Passion…unbridled

“Knowing you have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable sensations.”

Vladimir Nabokov

As a sensitive, impressionable kindergartner

Learning alphabets and words I did suffer

Slowly and painstakingly, once I had gained

Mastery over the printed word, my developing brain

Found nothing more fascinating than books-

I learnt to read hidden in crannies and nooks

At a gathering of adults engrossed in conversation

I would slip away much to my mother’s consternation

Find a cozy corner and settle down with a book

Nothing outside those pages merited a look

I learnt to enter stories, characters befriend

I prayed for positive twists at the end..

As years went by, life did not remain

Uncomplicated, there were moments of pain

Through every step of my life, I can say

Books were my companions along the way

Milestones in my life I could measure

By change from one to another genre

Now I go through life at a dizzying pace

Where a good book is still a saving grace

It helps me wind down and allays

My anxiety in many different ways

Now I view reading as a private affair

As a stimulating discourse extraordinaire

Between the reader and the writer alone

The experience of reading is my very own

I am a bookaholic a thousand times over

And  I have a responsibility to shoulder-

To teach my child to learn and discover

In the printed word the same sense of wonder

That I had found when I was his age-

The excitement of turning every single page

The love of learning I’d like to instil

His mind’s corners with imagination fill..

(P.S. This photograph shows the books I am currently reading.)

Blessed are Mendel, Watson and Crick

All those who discovered one big trick-

That our characteristics and behavior any day

Can be blamed on our genes and DNA..

From obvious physical traits and maladies rare

To an optimistic disposition- nothing is spared

From the influence of the mighty double strand

All quirks of human body seem to stand

Subservient to the whims of their genetic constitution- 

DNA has, indeed, acquired a dubious reputation

For being implicated in everything from addiction

To anger, adultery, any behavioral affliction..

Easy it is to blame something that cannot be changed

While (modifiable) environmental issues remain unnamed

By  blaming unacceptable behaviors on heredity

There is a tendency to absolve oneself of responsibility..

But here is something that we should remember

While DNA loads the gun, lifestyle pulls the trigger*,

So even if the genetic code stays a mystery

Actions can outshine family history!

(Mendel discovered genes, Watson and Crick discovered double-stranded DNA)

(*Adapted from a quote by Mehmet Oz)

(Image source: http://www.123rf.com/clipart-vector/genetics.html)

Pluviophile: a lover of rain;someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days

I love the rain, clichéd though it might sound

The sound of raindrops falling on the ground

Dotting my windowpane, following a rhythm of their own

Keeping me company as I sit indoors alone

It’s not that getting soaked in rain I appreciate

Nor is splashing in puddles appealing, I must state

But curling up with a book and some hot tea

On my couch by the window seems heavenly

When it rains outside I have an excuse perfect

To procrastinate on errands, no one would expect

Me to drive around town braving the roads slick

And traffic snarls- the thought makes me sick

Rainy days provide an ideal ambience

For conjuring up poetry saturated with romance..

Rainy days thus give me the time and space

That I crave in my life that runs at a fast pace..

Run, my dear, run!!
I know the day has just begun
But it will be over before you know
You might not have anything to show
For all those hours, think of the guilt
Gnawing at you as you duck under the quilt
That there is so much more left to do
Being productive is really important for you
So that you do not lag behind your peers
You cannot deny that competition is fierce..

This was my inner voice urging me on
To race constantly, go on and on
No achievement was enough, ever
Slowing down was not an option, never
Could I back out from any opportunity
That promised one-upmanship in the community

The constant running was wearing me down
My face was contorted in a permanent frown
Run, run, run- echoed through my mind
Though I was running through an alley blind
Was my raison de’tre this endless race?
This was a question that I had to face
What was I running from, and to what end?
I was being industrious, yes I could pretend
Whatever I needed I had already acquired
Other material objects I now hardly desired
All I wanted was a pace of life much slower
I needed to set the bar of expectations lower

So I tried to ignore the voice in my head
And concentrate on savoring moments instead
A new perspective on life I obtained
I am now more relaxed, that much I can claim!

