Sarthak has just learnt to walk.
He wants to explore things now.
He is completely excited and psyched.
He starts taking his first steps, reminding himself of the ditch on the way.
He sees other kids make mistakes and believes he has learnt.
That he won't be THAT foolish.
Nevertheless, finds himself in it after a while.
He struggles, trying to get out.
Takes him a while, but he finally does.
He is scared now. And hurt-- will be more watchful now!
Will not be such a blind fool again.
Before venturing again, tries to keep these precautions in mind.
But somewhere down the line forgets about them.
There! an amazing green patch to play on.
He so wants to get onto it.
But seems too pretty anf nice to belong to the old dried up park.
In doubt, he still carries on.
He has just reached and put a foot on it.
When he notices that its merely a green cover over a ditch similar to one he had fallen into.
But as he realizes he is halfway into it.
How does he get himself out of it before making matters worse than the last time?
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Saturday, November 10, 2007
UK's Silliest Laws
Check these laws out....just read about them. I wonder how many have been prosecuted to date for disobeying them! :D do let me know which is your favourite!!
- It is illegal to die in the Houses of Parliament ( wonder whether this includes the loos as well =D)
- It is an act of treason to place a postage stamp bearing the British monarch upside down (though I'm sure there isn't any law for stomping all over the DOWNSIDE DOWN post!)
- In Liverpool, its illegal for a woman to be topless except as a clerk in a fish store. (hah! i wonder how many men are employed in any industry besides fishery!!)
- Mince pies cannot be eaten on Christmas Day. (why? :O)
- In Scotland, if someone knocks on your door and requires the use of your toilet, you MUST let them enter. (even if they are willing to point their 'weapons' at you and mug you :))
- A pregnant woman can legally relieve herself anywhere she wants, including in a policeman's helmet. (has THAT got anything to do with those weird hats/helmets they wear!?)
- The head of any dead whale found on the British coast automatically becomes the property of the king, and the tail of the queen. (no wonder their crown is such a 'dead' weight!)
- It is illegal to avoid telling the tax man anything you do not want him to know, but legal not to tell him information you donot mind him knowing. (*still figuring this one out!*)
- It is illegal to enter the House of Parliament in a suit of armour. ( thank god! i had thought that they only targeted Asian minorities with these dress codes. would like to see an armour clad guard trying to protect the Lords in the Houses. :D )
Saturday, November 3, 2007
LADY OF SHALOTT
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd
,Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary
, Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers," 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows,"
said The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me,"
cried The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
__Tennyson
ps... but obviously, this isn't mine. but didn't feel like creating a separate label. one of my favourite poems. actually, one of the only few poems i actually like. hope you like it too. :)
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd
,Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary
, Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers," 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows,"
said The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me,"
cried The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
__Tennyson
ps... but obviously, this isn't mine. but didn't feel like creating a separate label. one of my favourite poems. actually, one of the only few poems i actually like. hope you like it too. :)
STOP READING
another editorial i happened to like. Infact someone just pointed it out to me... :)
Zombies. That's what readers are. They exist in this world but live in a fantasy world, surviving on what others create. Their contribution to society is negative, for while they consume precious resources, they create nothing. The roadside vagabond does more, yet they claim intellectual superiority over all. But if intelligence is the application of information, they're down there with those other shells of human existence, the TV-addicts, collecting data about everything, but not alive enough to ever apply that knowledge. That's probably why they are called bookworms -- a parasitical existence, far removed from the ecstasy and agony of the real world. Decades ago, the only entertainment was reading. If kids were hunched over a book, adults would know they weren't setting the house on fire or getting into fights. If you wanted to kill a few hours, or expand your mind a little, the only option was hitting the nearest library. While times have changed, attitudes haven't -- received wisdom dictates that the reading habit is good for us. While there are so many entertainment options, which engage all the senses and encourage a person to connect with people worldwide, the lonely man's need for a book is anachronistic. There's no place anymore for people who're lost in their own world. As for education and information, it's more efficient to trawl the Web than lift a 500-page tome. While the rest of the world is climbing the Everests of their chosen professions or feeding penguins in Antarctica, the reader slouches in his ratty couch, oblivious to love and conflict, the purple sky on a rainy day and the fireflies that light it up at night. Passive consumers, they bovinely chew on ideas that someone else is busy translating into reality. Despite their vast knowledge, these antiquated creatures are blind to the difference between serenading your Juliet from under the famous balcony in Verona, and reading about how Romeo did it many years ago. When you sit down to a book, you raise a wall around yourself. Every minute you spend reading, another brick is added to that wall, till it becomes so high, it's impossible to get over it. And as the world does one more turn on its axis, you turn the page of your cheap paperback, without even realising that life has just passed you by. How miserable it must be to sit down to read, when you haven't stood up to live?
