Dealing in the 3's.....

The order of the Supreme is here to stay…..Making many moan…and the others GAY!!!!

Whenever I see an XY hanging out SUSPICIOUSLY with a somewhat genetically similar sapien, I just close my eyes only to recall a simple, yet shocking mathematical calculation, and get an even result at the end. The algorithm goes as:    (3x7)+7=28 (EVEN)! Actually I’ve been forced to think that way!:p

Putting it the other way round, the number 377 is no longer ODD in ALL ITS FORMS! Seems to be a frustrating fact to digest but nowadays, it’s just so legal…just so Constitutional! Courtesy, some lunatics, with a seemingly social sense surmounting in them, going to a PETA-like extent to get things done and finally forcing a third window onto the façade of the Indian society. Attention! This third window bears neither a He, nor a She! Fascinating? Freaky? Both?   

Though not sure of its technological follow up, India seems to be religiously aping the West in OTHER things. Aal Izz Well has so monstrously flooded the Indian coastlines that the inhabitants could now patch up anywhere, anyhow and intriguingly, with ANYONE, without giving second thoughts! Going for the third level, eh?

An alarming after-effect of this phenomenon: Spatial considerations have become just so significant. No matter how ready-to-die-for-each-other friends you are, you need to maintain a certain minimum Conversational Gap while having a chat, to escape some unnecessary titillation at the hands of the gossipy masses. Special caution to those with restless and tinkering hands and dancing feet!:p

Holy cow! India seems to be missing the right bus, by entertaining such a bane-new idea. There exists just no sense but a cluster of mentally frail thoughts revolving around. This strange symbiotic existence is no less than a mad- man theory! Maybe a mad- woman theory…or something else.What do I think is that the new concept is close to impossible to click, for the Indians at least. A near-napalm need prevails to resurrect the laws locked by nature, for she’s too furious to be violated!

She's calling....

I was born free,

Shining as a pearl in sun’s glory.

A lush green cover on my breast,

An unending treasure lay in my crest;

Soaked in a nectar deep blue,

Never did an intruder pass through.

I gave birth to a lovely son,

His eyes glowing, face blazing in the sun;

Bestowed him with all I had,

Never gave him a reason to be sad;

Nested him from a chilling cold and a simmering summer,

Cradled the baby with care as to a fragile flower;

Camouflaged him from venomous snakes and the deadly hornet,

In return, he called me The Blue Planet.

Alas! Blooming out, allured into him an ambitious,

His desires grew, his thoughts turned vicious;

Swelled in him, a sense of sore for others,

Envied the ones he had once called his brothers;

Divided me into fragments very smartly,

Exploited my assets whole heartedly;

I was deafened by my sons’ cries,

Hordes of whom everyday used to die;

Drowning in my own blood,

My golden graffiti turned into mud;

Never did my voice in his mind ring,

Besieged by the success song he used to sing.

For his pleasures, I had to be chained,

All my power, my energy was drained;

Still not content with what he had amassed,

Looted my wealth, he could’ve otherwise asked;

Oblivious of the warnings I gave to him,

He lay lull under the shade of deadly toys he had made for him.

Visualizing his future, I shriek,

Thoughts of his end make me freak;

Giving an air to his burning crave,

He’s burying himself deep in his grave.

I feel like closing my eyes,

Condoning those dark skies.

Helpless I bear his unjust hate,

Looking at his unlucky fate. 

Holified!

The scene begins with the tramps of about a dozen pairs of feet disturbing the silence of the surroundings. The noisy crescendo becoming louder and audible every next second. The haste of these legs lies in getting hold of a lone runner, who prevails at a distance of a few yards and is vying venomously to somehow conquer back his speed demon, commonly called a bike; parked a few more yards away.

Phew! I hope that you are not mistaken into taking this situation as a shot for an upcoming action flick or merely an advertisement, broadcasting the launch of a new range of footwear, for this is a tale….truly un-commercial, truly humane!

The above mentioned scenario has evolved over the past years of my life, with me going great guns for the fugitive flight every time on being chased by the mob of my mates, to escape a colorful splash. A boyous-bicycle having supports on either side being replaced by a better and a blazing bike; the cargo half-pants giving way to long, lanky denims; the small and slow steps turning into bigger and faster strides and my once meager momentum attaining a massive might- things, events and incidents seem to have changed, except my fear of being painted red and blue, for every year, I re-do the running rampage in one form or the other!

