Tagore - Gitanjali

Mind Without Fear

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up
into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason
has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action---
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

The Malayali and the Monsoon

Every malayali worth their weight knows the most elusive signs of the monsoon; it can begin with a tantilizing breeze,a falling leaf ,a dragonfly, an overcast sky and mostly, the fecund aroma arising from earth..its pulses underfoot and engulfs the being ... monsoon is the blood which runs in a malayalis vein!
And before even the first raindrop hits the ground, umbrellas mushroom all around, skirts and mundus are hiked up with amazing alacrity..People step out of shelters and roofs and scores of beautiful black eyes turn skyward, inviting, calling..
Newspapers torn and paperboats made
Hot steaming teas and shiny green leaves
Writers sharpen their senses and pencils
Fertile and seductive the earth beckons to the sky
Its a mating dance of nature and the malayali celebrates.
And every single time, it amazes, inspires and lulls me into a wonderful cocoon of shared belonging. A special kind of bond of the most primodial kind, composed of water,life, pain and joy..Yes, all of us Keralities love our teas, midday naps, repressed yearnings and arguments for the sake of argument all presided over by a passionate shower of wet wet rain.

"Grow strong, my comrade … that you may stand
Unshaken when I fall; that I may know
The shattered fragments of my song will come
At last to finer melody in you;
That I may tell my heart that you begin
Where passing I leave off, and fathom more." — Will Durant (The Story of Philosophy)

for me

Starting now

I will write for myself, ruthlessly and truthfully
I will not pull punches
I will catalog life as I have lived it
I will discipline my imagination
I will not let my emotions get the better of me
I will put down the things as simply as they could be put
I write for my own eyes
I am writing because I have to
I will write because I need to
I am a writer
At least I aspire to be one...for me

The 2011 entry

I am thinking what I should write. Darkness and silence do not offer any motivation, nor does the bright white space in front of me.. still thinking… somewhere deep inside I know, I want, I need to write. But the muse disappears as soon as the screen appears.

Where do people gain inspiration to write from? What makes the letters flow and the thoughts dance? Why is some writing so clear and crisp that you can taste rainwater in them and the saltwater in others? How can reading certain writing make you want to cry and laugh at the same time? How do they(the real writers) make you smell the soil and touch the air?
Hmmm...I wonder
Does the smell of turpentine and shaven wood awake in them a sob that has been smothered deep inside?
Do green wet trees soar ones thoughts?
Not wanting to see the sadness in eyes so young trigger compassion or self-loathing?

Or maybe real writers write for themselves

...there.. I made my new post for 2011