Monday, July 14, 2008


By Ruchika Jajodia
PID 401

Sometimes when I read a poem,

How do I ever write one?

I toil at it,

yet nothing rhymes or flows from within,

Nothing lyrical,

Nothing poetic,

Nothing simple,

Nothing complicated,

Nothing at all.

Just blankness. A space.

A space so empty and white and hollow.

A space so pure.

Yet it beckons confusion, irritation and frustration.

Why can’t I do it? I waste.

Why do I feel like that?

Too much do I expect of myself, maybe?

Too much do I go against the tide?

Pushing extremes,

Managing expectations,

Of me and my neighbor.

I question – Why do I do that?

What am I trying to prove?


Nothing at all…

Or maybe a lot.

I guess at the end, I achieve nothing

but pain and suffering,

is self-inflicted,


More than anything else.

“Life is a suffering” said The Buddha.

So, am I trying to negate it?

Go against it?

What stops me from accepting it?

Why don’t I just accept it?

Acceptance is the key

Something with the ability to sail the destructive storms

to serenity.

If I am peaceful within,

Then I am peaceful without,

And there is nothing to fight about.

Nothing to dwell upon,

Nothing to relive,

Nothing negative.

It destroys and removes the garbage,


Just blankness. A space.

A space so empty and white and hollow.

A space so pure.

I have the choice.

I always had the choice.

Either worry and trouble,

Or happiness and peace.

Being comfortable with my own self.

Accepting myself the way I am.

When I am happy

Good thoughts flow in,

Good things happen,

Expectations are not burdening and over powering.

So maybe,

One day by the grace

Of the power

Much more greater than I,

I’ll be able to

Write a Poem.

Isn’t that what I intended to do in the beginning?

So for now,

I am not going to get perturbed,

I will let my thoughts flow as they want to.

Is there anyone who has been able to stop time

Apart from The Greatest?

Let go and let in the Almighty!


Ruchika Jajodia


Tuesday, July 1, 2008

Shyamli Panda - that delectable mocking tone!

To these honest proceedings.

You stand hollowed,

Hallowed more

by your own misconceptions

and discontentment.

I wish you would see

reality as i do

as real, is never

the same for us two.

I'm preoccupied as ever

with my need to sneer, at

every brainwashed, unfeeling


This mighty parade.

They surround me with

their shuffling narrow gazes.

Their uncaring disregard for

their own path.


They stumble on their own toes...

You stand so well amongst the

Circus bearings,

so loved, adored and adorned

with your false sense of pride.

of self consolation only bring,

More scorn from me and further

Acceptance from them.

You rise so high,

Head filled with the likes

of helium and vacuum.

I meander, distracted as usual.

So you see, you will do good.

"I will only weigh you down."

This blog's on fire and doesn't stop rolling - Krittika Sharma this time around

Skin Leopard Guns Filth

The leopard never understood why guns were harmful. That was probably because he was dead and on someone else’s skin before the sting hit him. I told him it was frightening- the sound, the metal, and the filthy relationships it created between everyone in the world. But the leopard was fascinated by it. Guns are beautiful he said. I would press it to my soul.

I can’t think of a single designer who has not gone through the leopard skin phase. Some replicate it, but some actually buy it from the dirty poachers who carry their guns into quiet forest and kill the poor animals. Like my leopard here, other leopards are curious about the gun- like a diamond to a lady. The spark and the charm lures them, not realizing that their guts mix with the mud and make the earth filthy. The stench of the leopard’s shocked breath, the rotting smell of the last drops of urine and the fresh smell of defeated blood. It's all for the skin, after all.