Rebirth

The Wood Apple, otherwise known as Vilambazham in Tamil is a fruit that is round to oval, 2 to 5 in (5-12.5 cm) wide, with a hard, woody, grayish-white, scurfy rind about 1/4 in (6 mm) thick.

To put things into perspective, this thing disguised as a fruit is as hard as a hockey ball. But wait, no one knows how hard the ball of our national game is. Proud to be Indian. Anyway, it's as hard as... um... a hockey ball people, come on! Point I'm trying to make is, it can hurt quite a bit, if it hits you at a decent speed. Now, assume this thing fell from a tree from a stationary position. (yes, it got detached from it's branch, or whatever)

Height of tree(h) = 12 feet
Initial velocity (u) = 0 feet/second
Acceleration due to gravity(g) = 32 feet/sec^2

Hence, by the fomula v^2 = u^2 + 2gh, we get, final velocity of the falling fruit as approximately 28 feet/sec. At that speed, a hockey ball hitting your head, can leave a good sized lump. And wipe away a few memory cells here and there. You know, you'll know your name starts with A and ends with D but the letters in between would've been erased. A wood apple hitting you right at the top of your head, at that same speed, in a cycle parking lot, with no one else around, could make you unconscious. In which state you would stay for a while cos no one's around. And therefore eventually, you MIGHT have put your mortality to test.

The Wood Apple missed me by 2 inches. I brought it along with me. Newton's apple taught him gravity. The Wood Apple taught me the gravity of life.

Feeling line, I know :)

T for TNR

This Tortured soul, Tumbled into this Totalitarian world by the Twists of fate, taken for a ride both as Teacher and Torturer by the Treasonous Tryst of my parents Throwing me into a world of Tension and Trouble. The Toxins Traveling Through my veins are but a Testament to the Testimony that my Tender parts are Tingling with the Terrible Thoughtlessness, felt usually during a Traumatic Ten-hour operation.

To elaborate upon the Travails and Tribulations which afflict me would Try the Tolerance of any Timid Tribal among These Teeming millions. The only Thought of action possible is met with Terapidation and Toothlessness by the Throngs of This Ten-Thousand strong community.

But this Temerity with which I describe Trivialities of my Troubled life caught between the Throes of Tired Teetotalers and Totally Trashed Tipsters must surely take away the Tiny Tokens of Thinking matter you have been Trusted with by The Maker. Therefore, let me Take away This Totally needless Tapestries surrounding my Timely arrival to save you from your Timeless Troubles, and just say That ‘Tis my honour to meet Thee, and you may call me, T.

:)

Yeeeeah, so...

I'm alive. The blog is not. Or rather, was not. Is now.

Ok... so... I must write now. Right now. Right? Wait, I should probably write a poem. I've never written one. Well, nothing that's not a rip-off of Metallica songs anyway. No originality of thought, that's my problem. I've never thought of originality as such a precious commodity. But then, only when you lose something you feel its absence, I guess. So, I've lost my originality, what've I got?

I will not describe my poor, uninteresting life for all to comment about. I won't. I haven't read any book or watched any movie or heard any song in the recent past that has sufficiently impressed or disgusted me to describe it for all you poor, uninteresting people to share your views about. Football season hasn't started yet, and I'm sick of everyone talking about that game all through the World Cup anyway. Oh wait, I've already made that clear.

That's sad, really. All I want to is to Keep the Dream alive, I mean, keep the Blog alive. But it doesn't seem to me like a sun will shine on me again, A Well will Ring inside my head, and all will be brand new. Wait, I will go back into myself, delve deep into the unexplored corners of my soul and rediscover myself and be born again and emerge a new man and... and... do all those kinds of stuff.

It's been raining.