You

Lines and waves,
Distorted characters,
I am diseased by your blood.
Confront me,
Abrupt and blurry,
Seep into my skin my slow demise,
Beckon to me my intimate revival.
Sing to me
My requiem.

The Tauran

This interview was one of the final projects of the creative writing course that I had done, and it is in fact an approximation of an interview. By this I mean that I've recorded my experience of taking the interview instead of conforming to the usual conventions of an interview. The experience was refreshing, the results, well I would rather let you see for yourself.

The mission: An interview.
It's the journalism aspect of creative writing he says. I'm not listening to him anymore... I'm too preoccupied wondering whom I want to interview. I couldn't think of anyone off the top of my head, looks like I might get stuck making up an interview.

Friday.
We did a collaboration with the drawing and painting class. There were so many styles, so many artists, so much created with just one stick of black coal. But one caught my eye. I'm interviewing this guy, I told myself. And I did.

How to ask him though? How to request the pleasure of his company for an hour, to ask him the questions I have written down? I was pretty gutsy about it, surprisingly so. Walking back from lunch on Friday, I saw him.
How to catch his attention? He's walking in front of me, he can't see me wave. I call out. So awkward, so uncertain, "Oye! Hey, um... Oye!" I didn't even know his name. Was there any other way to get him to turn around? To give me a first glance? I remained oblivious to Jeddie laughing her face off beside me.
He turned around...Finally.

His friend was smirking. I'm told that, being a girl, asking a guy for an interview is considered an excuse to get to know him.

Ahem it wasn't.

"Hi, um, I saw your work in charcoal and I really liked it, I was wondering if I could interview you for a class assignment", smooth... real smooth...
"Oh you're from the creative writing class huh? Well yeah sure I don't mind"
Yay.

Monday. He had a field trip.
Tuesday. I had a field trip.

Wednesday. I carried out the long-awaited interview. Another awkward moment... I walked up to him (still didn't know his name...) and asked him if we could meet for lunch (a date? ... no). When else was I supposed to carry out an hour-long interview?

My friends were convinced, however, that I was about to embark on a date... because an interview is definitely very romantic (cough). So of course, as any good friend would do (thank you Amanda), they began to dole out fleshy bits of advice. Not that this helped my nervousness.

The interview finally began at the Collegepoint cafe on (you guessed it) College Street. I asked him several questions; the first of which were the 'suggested' questions, the last of which I was actually interested in knowing. We spoke in quick succession. I don't think he liked awkward silences either.

What can I say about this artist?
That he's an animal lover. That he prefers the cold to the heat. That he's shy and reserved. That he likes chocolate. That he paints for no one but himself. That he listens to music and has a cat. That he works best in charcoal. That he smiles a lot. And that he's extremely picky about his friends. He's isolated in solitude and wouldn't want it any other way.

But he probably wouldn't hug a tree to save it. Pity...
I would.

His birthday's twenty days after mine, but we're not of the same zodiac. He's a Tauran:
Patient and reliable (admirable)
Warmhearted and loving (ooh)
Persistent and determined (shouldn't be any other way)
Jealous and possessive (I wouldn't know)
Self-indulgent and greedy (a little bit's healthy I suppose)

He doesn't plan to pursue art as a career though. "Just a passionate hobby", he tells me. Sure that makes sense right? I mean art's not the most sustaining profession unless you're the best? Then again who decides that?

"I'm pretty interested in the computer sciences. You know, programming and stuff. Not animation, I'm more inclined towards simulation programs", he says with a weak smile.
Why is art so hostile to those who dare to pursue it?

I smile back.
We artists understand each other. I think.

We had fifteen minutes left, and I still wanted pictures of his work. It was an interesting experience, limiting our interview to an hour. Insufficient, but satisfying nonetheless.

So this is how a journalist feels when the interview's over.
That was it. I don't know if I'm to talk to this artist ever again. I don't know if there're any possibilities of a familiarity.

Maybe there is.

That would be nice.




