someone wrote it best

i came across this passage by eugene o'neill and it captured everything so well... so instead of writing my own entry that would probably be unmatchable, i'll just write his up instead... after all, why try to rewrite that which has been written so well?

Why am I afraid to dance, I who love music and rhythm and grace and song and laughter? Why am I afraid to live, I who love life and the beauty of flesh and the living colors of earth and sky and sea? Why am I afraid to love, I who love love? Why am I afraid, I who am not afraid? Why must I pretend to scorn in order to pity? Why must I hide myself in self-contempt in order to understand? Why must I be so ashamed of my strength, so proud of my weakness? Why must I live in a cage like a criminal, defying and hating, I who love peace and friendship? Why was I born without a skin? O God, that I must wear armor in order to touch or be touched.

Eugene O'Neill - (from The Great God Brown)

the beauty of india

i spent almost a year in india recently, volunteering for an ngo in bangalore... while i was there, i was asked by a friend to describe the beauty of india, and i thought everyone might enjoy hearing about it... words cannot possibly do justice to the myriad of sensations that pass through you every moment of every day, but this was my feeble attempt to provide an inkling of how i felt while i was there...

the beauty of india... the beauty of india is in the smiles of the street and slum children who excitedly and incessantly wave hi and bye to me everytime i pass by them... its in the bare feet of the mothers who walk in the dirt rock road with their pantless children on their hips... its in the tough soles of the children who happily play barefoot in the rocks and weeds that make up their home, and in the tougher souls of the mothers who raise these children with love and give them the smiles on their faces... its in the tiny outstretched hands of the children beggars who should be in school, but who instead lay their souls in the palm of their hand for a rupee... its in the glimmer of the ring that adorns each woman's nose... its in the sweet tinkle of the anklets that sing on women's feet as they walk by... its in the dirty silk or cotton or chiffon that still manages to drape elegantly over their shoulders... its in the scented jasmine flowers that are strewn through their hair... next to a fully lit, extravagant house, its in the woman squatting in the weeds and rocks in front of a fire in the night to cook dinner for her children... its in the beautiful chalk designs that are drawn anew every morning, adorning the ground in front of the doorways of each house... its in the religious fervor and the love for God engrained in every single person who lives here... its in the harmony in the air while diwali, a hindu festival, and ramzan and eid, muslim festivals, are being celebrated together in the same weekend... its in the fireworks that have been gracing our skies for the past month, out of joy for the various religious celebrations that have overtaken the country... its in the elaborate carvings on temple walls and the indescribable architecture of temples and mosques that are built in any little corner and on any little street that can fit it... its in the tender flute that wakes me up some mornings from the house next door... its in the music that resonates in the streets from shops... its in the sweet voice of the lady singing in the field for all the people working in the blazing sun, encouraging them, lifting their souls, lifting my soul... its in the joyous song of the child shepherd who is herding cows down the road next to me... its in the loud cry of the vegetable seller who sings out the products he is selling as he walks down the road... its in johnson, one of the children from the lowest class in my school, who, when asked why he loves school, told me that he loved it for the food that he gets to eat... its in the appreciation that emanated from raju, one of the children from the highest class, who, at lunchtime, told me he was too full to finish his food but kept eating because "they gave us the food to eat"... its in the little girls from the lowest class, who, when asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, answered with "dish washers" or "clothes cleaners", because their mothers (those who have mothers) held those positions, because they weren't yet aware of all the opportunities that awaited them in the world... its in the child whose birthday it is in school, who gets to dress out of uniform in her best clothes and walk around the school handing out sweets to everyone, even if her family does not have enough money to feed themselves some nights... its in the joy that emanates from all the slum children, because life is simple and they cannot fathom a reason for sadness... its in the disintegration of all complexities as you learn what real life is all about... its in the peace and appreciation you cannot ignore... its in the word akka that i hear everytime i walk into school... its in everything and everyone that makes up this country... its in every second that i get to experience here... the beauty of india is india itself, and the secret it holds in its soul... and no one could ever explain this to me, i had to come here to understand... these words cannot even remotely do justice to the beauty of india... that is the beauty of india...

technical writing

ok, so i do have a day job - i'm a technical writer...
i kind of fell into the job, not something i studied to be, but i guess i'm good at it since i haven't been fired yet... i think maybe i fell into it as a way to keep myself writing, because i had stopped for a while...
being a technical writer is boring, yes, but sometimes it brings out some quirky sides of me... here is a poem i wrote one day, bored on the job...

an ode to a paperclip

oh paperclip paperclip
sitting on the tabletop
do you wish you were holding papers
do you wish the agony would stop?

oh paperclip paperclip
a wire deformed
would you rather be a computer cord
would you rather hold forms

oh paperclip paperclip
you uniter of paper
you joiner of lost souls
you potential finger scraper

oh paperclip paperclip
how do you live
how do you fulfill your purpose
when you have nothing left to give

oh paperclip paperclip
wire of my heart
i will not mourn your parting
but i will mourn our time apart

I Create

I just learned that the word poetry comes from the ancient Greek poieo, which translates into I Create.

And since the word Rachna comes from Sanskrit (Hindi) and means Creation, I feel like somehow, writing was engrained in me.

Maybe that's why I feel I have no choice but to write, because if I don't, I'm failing all that is me and what I am made of.

Here's to creating...

Kriti Festival

I'm excited to be a panelist at the 2007 Kriti Festival in Chicago April 26-29!!! It is an event celebrating South Asian and diaspora literature, and I will be speaking on various panels (not sure which ones yet!)! And the keynote speaker will be Anita Desai !!!

Find out more about the festival from www.desilit.org/kriti.html and be sure to buy your tickets early to come visit me and ask me some questions!!!

Thanks Desilit for the awesome opportunity!

the distance within

so my first blog is named after my first book, named after the first poem

The distance within
Was the distance without
Me

The distance without
Was the distance between
Us

The distance between
Was the distance around
You

The distance around
Was the distance within
Me

in the beginning...

every story begins with a word
and every word begins with a breath

and with my first breath - thank you for visiting...

ever wonder why every book begins with a dedication?
because without others, we wouldn't be half of what we are, and we wouldn't have done half of what we did...

so here is mine

to those who made me feel
those who made me think
and those who made me do

but especially
to those who made me

want to find out more about me - visit my website...

i'll be back with more soon...