Archive | November, 2008

All In A Day’s Work

7 Nov

The sun came in and swabbed the floor

Kashmiri chillies kissed a wall

Parrots seeped into the rocker

And teakwood spun a yarn so tall.

A squashed bug bemoaned Neruda

Face creams swirled in jars

Milk shimmied around on skateboards

And printers whirred on Mars.

Singers snored for inspiration

Peaches whipped batter with their toes

Photographs changed their colors on whim

And verse cackled at prose.

Now if you’re done fulfilling

This flippant Friday quirk

Perhaps you’d consider, Miz OJ,

Getting back to work.


6 Nov

Us bloggers, we’re the online counterparts of university block-mates: up way past midnight, typing furiously, in and out of each others’ rooms, slamming doors, hooting at wisecracks and coming alive at the Cinderella hour, as if the magic of the moment will bind us in a sorority bracelet and the globe will light up in shimmering blips as we warm the continents with our hit counters. Either that or we’re just a bunch of over(net)worked, over-stimulated insomniacs.


Blogging is therefore to writing what extreme sports are to athletics: more free-form, more accident-prone, less formal, more alive. It is, in many ways, writing out loud.

~ Andrew Sullivan, in Why I Blog

Somebody Up There Finally Listened

5 Nov


(Photo credit: Callie Shell for Time, via Indiequill).


CNN on the historic win.

Details at the BBC.

Thank yous on Obama’s blog.

Result reactions in pictures.

Welcome, # 44, it’s about time.

Could This Election End Already??

4 Nov

You’re my Obama. You’ve come to mean so much in so short a time.

~The Boy to me, obviously OD’d on the Presidential race.

On All Souls’ Day

3 Nov

It’s interesting, how we patronizingly pray for our dead, when it is they who could do us a favor by praying for those of us left behind in this mess.

History is a Halloween Party

2 Nov

a.k.a. The One in Which the Ghost is Toast

History was her favorite subject at school. The one that bumped up her social sciences average and had Mrs. Shah chastise her for asking too many uncomfortable questions.The one that had fiercely anal retentive Prof. Naqvi pardon her absence from his special brand of exam torture. The one that earned her the title ‘H-bomb Queen’. The one for which she risked being called a nerd. The one she collected extra credits for, while others collected lovers.

So when her own turned ghoulish, and swooped through cobwebbed corridors, moaning her name and breathing moldy angst on her nape, she stumbled through silent alleys on her disjointed knee, mentally zipping up that chapter, sealing the plastic with duct tape, and tossed the file backwards at him, never again glancing at his grey, disfigured face.

Or so she thought.

(…to be continued….sometime, someplace)