I stare straight, dreaming, wondering.
The wood stares back, showing off its weathered surface with condescending pride.
Charred, scratched and worn, it is experienced. Wise.
It stares at me, the lines of its withered age showing through the charcoal and paint.
He sits atop the wooden bench, oblivious to my frantic notes.
I watch him, my feet black with the same charcoal that guides his fingers toward creation.
My mind swims, unable to comprehend the movement of his hands, swift, precise, final.
The wood stares at me. Accusing, convicting.
My art is different.
I don't belong here, I was never meant to be an innocent bystander to the crime of art.
Never meant to be a coward to the daring spirit of the artist.
Yet I am.
Yet I try to capture the precision and grace of those hands.
I try to trap their vast inspiration with my insufficient words.
The wood stares at me.
How dare you, it whispers.

Translations of Anakreon

Preface:
Anakreon was a poet of early Greek civilisation, who's writings were found often torn apart, or with gaping holes in them. I was given a worksheet, you could call it, with some found texts of Anakreon's love poem, and with several lines or phrases missing, which I was assigned to fill out. I took a somewhat different approach though, by making it an ode to lust and superficiality rather than to love. Just for the sake of being different I suppose!
The parts in bold are those already given to me, and those that aren't in bold are what I've added!

Translations of Anakreon
(Anakreon, sixth century B.C.)

A marriage of sorts
-Sucheta Nadig
July 11, 2006

Sleepless, insomniac, she lies beside me,
Snoring all [nig]ht long I turn to see,
Her open-mouthed dreams, she sighs
Both delight and disgust, a sick mélange,
I shudder my repulse, was I ever in love?
But loving and hating, such a fine line
Offerings at hand sacrifices for togetherness
Of the Pierides the Greek chapel seen,
The beginning of this shitty life
And Graces and prayers for inertia of love
And then the vows, I cringe at the memory
A remembrance of something sacred turned to sacrilege
The biggest mistake of my life thought she
Once was beaut[iful] or so I thought
Young and carefree my memory
Flitter we all the night in the once happy utopia
Fishing with bait along a moonlit shore
Golden-helmeted Pallas invoke those spiteful Gods
Ordinary from afar up close she is the epitome of disgust
Flowering fungus oozes through her pores
Her hair all fallen and white, uninviting repugnance
The slow passage of time, unyielding to lovers, to anyone.

Can myrrh rubbed on a chest
Sweeten the great round heart inside?
Can love injured by time heal again?
Is time an eternal wound open to the harsh universe?
A man revived past the pains of time, taken back afar in memory
Whose heart is green and young again
And dances to a lissome tune on the flute

That man, me, myself, trusting no more in the winds of time
My story of a man, loved pitiful war.
She danced into my bed, begging to serve me
Years ago, she danced a proposal, of slavery and service

The servant girl poured
Honeyed wine from the jug
On her shoulder
Seduction so sweet, lured this man

The horrid bedroom
In which he, unmarrying,
Was married unwilling
This man, me myself
He sleeps soundly
With his bedroom door
Always unbolted
A hope so desperate that she might leave

His dreams fill with a wish so desolate
Glowing with desire
Gleaming with spiced oil
Enticing him to dissolve his vows into adultery
This man, me, myself

His dreams interrupted momentarily
A vision of the virtuous Guilt itself
Walking along with a haughty neck
His desire too strong, he pushes it away

Wine server, she fills his heart with yearning
A dawn of heightened senses punctuated by the
Chattering swallow.

His vision begins to tempt him once more
Pulling him to her body smothered in sweet honey
Wine server
So sweet to his lips

Beautiful
Her face so perfectly sculpted by the Gods
Pretty
Her body so perfectly molded by the Gods
An epitome of seduction

Her legs, long and slender,
Stalks of slim white celery
In a wicker basket
Drops of thick golden honey slide down
Leaving the celery oh so sweet…

The swift movement of his arms
His hands sticky with the touch of her skin
This man, me, myself
Her lips so soft as feathers soaked in wine

He marries in his dreams, I marry in my dreams
True marriage it seems
Again on a beach, an island
Vows bind us, we two in love,
We pray O ears that hear prayers,
Our very solemn promise of togetherness
For that love may be the Lady in the stars
But lust triumphs like Eros stalking
On the balls of his feet, through the sands of time untouched

The happy sinners are true who indulge
Of those I love are virtues superficial
Until my dream moves me on to more lustful marriage
Hail! Kyllanas witness this shallow yet eternal vow
Vast as the sea yet deeper no more than a mere pool

We kneel at Aphrodite’s altar
Smiling at fate’s twisted ways
Sacred mother bless us in our quest for lust
Of Kryptis, of promise, and of beauty unrivaled
Allow us revelation in our sinful delights
Excite me with this dream of a beautiful wife
Let us forever be combined in passion and obsession
Glossy are the eyes that dream such so
To let my wife be buried and I marry this dream of
Sweet glistening skin and chambers of satin
Hail the ardour of my lovely dream
Sight of a wine server’s body, following the curves of her hips
I hug your knees I kiss your lips
The taste of sugary wine meets my lips
Young is this dream that I take solace in
You, boy, what an elusive sprite, my reverie,
Come to me! Save me from my reality
Look I wake, no! Let it not be
For I am trapped for eternity.

