#humour #KitchenFisasco #BachelorsLife #WhyPigsHaveWings #DifferentTruths
Here’s an interesting account by Soumya, a humourist, on cooking. We are introducing his humour column, beginning this week, on Tuesdays, exclusively on Different Truths. I am a foodie. My girth hints at it. I take a keen interest in the creative process of cooking too, but all strictly theoretical. I also enjoy cooking as a spectator sport. The glamorous cooks on television make it look so sexy. [ 933 more words ]
Tag Archives: Blog
#humour #KitchenFisasco #BachelorsLife #WhyPigsHaveWings #DifferentTruths
OOOPS! I LET THAT OUT
I have been writing on this blog for almost a year now. I have been writing for fun since I was in my early teens. School College and University magazines published my stuff, helped by the fact that I edited some of them. Ditto various friendly neighbourhood little mags and office publications. Later illustrious papers did it too, and paid me good money!
But one thing I could never do was write poetry. I wanted to of course, but just wouldn’t dare. Limericks I could do at the drop of a pugree, but serious stuff—no way! In fact serious stuff even in prose was tough, not to write that is, but to show anyone. Poetry was infinitely worse. Rhymes, jingles, ditties, and parodies I did on demand, covering the eccentricities of teachers, professors, bosses, classmates and colleagues or making them up; and recited them on various occasions. Relatives and friends weren’t spared either.
My aversion to being serious extended to speaking as well, even official speeches, presentations, lectures and interviews. They turned out to be extremely popular but not necessarily effective.
I secretly wrote serious philosophical stuff and even poetry when my mind had been sufficiently expanded, but could not decipher them when reality returned. I may have meant profound things when thus inspired, but they eluded my sober self.
A while ago, I was on our Verandah, alone, with a drink, watching the rain sweep in from the bay, racked by nostalgia, loneliness and misery, with no one around to observe, thus did not need to use flippancy as a shield, and lines started pushing into my mind; in blank verse too! I firmly pushed them back. It was too embarrassing.
Next day, driving to Pune to deliver a lecture, the Green Ghats in a veil of mist, the pregnant clouds lazily grazing on the curves, drove those lines back into my mind, till I had to let them out or cry, and taking advantage of a rain induced hold up, I poured them out on my laptop.
It was a strange exhilarating feeling. I felt lightheaded. Of course they would never be looked at again
On the return journey, I had a huge urge to share them with someone who does not know me, with a stranger with a blank face.
I did not bother to read the lines, but uploaded them on my blog. It was a most painful miscarriage.
Here is the offending piece.
Written for a prompt on Project 365 on something I didn’t want to publish but did with great difficulty.
A – Z
Another due date is approaching fast
Blogging is short term, the passion won’t last
Can you believe it; I’m still at it now!
Dabbling in verse too, that calls for a WOW!
Everyone believed it’s just one more fad,
Friends are quite certain, it will drive me mad
Going on at it for six months on end!
Have I gone crazy, am I round the bend?
Inference drawn is that I am a shirk
Just drawing wages and doing no work
Knowing how laidback I always have been
Last thing I believed that I will be seen
Managing to find time to sit and compose
Nonsense and gibberish and limericks and prose
Often I wonder, why do I go on?
Perhaps it’s therapy, but mostly it’s fun
Question is, why on earth did I choose THIS?!
Rhyming A to Z, a masochistic wish!
Should be a challenge, and that will be fun!
That is what I thought; now I am someone
Uselessly trying to find rhyming words
Verse is for madmen, prose is for nerds
What will I do now? I’m at wits end!
Xcuse me readers, I’ve gone round the bend
Yaaay! It’s all over! The last line is here
Zapped you! Did I not? Oh my reader dear?
I did think that selecting that attempting to write a poem in 26 lines with the letters of the alphabet in sequence as the project 365 wepostdaily prompt demanded would be fun, and it was, to write at least. Whether it is fun to read as well, you will be the best judge. You will find this at
My fascination with words began early, perhaps not as early as Abhimanyu, as I don’t remember anything
prenatal, but soon afterwards as I was fortunate in a literate ayah, who was my major childhood influence, and a literary mom, who had a sizable library at home. To keep me quiet, my babysitter would read to me from anything available, including Bangla translations of the English classics, and the Bengali Mahabharata. After such a classical grounding, I could not help but be a lifelong addict to the magic world of fantasy and fiction, initially oral, and later of the printed word.
But addictions have fatal side effects, and I became quite useless at all useful skills of survival. I wasn’t focused on studies, and my handwriting made me suitable only for the medical profession.
I learnt to read, so that I wouldn’t have to wheedle others to read for me, and was a very precocious reader, forcing my parents to hide books in unconventional places, and put covers on some. That’s how I knew which to read first, and in secret.
The inevitable next step was joining the ranks of my heroes, and start writing myself. Writing was fine, but I faced the problem of all would be authors, how to get readers? I had a captive audience in my family, but they couldn’ t or wouldn’t decipher my writing. Solution – a little brother I could bully, who would copy it out for me.
Jump cut to high school. Obliging friends copied out my stories for our hand written wall magazine in exchange for doing their maths homework, and other obliging friends copied out pieces for our first handwritten cyclostyled little magazine, edited and mostly ghostwritten by me in exchange for names on masthead to impress girls. Believe it, bong girls fall for such stuff.
Fast forward to the 80s. Handwritten contributions are no longer acceptable, and typing is a skill I’ve failed to master. However, obliging young ladies willing to support the arts help out, and college, univ, and company magazine continue to feed my need to be heard. That’s how my partner to be first heard me.
Working life and matrimony soon put all creativity on a backburner, until my children appeared on the scene, and mealtime, bedtime and anytime stories took care of all my creative juices, and was well within my technical knowhow.
As time passed, I hankered for a wider audience. By now, I was empowered with a stenographer, and a bit of charm could overcome my tech handicap, and double spaced typed offerings with self addressed envelopes haunted editorial desks and found kind supporters like Jug Suraiya of TOI and others and I had the ultimate high, seeing my babies in print with my byline, and being paid for it.
Work and family took precedence, and creativity was limited to sales pitches and the incredible job of bringing up two daughters to be independent freethinking individuals, well adjusted in life, until they no longer needed or heeded me, and the craving for an audience hit once again.By now, the world had changed beyond my tech challenged comprehension, and the virtual world ruled, denying me access. My wife, who had moved with the times, my friends, who had learnt to cope, and my children, who were born with mouse in hand, had no patience for my illiteracy. It looked like my outpourings would die unheard through lack of virtual space.
Finally, with patient coaching from few young colleagues and friends, I attempted the new medium, THE BLOG and the FB and through many blunderings in unexplored and mysterious realms of which more shall be disclosed later, the end results are for you to see