11th July, 2017 // 7:03 a.m. // Kaushambi

"Atoms are fickle and their time of  devotion is fleeting - fleeting indeed. Even a long human life adds up to only 650,000 hours. And when that modest milestone flashes into view, or at some other point thereabouts, for reasons unknown, your atoms will close you down, then silently dissemble and go off to be other things."

-A Short History of Nearly Everything, Bill Bryson

"Not only have you been lucky enough to be attached since time immemorial to a favoured evolutionary line, but you have also been extremely - make that miraculously - fortunate in your personal ancestry. Consider the fact that for 3.8 billion years, a period of time older than the Earth's  mountains and rivers and oceans, everyone of your forebears on both sides has been attractive enough to find a mate, healthy enough to reproduce, and sufficiently blessed by fate and circumstances to live long enough to do so. Not one of your pertinent ancestors was squashed, devoured, drowned, starved, stuck fast, untimely wounded or otherwise deflected from its life's quest to perpetuate the only possible sequence of hereditary combinations that could result - eventually, astoundingly, and all too briefly - in you."

-A Short History of Nearly Everything, Bill Bryson

"Incidentally, disturbance from cosmic background radiation is something we have all experienced. Tune your television to any channel it doesn't receive and about one percent of the dancing static you see is accounted for by the ancient remnants of the Big Bang. The next time you complain that there is nothing on, remember you can always watch the birth of the universe. 

- A Short History of Nearly Everything , Bill Bryson

7th July, 2017 // 10:45 a.m. // New Delhi

"Naught so stockish, hard and full of rage. But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, nor is moved with concord of sweet sounds is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils; the motions of his spirits are dull as night, and his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted."

- Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

3rd Februray, 2017 // 9:15 a.m. // New Delhi

"And into that gate they shall enter, and in that house they shall dwell, where there shall be no cloud nor sun, no darkness nor dazzling, but one equal light, no noise nor silence, but one equal music, no fears nor hopes, but one equal possesion, no foes nor friends, but one equal communion and identity, no eneds nor beginnings, but one equal eternity."

- John Donne

4th January, 2017 // 10:16 p.m. // New Delhi

"I would like to sit in a lap shared by no other."

"So be it. When you die, you will hold the highest place in the lap of heaven itself. Go to your parents now, they are waiting for you."

When Dhruv died, he became the pole star - highest and most immutable star in the lap of heaven - The one that would guide people home.

"What a chillingly lonely place to be banished forever. Was it a boon or a curse?"

"All the kid wanted was the lap of his father."

"There isn't a mortal lap that won't ultimately leave you alone. Dhruv got the lap of the only timeless parent."

- Adi Parva, Amruta Patil

3rd January, 2017 // 4:46 p.m. // Kaushambi

' Modern life is such an unholy mix of voyeurism and exhibitionism. People perpetually broadcasting their internal and external selves. '

-Stella Gibson, The Fall (2016)

23rd May, 2016 // 2:10 p.m. // Indian Type Foundry

I want a poem like thick tropical rain
Dense green spatter of syllables
Drumbeat consonants, fertile with meaning.
Sudden. Short. Unforgettable.
Afterwards, jungle silence.

I want a poem like a Russian circus
You should know it has been trained.
No ordinary everyday poem could leap like that.
No quotidian poem could shimmer, spangle, exult like that.
Oh satin, yes, and yes, fakery, and then
Popcorn applause and a lonely child,
Big-eyed, dreaming of running away to the poem.

I want a poem like an animal.
You should be able to eat it. Or domesticate it.
You should be able to befriend it. Or behead it.
You could carry it around or make it bear your burdens.
You could, should, oh should, so should, clean up after it.
Afterwards: Skeleton poem rides in night terror through icecream cloud cover.

I want a poem.
I want a poem.
I get instead this poem.
A poem of clanking wants like a pile of bhaandi-bartan going over a waterfall in a barrel.
A poem of whispering needs like a tree whose branches scrape plea-bargains from the pavement as it is dragged
to the bonfire.

I want a poem
like a chorus of angels,
a chamber of horrors,
a block buster film,
a sexcapade with candlewax,
an anaconda adventure,
a ride in a Batmobile,
a contessa in a fountain.
I want a poem.

I Want a Poem by Jerry Pinto 

25th April, 2016 // 9:56 p.m. // Kaushambi

"Photographs, which fiddle with the scale of the world, themselves get reduced, blown up, cropped, retouched, doctored, tricked out. They age, plagued by the usual ills of paper objects; they disappear; they become valuable, and get bought and sold; they are reproduced. Photographs, which package the world, seem to invite packaging. They are stuck in albums, framed and set on tables, tacked on walls, projected as slides. Newspapers and magazines feature them; cops alphabetize them; museums exhibit them; publishers compile them. "

On Photography, Susan Sontag