Though I love adorning my canvas with (mostly my course notebooks) with colors and caricatures, but I generally don’t prefer them to be smeared all over me. The mystery behind this behavior, alien to most of the masses, including me, still stands unfolded.

To thousands, the Gulaal may enthrall, but it’s really not my size of ball! The fear of being rendered colorful grips me and scares me to death. Comes the day of demise and my room is re-born as a military base, with latches, locks and keys serving as the barricades. I dare not to step out of the talismanic boundary, no matter who’s who is banging from the other side of the Line Of Control.

The mere sight of the people, garnished with somewhat Rainbow colors (which could easily beat the loudest of the make-ups of a winner of a beauty pageant),honking out loud on their gas-guzzlers, sends a shriek up my sleeves. The survival on such a day seems so scarce. And if you have a pack of rowdy friends at your disposal, then finding a silver lining among the colored clouds is as possible as Newton’s laws of motion going wrong, and that too in an inertial frame! Moreover, I’ve been a witness to many victims falling a prey to conflagring yellows, raging reds, solitary whites, oceanic blues and haunting blacks, and mind you, these are the memories which I won’t like to remember for long.

Nonetheless, the reasons for this allergy could be dated out to my inherent instincts of losing the fairness and pureness of the skin or to me being an introvert (one of the rare and precious benefits of being one). Going organic all the way may be sufficient for the former, but my success rate against the latter seems to be bleak and barred. This might eat up a bunch of years of my life, or even more. I may have to be on the less populated side of the bifurcation for some more time.

Till then, my fear, frivolous to many continues….         

X-ed!

The evil of every equation, the genesis of utter confusion…. Numerous neurons of mine collapse, the moment I encounter Mr. X!

A myth, a miracle, an oracle or someone cynical! No, no! He’s just Mr. X- the one who rules both the worlds, be it a real or a complex and the one who binds together the whole lot of insane integers, furious fractions, raucous rationals, irritating irrationals and slumberly surds! Surviving many a operations under the dreaded differentiators and intense integrators, Mr. X has emerged unharmed and unfazed over the decades, in fact over the centuries!

Not an alien to the students of this era of mind, misery and mathematics, the so called variable X, after engulfing the entire algebraic arena, before extending its devouring kills to the physical, chemical and biological realms up to an astonishing stature, has left the Earth guessing. What could be the next prey of this predator, signifying death to an intellectual and deletion to a geek? Not the literature please!

Grammatically speaking, I fail to understand, if this mathematical wonder falls into the category of a noun, a pronoun, a verb or an adjective, for starting from the age of Suresh, going through the profits and deficits of a company and ending at the grand totals and percentages of the students of a hypothetical institute; every think-able thing, feel-able feeling and ponder-able prose could be tagged with this single alphabet! It’s a one-man army in itself.

Moreover, it looks so weird to call X, a dependant, even though the equation solely depends on it. And if you’re not down with that, meet the proud progeny of Mr. X, the coveted X_i’s  (i=1,2,3,….,n :p), amplifying the already endless empire of their progenitor.

An interesting incident often encountered is the effervescence of a different Mr. X each time, the case of getting entirely different solutions, while solving the same problem again or a mismatch in the results of two students tackling the same problem. Certainly, Mr. X changes his skins just too fast as a fiddle!

With my malicious memories of unwanted and unconscious errors I committed while analyzing Mr. X notwithstanding, I could no longer epitomize this baffling battalion. But, I am sure that you could now at least get a glimpse of this creature causing carnage!

A V-Day special!

True Love in a Nutshell

Finding happiness in each other's joy,
Never letting petty things make you annoy;
Listening to the heart before one utters a word,
Spending time together, far from a noisy world;
Offering a help without being asked,
Speaking out yourself without being masked;
Ready to bear for your loved one, any loss,
And being always there to embrace the cross;
Living a life,belonging to your loved one, more than you;
This is true love for you!

Singles, need not worry!

Looking at the graceful couples,
Sitting under the shady maples;
He misses someone dear,
Then screams out loud and clear:
When do I get my part!
When do I find a way into someone's heart!
Engulfed by the killing solidarity,
Finds himself deep in a scary cavity!
Loses the love for life,
Puts his golden days under the knife!

