Seven Most Beautiful Skies (that I've Seen)

(And you must know I'm quite the sky observer.)


7) Pitch dark sky + incompetence of mobile camera = THIS.

6) The cloud patterns look complicatedly great.

[ZOOOOM]

5) This was taken in Mahabaleshwar, over the lake. I love it.

4) This was on the way to Bhandardara, a hill station. It had been raining continuously and this is how it looked.

3) The whizzy clouds perched atop a concrete landscape. Ah.

2) Pure. Simple. Unadulterated.

1) This takes the cake. If it weren't for the Diwali lights hanging down (the long rope) it would have been a perfect picture.

Birthday Presents

People have been asking me what I want for my birthday. I've told them I'll think it over and let them know. (Escaped for the time being, whew!) Here's what I really want, which no one would be able to afford (and  no, Facebook, I do not want to make a wish):

• A classy spaceship I can actually use all by myself. One that does not have buttons like 'Salvage Extermination by Exemplifying Rodents and sub-Primal Species', and instead replaces them with smarter and friendlier words like 'Get Back Thrown Stuff'.

• A device that notes down my thoughts as I am dictating to my mind an entire prose crafted by my imagination. (Well, yes.) Seriously, it's high time one of these got made.

• A Liverpool FC Season Ticket with free pre-booked flights to England.

• A ticket to the Formula One race to be held in India soon. (Actually, scratch that. it's much better to watch it on the telly, where you get to see everything, rather than being the live audience that gets to watch only one slice. And who knows, my ticket may be on the uneventful stand where there are no cameras to show me the progress of the race. And that is probably very likely.)

Here are my other wants -- subject to change depending on the need of the hour -- which are more priceless:

• Mubarak commits suicide.
• All other dictators do so too, because of which
• World peace (almost) is attained.

Lastly, I want a Wish Granter, that will help me achieve all this. If only.

Farewell, El Nino.

(NOTE: This may be hard to follow if you don't follow football. However, I guarantee you'll be able to follow the insults.)

So most seemingly loyal people end up being shuffling scamps. Case in point: Fernando Torres, who left Liverpool to join Chelsea. Lick my boots, dear sir.

(off Google)

These ones, to be precise.

After Matt Busby and the more offensive Michael Owen, this is what must be done to these traitors:

1) Subject them to Andy Gray's torturous tripe for five straight hours. No pie breaks.

2) Place a blanket ban on all shopping they (and their wives) must undertake.

3) This is for the players, and not their wives: No appointments to the manicurist, waxer, and hairstylist (this applies specially to Torres).

4) All fan following on blogs, Facebook, Twitter et al et al et al et al et al to be suspended.

5) Clever, insulting songs to be composed and sung by the team's fans at the next FIFTEEN matches after the player leaves. Of course, this is easy only if the team in question is Liverpool.

And to end it with a flourish, here's insult with class...

(stolen verse)

His armband proved he was a red, Suarez Suarez.
You'll never walk alone it said, Suarez Suarez!
He bought the band from a lad in Spain.
Tall and blonde, forgotten the name.
Luis Suarez -- Liverpool's Number 9.

Sacrilege!

So, my computer has been down for FIVE days.

Why?

One of the Windows files got corrupted. Curse you, virus!

Here's what I saw on my screen those horrible five days ago:

 

Well, 1) Why is the font SO very small when you have a full screen to fill? Yes, it makes the problem look tiny and easily repairable, but please, I have a high eye number anyway.

2) What on Earth is 0 x 0000000000000000000000000? If there is ZERO error, start up for me, Gates!

3) For heaven's sake, tone down that glaring blue.

(NOTE: If anyone tries to explain to me the technical bit, I shall rip their head right off, and place said severed head in front of a similar blue screen and watch it suffer spasms.)

Poetry by the Seasoned Writer

An average day of doodling in class provides enough fuel to whip up something insanely spectacular. Here is the perfect example. I had conjured this up in school less than a year ago. And no, it was not the Biology period.

The Amoeba in Your Calf

A cry of pity from Priyanka Mehta, the spokesperson of amoebae

In this realm of steady darkness

Lies an oversized amoeba,

Yelling out in sorry distress

From the bleak walls of your tibia.

'I'm more than turgid, I'll rupture --

Plasma membrane has let me down...

Contractile vacuole -- help here;

I may not be here come sundown.'

The deprived amoeba lies thus

In your poor unassuming calf --

Getting drowned in your blood and pus,

Its thrill of life reduced by half.

This was around the time I was getting conscious of my syllables. I realised then that all my earlier poetry had no rhythm and was useless at best.

After this realisation, of course, I started producing better poems, like The Ballad of Semmerwater: The Parody and The Brief Courtship of Two Islands (titles still subject to change), both much longer and more rhythmic than The Amoeba in Your Calf.

I will post them here, of course, but all in due time...