A Patriot's Soliloquy

Hope, it's a fickle word... ambiguous yet said with passion and conviction. There is hope that India will rise to greatness, that india will one day become a developed nation with strong ideals and powerful cultures, there is hope. How much?
Is hope alone enough to sustain the Himalayan pride? It is enough to provide for an overpopulated country in an era of scarcity?
The indian people are patriotic... hypocrites in their loyalty to the nation. A cricket mach will ensure that every indian paint his face in shades of the scared saffron, white and green; but that same indian will still vote for the politician with the highest bribes. He will still abandon his country in search for the 'American Dream'.
Pollution, population, politics and poverty... this is the Indian Reality. We are an endangered species. The cultures that have flourished for thousands of years, a history of a hundred kings and sultans, and of arts beyond imagination, are endangered by our plight today. Like the white tiger, we walk on the edge of extinction.
India is unique; it will remain unique, whether it lives past the struggle or dies trying.

Home

A wagging tail,
a slobbering tongue,
wooden floors and thick Persian rugs,
the melancholy sound of a trackling waterfall

Cream couches,
patterned cushions,
A hypnosis of red swirls intertwined,
the wagging tail still going strong

Contented greed,
with dusk's advent,
the sunset incomparable, enchanting,
pours flaming earth through the window

Sung and still,
privileged reverie,
a utopia of security sings to me,
cooing and calling me to go home.

untitled

Through the mist a looming figure,
Creation of god, most awesome giver,
A fearsome monster
chilled as a cocktail,
All hands on deck,
the engine's about to fail

The waters calm before,
now scream thiundering in fear,
off wreckage interrupting their silky surface,
and metal shards in what once was clear

The waters with their surface black and foamy,
watch as the mighty monster
immersed in waters, that now seem loamy,
tears apart this insolent intruder

Death's a mercy,
pain is hell
Only hears the sound of terror,
rings not the angel's bell

Save our souls they cried,
Their death was in mercy
before the pain they died,
the monster it felt pity

Collision was first,
then calamity
As hell began to thirst
Satan's fiery city,

now filled with ice and water and stone,
debris of steel and iron,
torn human flesh and crushed human bone
No ambulance, no siren

The waters swallow one and all,
Blackness reigns once more
Moonlight it shines on water's silk,
all along the unseen shore

Monster of mystery, such power, such greatness,
Some call it the iceberg though most fear to name,
Such a wild creation of nature and god
merciless to trespassers, never to be tame

Girls Have no Heart?

One of my friends comes up to me one day, and says, “I tell you, girls have no heart… none whatsoever!” in this extremely hurt and angry voice.
“Fine”, I say, “and you say that because…?”
“Because,” he replies, “they play with love”
“And what do you know about love?” I scoff, very amused by this topic of conversation.
“ I’ll have you know, that I’m extremely well-informed on love!” He exclaims.
“Of course, and that’s why she left you!”
“She didn’t leave me because I don’t know about love, she left me because SHE doesn’t know about love!” He cries indignantly, “She said she loved me! She said she would NEVER leave me! How could she then just walk out on me?”
“She just walked out on you? Just like that?” I ask
“Yes! Just like that!” he wailed, “Girls don’t know what it means to say ‘I love you’! They just say it because they don’t want us to feel bad! Its not like they truly mean it!” Now he was completely tear-stricken, his head in his hands.
I mean it hurt, to hear him saying things about girls, even though I’m sure he knew that I was one!
“Okay, maybe she didn’t know the meaning of love! How can you expect her to? She’s only fifteen!” (Okay I wasn’t really sure how old she was but I guess I got it right!)
I didn’t think this would make him feel any better, but it was the truth, and he had to face it sometime!
“Then why did she say she loved me? Why? When I told her I loved her, why didn’t she just tell me that she didn’t?” He cried
I guess some guys will always be drama queens (or kings)! It doesn’t make sense though; these people claim to have found love, at age fifteen… how? Okay it probably is possible, but how do you know its love? I mean hearts may break at age fifteen, but there’s a whole life ahead waiting to be lived? Why brood?
I suppose it was her wrong in saying she loved him, but when a guy tells you something as intimate and meaningful as “I love you”, you can’t dismiss it! Its either “I love you too” or “I don’t love you so what’s the point going out?”
Those are, honestly the only two choices! According to me anyways, I’m assuming this post’s going to be pretty controversial, and if it isn’t… then I’ve got it right!