But wait, O my brother!
Don't let the dust of gloom on you smother!
Someday, you'll find your match,
Someday, you'll make the big scratch!
Any moment, the dark clouds may make way,
Lobbying out for a bright day;
The winds of change will blow,
Ecstasy in your life will soon flow.
Having patience is the key,
You'll find the treasure buried in the sea;
God must have chosen for you the one,
Whom you could truly call your loved one!

A Secret Admirer!

Every step I take, she's on my mind,
More than love, I respect her for her acts so kind.
Re-kindles the flame in me, when it's about to die,
She's always there when I am about to cry;
In spending time with her, I feel pleasure,
Unfailed,she's in my pain,but never in my leisure;
I forget my worries when she's around,
Skim over the clouds, not just walk on the ground;
A feeling so divine,so Godly creeps in me,
Get a purpose, find my life serious to be;
Never expressed, how my heart feels for her,
How it beats for her!
Maybe, I am happy being her secret admirer!

A New Look!

Well,do you like the new face of my blog, in fact, of my heart? I really toiled hard to find this beautiful template, named Rainbow Garden, failing a number of times, trying again, and finally succeeding!Finding the template was not as difficult as applying it through the Settings on the Dashboard, for I am not really a computer geek(but I tend to be becoming one)! 

You might be wondering what could be the reason behind this 'early change', for 'Speaking Your Heart Out', is still very young on Blogspot!Actually this was the kind of format I was looking for in the beginning, but didn't let the 'technology search', hinder my writing. As now, I am getting somewhat experienced at managing the blog, so I would be taking care of its 'looks' simultaneously with the writings. But mind you, the writing part won't suffer, since writing is what my heart is all about!:)

Ode To The Old

Getting up at 6 in the morning after snoozing the 5:30 alarm several times, finally entertaining the doodhwaala, who would be banging at the door since ages, standing by the chunks of Verka milk bottles in his wagon, going out in the Nehru Memorial Park for a brisk half-an hour walk, rushing back home, and into the kitchen to prepare for himself a one-egg omelette with a half burnt toast and a strong tea and relishing the meal hurriedly before catching the last local from Bandra to Boriwilli; constituted the mornings of Mr. Goswami, a senior clerk in the Taxation Department of West Mumbai. A clean-shaven man with a supple and wrinkled leather, indicating that he was in his late 40’s, Mr. Goswami was a multi-faceted personality; an efficient bade-babu in office, a bal-brahamchari at home and more significantly, a prolific writer at heart. His study for which he had chosen Sadhna as the sobriquet, was a masterpiece, adorned with works as old as the Shakespeare and also providing an insight into the modern world of Robin Sharma and Chetan Bhagat. But the ‘commodity’ of Sadhna which seemed to be priceless for Mr. Goswami was the coveted wooden desk, lying in a corner and looking a century old, on which he had given birth to so many marvelous creations. While the water almost lobbied for crystallization in the cold winters, Mr. Goswami would sit for long hours in the nights in Sadhna which was warmed up, thanks to what seemed to be an ancient heat exchanger, sipping the sweet-corn soup to pump himself up, while capturing the magnificence of towering mountains and beautiful beaches in his lively poems and praising the Grand Hyatt delicacies in his ‘rude food’ articles. He was as sincere and witty as Karan Thapar and a visionary as Obama in his thinking chair.

As years rolled on , the Taxation Department employees were introduced to a new technology called the ‘computers’ and Mr. Goswami was not an exception. Apart from the clerical stuff, this ‘technology’ unleashed the treasure of writing tools like the Microsoft Office which engulfed Mr. Goswami, thus disturbing the ‘thermodynamics cycle’ of the ‘writer’. He would now no longer ‘waste’ his ink scribbling his heart out on the A4 sized sheets, rather he took to blogging, parting with his companion, the wooden desk, which had always stood by him in times, sweet and sour. Mr. Goswami indeed did a ‘Tiger Woods’ act! The ’thinking chair’ too was replaced by a strange- looking rocking chair.

One night, Mr. Goswami’s sound sleep was disturbed by an unexpected power blow-off. He got up, looked for his spectacles, but being unable to locate them, walked into the dark aimlessly. Soon, his path was obstructed by a ‘solid thing’. Hovering his hand over the ‘obstacle’, Mr. Goswami was unable to identify it. That very moment, the lights turned on and he found himself standing in the Sadhna with the same old wooden desk blocking his path, as if begging to him to return to his ‘old tradition’!