Zombies. That's what readers are. They exist in this world but live in a fantasy world, surviving on what others create. Their contribution to society is negative, for while they consume precious resources, they create nothing. The roadside vagabond does more, yet they claim intellectual superiority over all. But if intelligence is the application of information, they're down there with those other shells of human existence, the TV-addicts, collecting data about everything, but not alive enough to ever apply that knowledge. That's probably why they are called bookworms -- a parasitical existence, far removed from the ecstasy and agony of the real world. Decades ago, the only entertainment was reading. If kids were hunched over a book, adults would know they weren't setting the house on fire or getting into fights. If you wanted to kill a few hours, or expand your mind a little, the only option was hitting the nearest library. While times have changed, attitudes haven't -- received wisdom dictates that the reading habit is good for us. While there are so many entertainment options, which engage all the senses and encourage a person to connect with people worldwide, the lonely man's need for a book is anachronistic. There's no place anymore for people who're lost in their own world. As for education and information, it's more efficient to trawl the Web than lift a 500-page tome. While the rest of the world is climbing the Everests of their chosen professions or feeding penguins in Antarctica, the reader slouches in his ratty couch, oblivious to love and conflict, the purple sky on a rainy day and the fireflies that light it up at night. Passive consumers, they bovinely chew on ideas that someone else is busy translating into reality. Despite their vast knowledge, these antiquated creatures are blind to the difference between serenading your Juliet from under the famous balcony in Verona, and reading about how Romeo did it many years ago. When you sit down to a book, you raise a wall around yourself. Every minute you spend reading, another brick is added to that wall, till it becomes so high, it's impossible to get over it. And as the world does one more turn on its axis, you turn the page of your cheap paperback, without even realising that life has just passed you by. How miserable it must be to sit down to read, when you haven't stood up to live?
Thursday, November 1, 2007
MAGICALLY GAY
This one is an editorial article from today's Times Of India. Me likes! so me writes! :> drop in your comments please about what you think of the blogotorial :D
J K Rowling's recent announcement that Albus Dumbledore, one of the most beloved characters in the blockbuster Harry Potter series, was gay has created an uproar in the English-speaking world. While many have hailed the announcement, it has given a fillip to Christian Evangelists who decried the books as instruments of Satan. Others have criticised Dumbledore's outing as editorialising after the fact, and that if Rowling really wanted to make a point about homosexuality, she should've done so in the books. But Rowling has been diligent in portraying all manner of characters in her narrative, be it ethnicity, culture, race or physical appeal. Indeed, it would've been a remarkable omission if none of her characters were homosexual. In a world where gay rights are still a matter of intense debate, to have a character as well-loved and admired as Dumbledore be revealed as gay is indeed a Big Deal. The Harry Potter series has been a publishing phenomenon, with almost half a billion books sold to date. The movies have done extraordinarily well at the box office, earning $4.5 billion worldwide. As far as popular culture goes, it doesn't get more mainstream than Harry Potter.
The most important aspect of the outing is Dumbledore's character. Not only does his orientation help us understand him better, particularly with regard to his relationship with Grindelwald, but it also makes homosexuality a footnote, the way it should be. Characters don't go shouting their straightness from the rooftops, and the understated nature of this revelation does much to move away from enforcing what is called a ‘heteronormative' view, that being heterosexual is normal. Being gay didn't stop Dumbledore from becoming the most powerful wizard in the world, or from discharging his responsibilities as headmaster of a premier school or heading various associations. He is, in the Potterverse, a force for the light, a symbol of hope and a champion of the underdog. Harry Potter's sheer visibility means that most Dumbledore fans will become aware of his orientation. Many parents have taken up cudgels at the thought of the conversation they will have to have with their children. But because Dumbledore is without doubt a heroic figure, the mentor to the chosen one, being gay will have to be OK.
J K Rowling's recent announcement that Albus Dumbledore, one of the most beloved characters in the blockbuster Harry Potter series, was gay has created an uproar in the English-speaking world. While many have hailed the announcement, it has given a fillip to Christian Evangelists who decried the books as instruments of Satan. Others have criticised Dumbledore's outing as editorialising after the fact, and that if Rowling really wanted to make a point about homosexuality, she should've done so in the books. But Rowling has been diligent in portraying all manner of characters in her narrative, be it ethnicity, culture, race or physical appeal. Indeed, it would've been a remarkable omission if none of her characters were homosexual. In a world where gay rights are still a matter of intense debate, to have a character as well-loved and admired as Dumbledore be revealed as gay is indeed a Big Deal. The Harry Potter series has been a publishing phenomenon, with almost half a billion books sold to date. The movies have done extraordinarily well at the box office, earning $4.5 billion worldwide. As far as popular culture goes, it doesn't get more mainstream than Harry Potter.
The most important aspect of the outing is Dumbledore's character. Not only does his orientation help us understand him better, particularly with regard to his relationship with Grindelwald, but it also makes homosexuality a footnote, the way it should be. Characters don't go shouting their straightness from the rooftops, and the understated nature of this revelation does much to move away from enforcing what is called a ‘heteronormative' view, that being heterosexual is normal. Being gay didn't stop Dumbledore from becoming the most powerful wizard in the world, or from discharging his responsibilities as headmaster of a premier school or heading various associations. He is, in the Potterverse, a force for the light, a symbol of hope and a champion of the underdog. Harry Potter's sheer visibility means that most Dumbledore fans will become aware of his orientation. Many parents have taken up cudgels at the thought of the conversation they will have to have with their children. But because Dumbledore is without doubt a heroic figure, the mentor to the chosen one, being gay will have to be OK.
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