I fall asleep, and begin to snore

I begin to read, to take down notes
Stuck in this prison of wood, ink and paper
Boredom sleepiness hunger and more
I eat, I hog, three chocolates and a wafer
I fall asleep, and initiate a snore

Maps stuck up around me
How I want to tear them down
Burn my books and study no more
Watch these printed pages turn brown

My rear, I fear is stuck to my chair
I cannot move, this isn’t fair
Tangles and knots inhabit my hair
But honestly, why should I care?

All I want is freedom
To do or don’t whatever
Study social science again?
Um yeah how about never!

If I make one small blunder,
I can imagine Ms. Meera thunder,
How could you possibly do this?
For one question I happened to miss

I begin to read, to take down notes
I’ve finished socials my very first paper
Boredom sleepiness hunger and more
I eat I hog three chocolates and a wafer
I fall asleep and I begin to snore

Monday march 7th, a genius performs
Um duh of course I went!
His guitar was awesome his voice even more
Now that was time well spent!

One night of fun then books again
Honestly I care how many arrows Arjun had
Yeah seriously such vital information, not
R.S. Agarwal has succeeded in driving me mad!

If I make one small blunder,
I can imagine Ms. Ramamani thunder
How could you possibly do this?
For one question I happened to miss
Finally two down three to go,
I’ve finished math, my second,
I didn’t get to ride in the car with Rati and Meg
I should’ve gone when she beckoned!
Boredom, sleepiness, hunger and more,
I fall asleep, and begin to snore.

One day before French
Never studied for so long
That okay I still like french
Seven hours still going strong!

Deathly tired after a seven hour class
Cannot read French anymore
Inspired by my love for the language
I fall asleep and begin to snore

I dream of weird things
In most weird situations
I dream of trains full of people
Pulling slowly into their stations

I dream of people with blue faces
Asking how my French paper went
Of green and purple flowers
Asking how my French paper went

If I make one small blunder,
I can imagine Ms. Aneela thunder,
How could you possibly do this?
For one question I happened to miss

French is over, c’était mon troisième
Finally three down two to go
The invigilator was a really sympa femme
Mixing languages, bad idea I know
I promise I won’t do it anymore
I fall asleep and begin to snore

The ultimate safari and cutie pie
Honestly this is what I have to learn?
Of course I’d rather die
Than read about an alien eating a fern!
I don’t believe CBSE expects us to do these
Write a diary entry as a grandmother? Ugh please!

If I make one small blunder,
I can imagine Ms. Pammi thunder
How could you possibly do this?
For one question I happened to miss

One more to go, the last home run
Nine days of studying, what fun!
Biology, physics, chemistry
I feel like such a banyan tree!
Don’t ask me why,
Just look at me and sigh,
And give my all your sympathy

Studying forever,
Take a break? Never!
Need some rest, some sleep, relax
Nothing’s good enough unless I max
You could’ve done better, that’s what they’ll say
I work, I slog, I eat, I pray
Can’t wait to cut my books up… with an axe!

If I make even one small blunder,
I can imagine three science teachers thunder
How could you possibly do this?
For one question I happened to miss

But now it’s done, over, gone forever
Thank god I don’t have to study anymore
Yep it’s done, over, gone forever
I fall asleep and begin to snore

Exhaustion, from three weeks of study
Cannot imagine what I’m going to do now
Textbooks burned, their contents unlearned
I’ll stay occupied don’t ask me how

I’ll admit this isn’t literary genius
But it’s only meant to entertain
So I guess it isn’t a poem
That goes without gain!

It’s just to keep a record
Of all these horrid gruesome days
To look back and laugh at
How I studied in horrid gruesome ways!

But the end is here,
In more ways than one
I guess you could say
That studying was fun!