institution. stop.

Madman's Fortune

2009-06-20T20:59:00.000-07:00

The Ordinaire brisk walks down the road on his way home from work, not pausing to look at the world around him.
But the Madman weaves through the maple trees, his face glistening with joy as he whistles a tune.

The Ordinaire goes about his monotonous daily routine, complaining about his petty problems, making mountains out of grains of sand.
But the Madman views each day as an empty canvas, where he may stretch his mind beyond the horizon of imagination.

The Ordinaire attends a carnival with his daughter, all the while interpreting others' reaction towards his presence.
But the Madman dances ecstatically in his favorite purple jumpsuit, free from any fear of judgment.

The Ordinaire think of his house as a prison from where he will never escape.
But the Madman cherishes the intricacies of his cell in the madhouse, thanking his God every night for making him a free man.

To Tillah.

2009-06-15T19:44:00.000-07:00

Hey, little bird
I'll open your cage
If you promise to fly away.

There isn't anything left
For you or me.
No houses on the streets,
No nests in the trees.

Hey, little bird
Don't cry with sorrow.
Hope is never lost.

You get on out of here
Beyond those mango bushes
Until you can see a clear
Path ahead.

I know the tips of your wings are frayed.
I know that when you close your eyes,
You see flases of red.

But keep fighting, flying forever
Because there is life and light ahead.
Beyond those mango bushes, little bird,
Lies your Freedom.
Soaring weightlessly like the clouds.
Beyond those mango bushes, little bird,
Lives Love.

I come in Peace

2009-05-27T08:41:00.000-07:00

Hello to the reader. This is my first post for my blog Write to Love. I will generally be using this blog to comment on current events and may occaisionally throw in my poetry and philosophies. I am currently (as of today) a junior in high school, which will change in a span of about 6 days, when I will officially become a senior. I think that people in our society take life too seriously. We tend to stiffly adhere to societal norms shaped by the media, the govt, the rental units, etc. So we really need to understand that life is totally ephemeral, fleeting! If we get this into our prefrontal cortex, we would do what we wanna do and not what others want us to do. So bear with me as I try to make sense of the world around me because this world is a complex puzzle whose pieces seem to fit from afar, but do not perfectly go together when looked at closely. Anyways, my main point is:
Get Ready To RUMBLEEEEEEEEEEEE!