Sitting in the waiting room, impatiently I
Watch the medical staff go milling by
The tables are turned, the other side I am on
Vulnerable I feel; like my patients, I reckon
Fidgeting in my seat, anxious to be seen
Upset about the wait, thinking I could have been
Far more productive if away from this place
Certain that annoyance is written on my face..
I look around, see others quite contented
Awaiting their turn, not one has commented
On the torture of waiting, I marvel at their patience
Simultaneously trying to find reasons for my impatience
I try to read magazines, but words have no meaning
I am scared, towards the divine I am leaning..

Being a patient when you are a physician
Is like a punishment sent from the heaven
Because the burden of knowledge is detrimental
To reasonable acceptance of illness- more sentimental
Am I when the doctor gives me my diagnosis
I envision the worst in terms of  my prognosis
Fearful scenarios play repeatedly in my mind
I cannot wait to hear what the doctor might find

All this while my blood pressure is shooting up high
My vital signs will be abnormal; and I know why
I take a deep breath; try to invoke some zen 
I calm down for maybe, ten seconds..
Finally I hear my name called out
My relief is visible to others, no doubt
This is the first step, there is more waiting to endure
I have conquered the first step at least, I am sure
I realize my patients are subjected to this wait every day
They rarely complain, almost never say
How they have lost time and productivity
Once again I am humbled by this reality!

This poem is for all folks with difficult and unique names that are mispronounced and misspelt, and those immigrants whose names are distorted

I saw it, I heard it yet again
Mutilated, distorted, bent
Once more I winced in pain
Though it was all inadvertent
My name- of my identity the bearer
Carelessly tossed on tongues foreign
Mispronounced, though I could not be clearer
On exactly how it was meant to be spoken
Also misspelt, misprinted, times innumerable
Double-checking my name second nature became
Never thought something so trivial could make me miserable
Did not know the power held within my name…
Many a times I did contemplate
Changing my name to something easier to pronounce
I struggled inwardly with this debate
My identity I was unwilling to renounce..

While I stayed conflicted, one fine day
I was interrupted at a conference
A long forgotten friend it was, and she did say
My name she had seen in a list; she had confidence
That no one but me could have possession
Of that unique name, she had never found
Anyone else with that name- in true confession
I would never have known she was around
By scanning the lists- she had a name short and sweet
But quite commonplace, I knew at least a dozen
Women by that name, I would have ignored it indeed..
For the first time, I gave my name ten on ten!Since then, over time I have made peace
With my name that is unique, but complicated
I’ve found my annoyance to decrease
On seeing deviations from the way it should be stated.

“We are all stories in the end. Just make it a good one.”

Unknown

Languishing at my parents’ home on a spring afternoon

Praying the schizophrenic weather would end soon

I rummaged through the attic, damp and cold,

Risking illness by coming in contact with mold

Searching for inspiration in objects hidden

In the folds of oblivion, including those forbidden

To my eyes when I was young, for some reason

My curiosity for them had dimmed with each season-

I found an old notebook, its pages dog-eared

Yellowed with age, with turmeric stains smeared

Filled with notes written in cursive writing elegant

Using a fountain pen, the kind that is no longer prevalent..

I need not explain that my curiosity was piqued 

The notebook was exciting, of juicy secrets it reeked

I turned the first page, to find out to who it belonged

It had to be a woman, I thought, I was not wrong

The name was old-fashioned, unfamiliar to me

It was someone from the turn of the last century

Dated early 1900s, a chronicle it appeared to be

Of my ancestors and their checkered history

The story started  several centuries before

Based on verbal anecdotes and family lore

As I read, I imagined, through ages, the tradition

Of grandmothers telling bedtime stories to grandchildren

Weaving fantasy and hyperbole in their narration

Of actual events, seamlessly merging fact with fiction

This is how the notebook read, with generous inclusion

Of superstitious beliefs and divine interventions

Skipping centuries, going back and forth in time

Written with a sense of humor, it captivated my mind..

Such a precious treasure I had never seen

The writer, my relative, had understanding keen

Of the vagaries of human nature, her opinion

Uncannily nailed the truth in every situation

I was beyond fascinated, I had not known

How the seeds of my family had been sown

I had to preserve this, so the diary I scanned

And saved to my computer; I could not stand

The thought of ever losing it, this would be the narrative

I would share with my progeny, as long as I live..

(This is completely imaginary, though I wish there was such a notebook)