Thursday, November 27, 2014


From the outside, it's rather drab and dull
Like a cold winter morning in the dead of December.
Nothing in the building's appearance suggests frivolity,
And the most that can be said is that those within live sensibly.
Yet, within the walls, is something different.
Even though the neatness of the ground carries within,
And the curtains are pristine and white,
And the floors well swept,
The place carries an air of well loved use,
An air of fun and delight and friendship.
The kids who've made this place their home,
Live with those who they love most,
Are together with the best of friends,
And this small orphanage with dull and dreary walls,
Houses the kindest spirits, the liveliest souls,
And shelters the most precious jewels of life-children.
The people that live within, the house itself is a gem.
And all those children are stars on earth, which is why
Whenever anybody mentions the drab and dull building, I think,
My god, it's full of stars!

Birthday Celebrations

Happy birthday, happy birthday,
We're so joyous,
Bless you, may you be prosperous,
May your day be meritorious,
And may your joy be tremendous.
We're not a hint pretentious,
When we sing along and say,
Hey, its your Birthday!!!
Take a holiday,
Be happy always,
For though not the pay day,
It is your birthday!
Pamper and indulge,
Eat till you explode,
Laugh till your cheeks hurt,
Dance till you can't lift a foot,
And don't worry at all.
Be happy, and gay,
Lets celebrate,
Your birthday!

Monday, August 18, 2014

Plantation Made Easy

( our school decided that they needed Guinea pigs for their experiments. Therefore, quite a few unlucky students, including me, had to go on a 14 km long trek, on the worst possible day. Monsoons, rain in the mornings, sun in the afternoons. That is how our day was. Read on to know more. )
Till now, my ideas about gardening had been limited to stepping into a garden with a khurpi and a sapling/seed and simply digging a hole, putting the plant/seed in it, filling up the pit and patting the moist soil down. I am afraid that I had to revise my concepts about planting a tree. To my amazement, it also includes a lot of stuff, which, this being the introduction of a speech, I shall explain in a moment.
Ever felt the wonderful, humid day in the middle of the monsoons when the sun beats down on your head, and thought 'ah! This is life! The best thing in this lovely weather would be a boisterous walk on a road through hot, humid woods, with no water, and no breeze.' Well, rest assured that I have not. My poor mind has different ideas of spending the perfect, humid, monsoon day. You'd think me sloppy, but I prefer the convenience of an A. C. over the conveniences offered by nature. However, I not being the decider of the fateful day that saw us doing the above mentioned(the walk, not the A.C.), I believe it wise to limit the views I have. Anyways, on 11/08/2014 many of us went to undo a thing that every human is responsible for. We became the knights that carried a shiny sword called afforestation that would slay the dragon popularly known as deforestation. What was missing, of course, was the fearless horse on which we knights usually ride.  A compromise had to be taken. Feet.
The formation our battalion took was one I would shy to tell an army official. We were in a non-strategic, highly exposed line. If someone took into their head that they had to shoot down the line, we'd be dead twice over with a mini machine gun. Fortunately, no one had a mind driven by insanity, so we were safe. However, unlike marching troops, our steps were mismatched. Therefore, what was first a uniform line turned into clusters of students with matching paces.
I shall like to ask you whether you can picture vultures preying on a corpse. They fight for food. The same can be said for thirsty students. They can do almost anything for water. We must have lowered the water table immensely, if the amount of bottles filled was an indicator. I learned a lesson there- thirst can drive you nuts, not to mention make a journey doubly fatiguing and long. However, the condition of the students is trivial, for they go on a noble cause. Nothing is too much when fame envelops it. To make our tedious journey more loathsome, we had a cameraman recording us. Trust me, the scowls of sweaty children are NOT the thing you'd like to publicize.
However, I, Avani Solanki, am here to speak a few words on the noble deed of planting trees,  I shall save you the gory details, that included moans, strange noises, oaths, swears and what not. The gardening itself included no khurpi, no pit digging, and too little of the process of planting. I believed I was meant to keep my hands clean, for I had to do nothing except hand the plant over to an Aunty who was there to 'assist' us.
But, I have not yet enlisted the method that I now know is most suitable for gardening. As you have probably not realized that I have already hinted on the modern way for efficient gardening skills, I shall now list them step-wise:
1. Get out of school in a line. Do not stay in that formation if inconvenient.
2. Walk till your legs hurt and then walk a kilometer more( that would be around 3-4 kilometers).
3. Make sure that the day you choose to do so is humid and hot.
4. Sit on the burning road when you have reached your destination and learn how the forest officials plant trees while you concentrate on the devil's fire pit in which you seem to have fallen.
5. Choose a sapling. Now descend a steep slope and find a gardener and a pit.
6. Tear off the plastic in which the plant is kept. It is of no concern as to how you dispose the plastic off.( why do I suddenly remember that areas such as we visited are plastic free hotspots? )
7. Put the plant in a pit (and remark on my alliteration).
8. Let the gardener do everything else.
9. Marvel at how you have succeeded in saving the environment with little effort.
I believe what I started must now end, and with a hope that the plant I planted lives, I must call my hopefully enlightening speech to an end.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

