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Some things  Must come to a premature end,  As I fly away from The everyday summer  And keep a lookout for greener pastures. When thoughts cease its malfunction, The perfunctory migration was never a loss, It was the removal of an unnecessary burden I had grown to love,
But had to shed.
-----Ziva Hind
Recent posts


I live In perpetual denial. Of the assertion of my space, Between a binary, Or maybe the assertion of a Singular space at all. Do I belong to one or the other, Any hither? Neither, nor Not any. Am I part of the country that loves me off with a passport,or, The one which has deposited zillions of bits and pieces within my desolate self? Where do I lie in the Marxian claim? Or the Darwinian ideas of fame? And if the unconscious is what is truly me,  And I act against most of its heresy, How can I not be a mixture Of irreducibility. Not any third space,
I'm just happy me.
-----Ziva Hind


Far back in my younger days, I've wanted to be a balloon man or a balloon lady or whatever it's called. I still love to be one- part-time though, these days no balloon would be enough to exhale in my dreams. Don't we all love balloons? I'm in particular love with red balloons, the contrast of the confident red with the misty blue sky have long since fascinated me. But when I sell balloons I'd think of having every colour in the universe, who'd never run out of stock. Balloons are always paralled to happiness. I have never seen a child unhappy when they see a balloon, the wondrous eyes, overwhelmed with love after love, as I sell balloon after balloon, joy which never runs out of stock. I'd always have smiling customers, customers who'll live in the moment. 
For happy adults though, the remedy won't be balloons, they'd be letters. Maybe, a post delivery girl would be one of my other jobs. No bills or packages, only letters. No one fails to be over…


Every person needs windows.
One side of the room I study, and spent most of my day in, is covered in typical Indian style windows. Earlier in my childhood, during my random visits to the place, I was surprised at how windows seemingly covered most of the walls. These days though , I dread closing these due to claustrophobic misgivings. I'm that kind of a person who cringe leaving most things open after use- casseroles, bottles, pens, books, doors, except windows.
This particular window is my favourite. The top floor view I have, shows me perpetually every flavour of the most amazing green and blue imaginable- leaves and skies, from my table, or lying in bed. The room I sit in, in the East end of the house, also gives me amazing memories of watching the sun rise up creating palettes of lavender and periwinkle, of auburn and turquoise- something I prefer to watching it go down, something that I wouldn't tire myself of. The dawn creates spectacular scenes - anything quite normal …

Of Boredom

Ever wonder why little kids never feel bored? Well, I do. Or at least I did, and now I know. Today morning, having tea in the veranda , I saw my little cousin Hemin deeply committed in a flurry of activity. He had a little bowl in his little hand, the one we use to serve dips, and had collected small stones from God-knows-where which he had laid out next to where I was seated. What this guy was doing was quite interesting, he picked each stone into the bowl, went out with it and dropped it. All this effort for what? Nothing. If he finds happiness in it, does it really mean it's nothing? One of his favorite pastime is to admire my books. Even in a much more profound way than the book lover in me does. His favorites are "The Heart of Darkness", which has an eye on the cover, and of course, the picture of the fish on "The Old Man and the Sea". (He's a foodaholic, the only thing he sees outside my window is the single banana tree) He also loves looking at my note…


To coax and sweet coat is easy But to speak straight is hard. Pleasing that echoes rashly Winds heartaches tad. Though polish would shimmer brightly, The shine would easily fad. Fire glows to toughen strongly, Ice slits wounds bad. Juxtaposed thoughts swiftly  Imagine hues ward Offshore drilling misty  Mystics realm's hard. Dominance of the finite coldly Springs forth splinter shard.


Some memories are like falling headfirst into the sea. One moment you're watching the waves push gently back and forth, the next they topple you over and you're drenched in saline water, and the best part is that you've enjoyed it.
It's been three weeks, and I'm still not as excited about our family trip to Malaysia, as those around me. Well, of course, there was the part of spending family time together, rare moments when we're all free at the same time. And there was the beautiful part about making memories. Nothing more. When you fall into conclusions, that's the best part about trips, so I'm glad we went.
I'm a wanderlust. Something as simple as walking barefoot on the seaside excites me. But Malaysia didn't. In fact, none of us was excited. The main reason was we didn't know what to expect. Images that run across our mind as we thought of the country were mainly concerned with Mahathir, the twin towers and the city's nightlife, scenes…


The sun rose in a cloudy sky,
Scattering and shading each ray,
Withering blossoms and sprouts dry.

The sun rises lonely in the sky,
Sending rays astray,
Sprouting plants aiming high.

The Sun will be me and I will be the Sun,
Trudging through clouds, high and low,
I will shine the sky auburn.

---Ziva Hind

That Girl

Her dry lips pursed
Into a knowing smile,
That determination as she's forced
Into a never understanding, vile
Void where sublimity infers stubbornness.Love,
All she asked for.
Love, to choose the God up above,
For the choice of a Prince Charming, for climbing the educational tor.
The choice of a life she dreamt of.What is it that scared them?
The piece of cloth that she rolled
Around her head, shielding the gem
Of her faith, or her heart of gold
Craving for the man for whom her life's vowed to, and would be spent?


I want to fly
To places I'd get tired walking.
I want to sit by the edge of cliffs
And jump earthwards because people tell me I'd fall.
I want to show that my ship wouldn't sink even with the hole
Because I managed to block it with my chubby thumb.
I want to walk through woods barefooted, dead leaves crunching under my feet,
Because the stone-clad village path has already been trodden on.
I dare not live by Karma,
I want to be Karma.