The Rebelle blog

Who turned the page? When I went out Last night, his Life was left wide-open, Half-way through, in lamplight on my desk: The Middle years. Now look at him. Who turned the page? In an article written for The Guardian, Blake Morrison describes Ian Hamilton's poetry and life's burden's. Here's what he wrote about the poet: "Hamilton, did write about "true things, significant things". And burdened though he was, the best of his poems are marvellous for their unburdenings - for seeming to come out of nowhere ("miraculous lyrical arrivals") and to leave all the doubts behind.  This is "Old Photograph": "You are wandering in the deep field / That backs on to the room I used to work in / And from time to time / You look up to see if I am watching you. / To this day / Your arms are full of the wild flowers / You were most in love with." A photo records an instant but the person captured in this one looks up "from time to ...

Sometimes, my dreams are so incoherent.. not that I would like them to be rational always, but when they make sense, it feels great! Last night, I had a long conversation with one of my best friends, and such good talk always leaves me in a very happy spirit. Because I was happy when I went to sleep, I had a really happy yet weird dream today morning. It has been raining continuously throughout the night and the sound of rain partially awoke me, so that I was still half- asleep yet could sense the movements and chaos in the house. Here's what I dreamt of! I am walking on the road with my younger sister, and we stop by a stationery shop when I see some Inland letters and Envelopes on display. I ask the shopkeeper for them, and he promptly hands them over to me, when to my surprise I see my name on the envelop. Its addressed to me, complete with my name and an affixed stamp. I read it and its from one of my lost mails. (Since a few months now, my mail is not reaching my address- ...

I never noticed before How the red flowers hang from the blue branches I never noticed before the light in this room I never noticed the way the air is cool again I never noticed anything but you But you but you So that I couldn’t sleep I never noticed what was anything but you Until I noticed you And could not help it Until I noticed you I could not help it Until you made the red flowers alive again Until the blue branches The lemons you loved, but also the way you loved me, too Until all of this I never noticed you But once I did I never minded noticing I never stopped noticing Until I noticed you I never stopped noticing Until you, I never stopped. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- About This Poem   “I have a giant piece of Marimekko fabric of blue birds sitting on big branches full of red fruit that hangs in my kitchen window and I wrote this poem while looki...

Its raining since morning in Mumbai, and although its good to finally have monsoon moisten the dry earth, its not raining hard where it rightfully ought to-- in Eastern Maharashtra, parts of Vidarbha, Marathwada- drought stricken agriculture fields make headlines every day. Its heart-wrenching to watch images of farmers crying for the caked lands bereft of rains on TV. 'Water Conservation' has never found a louder voice than now owing to the depleted water levels in dams, lakes and rivers alike. And, when we thought access to clean drinking water is an issue, access to water itself seems a big problem in the coming years. I wonder if we are going to learn any ecology lessons now, from these environmental problems signalling trouble since the past five years? We still have nil infrastructure to arrest the wastage of water and sustaining villages on tankers is a high price we are paying for neglecting primal duties of conservation of water resources. Why do we never learn fr...

This is from chapter 04, titled 'A heart beneath a stone' from Les Miserables. I first read a translated version in Marathi when I was 14. Those were summer holidays, and I had been pestering my Dad to take me book shopping. He was very busy during those days and now that I remember my adamant and angry behaviour I realise what a tough time I gave him. One sunday afternoon, he took me to a travelling book exhibition, and we spent the entire day by ourselves picking up books, making a list of authors and publishers, reading aloud excerpts.That was when he suggested me to read the translated version of Les Miserables in marathi; I read very little literature in hindi and marathi back then. I took to reading Les Miserables immediately after arriving home. Finished it late at night, and while I thought of the pool of sadness it pushed me unto, it got me thinking about human suffering and sorrow. Many years later, during a monsoon stroll through Flora Fountain after college hour...