What if?

Imagine if you were given a choice,
To read the story of your life.
Every detail, every inevitable circumstance,
With the condition that you can't change your fate.
Would you read it, and know how life will be for you,
Would you face the monotony?
Imagine if you knew the day you'll die,
And couldn't change it, too.
Would you rather enact your life,
The way written on your chapters,
Or would you let fate decide,
And follow blindly onwards.
Would you let each moment speak for itself,
Or would you live in a predicted future?
Would you rather live in the fear of predicted death,
Or would you be glad for another day to live?

The walk

She began her life with a cry,
She had a long way to go.
There was a path waiting to be threaded on,
That bore her name.
She started off, toddling on it,
Before she was 18 months old.
She found it special, for it had its thrill,
And an unknown destination.
The lovely child, that treaded on her little feet,
Was walking on the path of life, my dear.
There was no end, just a series of beginnings.
Sometimes she went slow, in dread or joy,
Either she savored the moment,
Or let it pass by.
Sometimes she had to run,
Sometimes they were narrow escapes,
Sometimes she faltered,
Sometimes she lost her way.
But all the time, she walked on time,
She walked through her life.
Youth turned to senility,
And her steps grew infirm.
And though she knew not where she headed,
She had to walk along.
Maybe there was an end, a destination,
But her journey ended before,
And somewhere in the middle,
She rested forever more.
It was before her final step,
It was before her final breath,
That she was given the satisfaction of knowing,
That the path itself was her goal,
That the walk she savored, the walk she dreaded,
Was what was meant for her.
She realized, that this was special, unique,
The path that bore her name.
This path that had been crossed by many more,
Was her very own, never to be treaded on again.

Mathematical conversation

A cyclic quadrilateral and I,
Fell in deep conversation, my, my!
I think the quadrilateral had
An ego, which totally drove her mad.
She was too fuzzy over everything,
Shan't talk till she doesn't hear me sing.
Of course, I obliged, though with a punch,
And the prelude to the song was a delightful crunch.
She was fortunately 2 dimensional,
So no bumps or soreness made it consequential.
Anyways, she declared later that she can't live without
( She was adamant on being clear and loud )
Two opposite angles of hers,
Forming linear pairs.
And when I just happened to mention parallelogram, God protect me,
She nearly bit my silly head off me!
No, she shan't bear no quadrilaterals of that name,
And for shame,
For dear rectangle carried the same surname,
And as he was cyclic, she basked in his fame.
With that, I left, rather abruptly,
For I never did anything subtly,
And she was still mumbling about dear rectangle,
When I squeezed out of the tangle,
Of a most idiotic conversation
( A truly dreadful situation)
Between me and a cyclic quadrilateral madam,
Half of whose meanings I just couldn't fathom.

Friday, June 13, 2014

Article: The Uneventful School Assembly

~ a completely ridiculous description of the rituals of a daily morning assembly, as told by a sarcastic, inconsequential member of the mob.

