Nothing - Almost

Some say that they love those rascals. But I don't. Everybody thinks they are innocent. But they're not. Everyone calls them "Children", I call them "Rascals" Be careful always!!! They may come to you at anytime To ask you some non-sense. ( Well, if we don't know answer, Surely the question is nonsense, right?) Those idiots will laugh like a mad In a funeral. It's the same peculiar creatures, Who can weep like anything for a balloon, Even when India win a World Cup. They don't know what is respect. In the presence of your friends, They will call you  "..........." They can't recognize great people. They'll treat both an MLA and a beggar the same - When you're asleep, They'll jump on you to say, " Good night" :-( These fools will fight with one another ferociously, And the next moment, They'll be sharing a chocolate. These selfish giants will have a sound sleep at day tim...

Well, I don't remember exactly when I wrote this 'so called story'. Despite my poor memory, this story has survived for years in my mind. ( Of course, Sachin may have scored 100 centuries. But he won't ever forget his first century. Right?) I think I wrote this when I was studying 3rd or 4th standard. The impact of Tamil cinema will have well been reflected in the story. Fortunately, I didn't show it to anyone. Had I done it, my story-writing career would have come to an end the very next moment. On remembering the story now, I can't help laughing. Unfortunately, I lost the small notebook in which I had written it. So, I can't repeat the same lines now. I can't recall the descriptions either. I can tell you only the outline of the story. Well, let's read the story . . .  ( I wrote it in Tamil. This is a translation of it.) Well, just now I realize that I didn't give any title to my story. Here is the story. . . .   A man called Kumaran. (Kumara...

I should write a poem now. If I can write only when words come to me voluntarily, How can I call me a poet? If the verse spontaneously overflow, What is there to do for a poet? Sorry Mr.Wordsworth! I took a paper and a pen. Oops! It's very difficult To pen down something, When your word-rivers are dried. Now I felt myself as a, Cloud failing to rain; A rainbow faded, And . . .  eh  . . . What happened to me? I look'd at my old poems To convince myself. But, oh! I'm not satisfied. I didn't want to Be caught blue-handed, Begging for metaphors and similies, And still announcing myself a poet. I scratched my head, Walked around like a mad, No use! My paper remained white As white as the rainless-cloud. I shook my head, Tore my paper, Threw my pen away, To come to a conclusion Doesn't a poet create a poem, Poems choose their pens rather!

Bus travel is a pleasurable experience. It is one of the "millions of pleasures" sugested by Bharathiar. Though I travel, almost everyday, by bus, it's not boring for me. The best thing to do to enjoy a bus travel is to get a seat near the window. It's better to get a seat at the back part of the bus. Because, if you sit in front seats, surely a lady will come and ask you to go back. She will never sit by your side, no matter how old she is. ( Once an old-lady of nearly 60 asked me to go back.) In recent days, i have learnt a trick to avoid this. When any lady ask me to go back, I'll simply say, " This seat is reserved for another man!". Then they'll search for any other victim. There are some "kind-hearted people", who will never get up from their seat yet they will ask others to sacrifice a seat for elder people. Well, this is just a tip of an iceberg. If you travel regularly by bus, you can witness many peculiar characters, many comic s...

A SHORT PREFACE (WHAT HAVE BEEN NARRATED IN THE STORY ARE ALL TRUE AND NOT A DREAM SCENE NOR A LIE) My name is Suraj, here to narrate a story to you. I entered into the cabin and locked it from inside - took the pistol and put it on the head of that man, who had been tied to a chair - thought for a nano second and pulled the trigger. The fluid brain of him, with all it's millions of neurons, shattered all over the room. Inspector Kumaran entered into the cabin after everything was over (as usual). He said, "Don't move! You're trapped. "      The murderer was hanged two days before. But now, I'm alive. Can you guess what happened?

I wake up at morning. First happiness, 'Ah, I woke up today!' 'I'm still alive!' Go to a cafe To enjoy a hot cofee Without brushing And allowing the black dews To kiss my taste-buds (Oh! what's the odds? The Earth won't Fall into the sun, If I don't brush one day) I speak with friends; Laugh at their horrible jokes; Dare to tell some jokes myself; Dance with them; Kick them When I need that candy In their hands; Walk along with them Speaking some non-sense; I get tickets For the first shows And watch the film with whistling; Arrange my bed comfortably And have the snacks by my side To lie down With my favourite book in hands; Leave the class To play cricket; Dream about Bhavana; (My favourite actress) Listen to music With my eyes closed And yet, allowing the tears to drop; Occupy a seat near the window In a bus And look at the beautiful girls crossing me; Watch Sachin's batting With my friends; Get drenche...