RAVI, TO YOU

I do not know him personally but I feel as though I know him for ages. He is from a small town called Tanuku in Andhra Pradesh. Just turned 18 this August 10th , 2010. But his age is not the yardstick to measure his mental acumen, poetic vulnerabilities and sharpness of intellect. At this age he weaves verses of shadows and lights and "this wretched country". When I mistakenly addressed his as bacchaa, he told me quite categorically that the address makes him uncomfortable. So we became friends. Subscribing to the same poetry zone (site), we could easily gauge each other's preferences. His reviews and critiques of my work are surprisingly adult considering his age. In years to come, I am sure he is going to become a promising citizen of this country and will write many more beautiful verses for posterity. His name is Ravi, the sun with blazing thoughts, a bright mind and a powerful writing skill. May he live long and contribute to literature in his own right. Ravi these are my best wishes and blessings for you.

DUST I MUST

I am a cleanliness freak. Every weekend cleaning is my favourite past time which takes up almost all the time that I have for resting or spending with my family. Earlier, I used to feel it is therapeutic for me. An orderly house enhances orderly thought and endows focus to vision. But the consequent back ache and other pains that are accompanied with the physical labour put in to the task refute my inference or any such value that I impute into the laborious and rigorous exercise. Also, a curative leisure should elevate my mood. But nothing like that happens. On the contrary, I am irritated by the time the house shines. Irritation out of exhaustion that is. But still I clean, the maniac that I am. Sometimes I dust the things as they lie. Sometimes I pull them out from where they rest in peace and broom and brush them off their slumber (read dust). But whatever or however much I clean, a layer of dust still lazes around obstinately,winking at me impishly, as the light pours in reminding me of the inherent disorderliness of Nature. The intrinsic impermanence of all things worldly. The restlessness built in which is also the genesis of all creation. The thesis and the antitheses colluding to synthesize into something new but alas ephemeral.