   If someone were to ask me of the magnificence of a general school assembly, I'd be apt in pointing out the sheer numbers, or the primness of the attire of each student, or even the attentive faces that turn up frequently towards the people on the stage. What this answer would lack, of course, will be the gentle subtleties and little touches that truly make the morning assembly stand out.
   Being a part of it makes me feel special. I can only comment on the various habits and behaviours of my schoolmate, and cannot and shall not extend my critical survey till our teachers. This is strictly targeted on my fellow schoolmates. Adding to this, I must also say that though some may find the brutal, exact, precise truth strange, eerie, or almost creepy, this is not a jibe on anyone in particular. My unbiased gaze wraps up every potential person worthy of survey.
   Now, I must commence the beginning. It all starts with a sound not quite different to droning. It is an odd mixture of giggling, whispering, shouting, taunting, outspokenness, shyness and a dazzling amount of sleepiness, that can be compared to a jumble of soft and loud spoken choirs. Yet, not all appreciate it the way we students do. And so, we school ourselves into the perfect silence that can only be attained through certain amounts of discipline. Speaking of which, the next move will be the flexing of arms, fingers, shoulders, toes and the occasional tongues. The characteristic touch on the girls part is the distinctive dip in the height of their raised arms. Our girls are excessively conservative, and keep their arms to themselves. This being done, the obligatory shuffling of feet follows, for it is only natural that the legs should also get their inadequate, unwholesome share in the 'workout'. Obligations apart, ill suppressed giggles highlight the humour of the scene. The distinctive to and fro motion of the 'marching troops' starkly resembles penguins. Though, why on earth should penguins be compared with humans, even my logic declares undecided. Do penguins shuffle the same way, bearing through the monotony of living on a scheduled time table, each day a repeat of the previous? Do they know the murkiness of repetition? The dark depths and the effects of this evil? Probably not.
   Skimming over minor details, we now reach the stage where my fellow pals trace their ancestry back to the amicable dolphins. The same way necessity that drives the dolphins to keep an eye open while sleeping, i have often observed that their (hopefully) more mature relatives watch out for potential predators and dangers as they The truly discreet fellows have impeccable timing. That uplifted eyelid can spring up or shut close in a thrice. And by now the last words of gratitude have been mumbled to the almighty. Now we loose no time in lidding up our ears and opening up our mouths.
   It gives me unaccountable pleasure to note how the movements of each individual change as a particularly enthusiastic ( or disgracefully unenthusiastic ) speaker addresses the grand assemblage below. Feigned or not, there certainly is a truly remarkable look of attention on each face as our speakers starts to speak. This enthusiasm is carried on for a brief 15 seconds- that is all that is needed to analyze, summarize and discard the views of our speaker. By midway, a general droop of heads marks the period in which most boys and girls begin an undefinably important survey of their shoes. By three quarters of the speech, one is so proficient at the art of shoe recognizing, that by a mere glance one can distinguish the soiled and muddy shoes on ones own foot from the relatively cleaner one of ones neighbors. The critical mind somehow catches the phrase- " at last, I would like to say...". With a zeal that shall be seen lacking later on, a sea of heads raises, and at which point of time the the students share their looks with that of rabbits, so bent on scuttling off to their holes at the mere hint of a noise. Our prodigies, however, resort to applauding and not to scuttling. A chap sure deserves a good goodbye!
   As, no doubt, it bids thee best to skip a few negligible details, which are undergone simultaneously with the slowly rising and generally increasing volume of the sound generated by our promising aspirants,we get to the national anthem. National pride suppresses the student within. By the end of the national anthem, the pressure slowly built up during the last 20 minutes or so vents out into a great deal of commotion and chitter-chatter. The activities of another day can now be commenced. A stifled yawn while walking up the stairs is what crowns the end of our uneventful morning assembly.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Together Again

Remember the day,
When we travelled in metaphors?
Others were speechless,
We were not.
We babbled stupidly for them, 
But we knew the truth inside.
Understanding, we call it now,
But for us it was a magical power,
Through which we read each others' meanings.
We were kids with childish thoughts,
And expressed ourselves irrationally,
But, our expressions weren't false,
They were simply metaphors,
Only we knew the truth inside.
Lets travel back in Time,
Lets travel through the metaphors again,
We'll unravel the truths again,
But this time, we'll do it together.

Monday, March 3, 2014

This Can't Be Goodbye

I walked the dusty road that led to the cottage,
It seemed like a decade had passed since I'd seen the place,
Yet truly it was but yesterday.
Still, yesterday seemed so distant,
And I tell of it, before my hazy gaze,
Shall fall when I last met him.
Near dusk, a trudging traveller,
Had come home at last to a cheery fire.
She had come to visit her grandpapa,
Who she'd longed to see many times before.
And there at dusk he sat with pipe in hand,
A soft whistle, a welcome sign was all that was heard.
He got up when she drew into sight, though he had grown feeble,
He hobbled on his feet with difficulty,
To meet the child he'd longed to see.
He knew he was not to live, life was counting its last days,
But love, dear love! Was what brought him to his feet,
And sent him blundering forth.
She caught his hand, held it firm,
And gave a cheery smile,
How dear he was! How could she ever say goodbye?

He trembled as they sat together
and talked into the growing dark.
She was light in his humble dwellings,
She was a breath of fresh air.
She talked with determination and hope,
And she thought a lot more,
So dear was her sweet grandfather,
She'd stay by his side forevermore.
Was fate playing a petty trick, or was it some noble blessing,
That his soul shall finally rest,
Amidst the trembling and quivering.
And now, Farewell! Oh Dearest soul!
Rest in Peace, you deserve it!
Bless you for your kindness,
You have left me forever indebted.
Take care, take care, in the angelic world you dreamt of,
Be happy as you always were.
Grandfather, this farewell, is all
You'll remain in hearts, so I shan't say Goodbye, after all.

Monday, February 17, 2014

A True Devotee

I could say that I believe in Shiva, Allah, Jesus,
And I dare say that saying so will not create a fuss,
Yet will I be right in doing so?
Till I haven't controlled my anger,
Till I don't stop being in a temper,
Till i don't feel humble in my heart,
Till the silliness of indiscrimination I don't outsmart,
Till I don't follow and believe in equality,
Till I don't adopt serenity,
I cannot be believing in Shiva, Allah or Jesus,
And that may create a fuss,
But doing is believing, and devotion is believing,
And till I don't fulfil the cries of humanity,
I won't be believing.

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Done And Undone: The Dummy's Guide To Write A Poem

Step 1: take a paper and pen,
Step 2: choose a quiet place, and then,
Step 3: calm yourself as much as you can,
Step 4: focus on your topic, man!
Step 5: jot down the things you think,
Step 6: this isn't the time to shrink!
Step 7: you may or may not have a rhyme scheme,
Step 8: please stick to the theme!
Step 9: give it time to sink in, have a warm feeling,
Step 10: check whether it might need some healing.
Step 11: there you go, you've got a poem,
Step 12: and now an amateur poet, you've become.
Step 13: frustrated with the nonsense? You may do this then,
Step 14: crumple up the page,throw the pen!

The Last Day

The Earth shook and shivered,
The lands trembled and quivered,
Earthquakes were common these days,
Just as the old prophecy says,
And whispers spread-the Earth dies,
Dies right in front of our eyes.
Grumbling, muttering clouds roll in the sky,
Even the Sun seems to be saying goodbye,
Shades of dark melancholy, enveloping everything,
And as the prophets had always been thinking,
And truly so-the Earth dies,
Dies right in front of our eyes.
Silence and dread of the nearing end prevail,
Every being sickly and pale,
And death, death only is in sight,
As the Earth fights its final fight.
And whispers spread- the Earth dies,
Dies right in front of our eyes.

Thursday, January 16, 2014

I Can't Write

I can't write, I can't write!
Hear, hear my pitiful plight!
When sleep should've claimed me,
When I should've been lulled by the sea,
When all is quiet in blissful sleep,
I, silly, old I, weep.
Pen in hand, I only try,
Scribbling impatiently, as I cry,
But the words have left me, sadly,
And each page is tortured, badly,
By naught but scribbles and cuts,
Consequences of when my mind shuts,
And I try, and fail horribly,
And, and so I plea,
Hear, hear my pitiful plight!
I can't write, I can't write!

Monday, January 13, 2014

A Battle Lost

In a cold place, and with colder heart,
In jumbled lanes, and jumbled lives,
In white, pristine white,
Too dark, too dark, oh, too dark,
With hearts too heavy, too grieved,
With guns too ready, a battle perceived.
A battle, not of kings and queens,
Nor of a display of power, of strength,
Nor one fought for religious ambition, 
Only a battle, Only a battle
Only a battle of life and death,
Of pain and sorrow,
Of grief and despair,
Only a battle, lost today.
The lingering, white world,
Only a battlefield,
Why worry, today,
We've lost, anyway.  

( Entry to Prompt of the Week )

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

The Ghost Next Door

She flew about, mocking me,
She, with all her beauty,
Up the stairs with a frightful stamp of feet,
Silent as death, if I were to greet.
In the dark of the abandoned house,
She turned from lion to mouse,
She roared and wept,
She shrieked, then slept,
She scared the idle, she troubled the peaceful,
Either too empty, or too full.
She called herself the Black Angel, if angel she could be,
I reckon a ghost in guise, was she,
The demonic beauty, that ruled the place,
Death like pale, if ever asked to describe her face,
So she alone, the black angel, yes,
Laughs and weeps at her finesse,
As she flies about, mocking me,
She, with all her beauty.

( entry to the prompt of the week competition on poets of Google+ )