tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13354565259593937962024-03-12T19:22:52.667-07:00MeanderingsOne post at a timePreeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-40377375795566209512021-01-29T19:31:00.009-08:002021-01-29T19:31:56.975-08:00Growing Up<p>You join dots that glint like the tips of a tantrum</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">to form alphabets that are onesies dangling <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">from pink plastic clips of lisped words <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">fluttering into sentences like shape shifting wind<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">settling into a sepia memory like winged butterflies <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">on a flower.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Can we spend some more time, here, together?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">~ In response to the Peter's Prompt at <a href="https://dversepoets.com/2021/01/28/mtb-opening-lines-beginnings/">dVerse</a></p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-29687219491460045472021-01-28T18:10:00.003-08:002021-01-28T18:11:54.010-08:00Turning within<p>watch the mind for five seconds,</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">watch it watching itself <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">like an alert sentinel<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">realisation pierces through<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">the parallax of demands like a diamond cutter<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">shredding <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>shearing
the flab <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>flak<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">of the unwanted <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the unneeded
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">convoluted ingrained patterns of <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">thinking <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>thoughts <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">the residue of purity <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>unadulterated consciousness <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">decants into a moment of<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">meaning that spotlights existence <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and everything becomes clear<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">sharp like the crackle of fire <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">~Written in response to the Brendan's Earthweal Weekly Challenge : <a href="https://earthweal.com/2021/01/25/deep-time/">Deep Time</a></p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-58048534173872512612021-01-27T18:47:00.000-08:002021-01-27T18:47:00.158-08:00A Rainbow-bridge<p class="MsoNormal">"Call me to lie down in fragrance" ~ D Margoshes ~ Season of Lilac</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Sunny afternoons<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">when I sat in your warmth <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">tracing the picture of a red apple<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">its nascent curves, remnants <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">of baked memories <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Fresh earth washed by raindrops <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Each the size of a teaspoon<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Full of your wise words<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">That I missed in my hurry to find a place<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Under a grey sky raining needles<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Green possibilities <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">When I can cup the glow of fireflies<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">And listen to the ditties of the cuckoo<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Taste the tartness of the grapefruit you once peeled<o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">And walk, with you, along the colours of the rainbow-bridge <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">~ Written in response to the dVerse Prompt: <a href="https://dversepoets.com/2021/01/26/poetics-beginning-at-the-end/">Poetics: Beginning at the End</a> by Laura Bloomsbury</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-26594044611633034792021-01-26T18:19:00.002-08:002021-01-26T18:19:43.275-08:00Transience<p>The glitter of gold is questioned</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Groupthink has had its say <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One invisible living atom quietens<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The uproar of invincible economies <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Honesty is looked upon as a hydra-headed handicap <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And values morph into gibberish fit for the sidelines
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 102.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Although nothing is a surprise anymore<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Nothing is a mystery<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hope remains </p><p class="MsoNormal">That kindness will prevail<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That gentleness will proceed to work out a way<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That rules will be followed and roles will be respected<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While acknowledging the transience of <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Perishable life in a scarfed paradise<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">~Written in response to the prompt <a href="https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2021/01/writers-pantry-54-new-dawn.html">Writers' Pantry #54: New Dawn</a> at Poets and Storytellers United</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-91618055426857983392021-01-25T19:30:00.002-08:002021-01-25T19:31:28.434-08:00Green <p>Gentle rustling leaves echo</p><p>A strewn pebble white
round smooth</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The blue river <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>gurgles
below<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The tall sky sparkles<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>evening glow<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I will walk this way <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>later <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>again<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the quietness <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of
an interlude <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To touch <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the scent
green <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>see <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To belong <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to be <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">~Written in response to the </span><a href="https://dversepoets.com/2021/01/25/dverse-quadrille-119-no-way-way/">dVerse</a> Prompt by Lisa </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-89977392178838662382021-01-24T19:11:00.002-08:002021-01-24T19:11:16.582-08:00Visual Verse<p> A piece of short fiction that I submitted to Visual Verse is up at https://visualverse.org/submissions/the-ship/ </p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-41325922854688967502021-01-23T19:43:00.000-08:002021-01-23T19:43:58.267-08:00Moonshine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg13H6rQfzOrHlwknjPQZdme_nA93oK9XNV5z3a9BXNltkfveUqIJzV3EGEYKMMLE7otKoEGTxOQFCUbVCSA8GNqFjbBrEkSLt9LmVuZUiGjsLJoLjGI0JIaNCvpMai3ojJ51tVCamVdZ0/s960/tltweek260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="640" height="377" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg13H6rQfzOrHlwknjPQZdme_nA93oK9XNV5z3a9BXNltkfveUqIJzV3EGEYKMMLE7otKoEGTxOQFCUbVCSA8GNqFjbBrEkSLt9LmVuZUiGjsLJoLjGI0JIaNCvpMai3ojJ51tVCamVdZ0/w213-h377/tltweek260.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p>The captain knelt in front of the altar and raised his palms
in surrender, for after two hundred fifty days of voyage, exhausting their
store of canned food and no respite in sight, sea sickness consumed him and his
men like conflagrating wild fire. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Sire, land ahoy!,’ cried the men, banging their fists against
the teak door of his room. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The captain opened his eyes to see the top of a light house glowing
incandescent against the dark sky, its light as soothing as liquid moonshine. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">~Written in response to Sonya's Three Line Tales Prompt at https://only100words.xyz/2021/01/21/three-line-tales-260/ - Three Line Tales 260</p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-49783677150244055382021-01-22T17:54:00.006-08:002021-01-22T18:10:31.536-08:00Resilience<p>Manya sat in the midst of papers, swirling in a sea of indigo files. She couldn’t hear the clock ticking but knew that each moment gave way to the next with speed of lightening. The Deadline would creep in, deadly quiet, and stand there, thin-lipped, hands on her hips, demanding her pound of flesh.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Manya stood up and stared out of the window. The red-tiled portico was unpeopled except for the aged gardener who was hunched over, picking tufts of dried grass lining the edge of the green lawn.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">How she wished she could join him. Did he want a potted petunia for his garden? Or a gladiolus, may be? She would choose the best ones from her own select array and gift it to the man. Tomorrow. When it would all be over. She would gladly trade the coldness of the ivory tower, where she stood, to the greenness of the grassroots with which the gardener worked. Carefree. Shorn of inane responsibilities. Happy.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">But then again, wasn’t happiness a bi-product of the mind, just as suffering was. It was all in the mind. What stood between her and happiness at that moment? It was her mind. Her imagined fear of a missed deadline.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The gardener stood up, stretched his back and made as if to wipe the sweat off his brow. He sat down in a huff, muttering under his breath for a couple of moments, and slowly proceeded to pick up where he had left. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Manya looked at the clear sky. It was dotted with wispy white clouds. Clouds that predicted good fortune, she knew. The Deadline was inching, slowly and surely. Battling it, tackling it and nailing it, was the Hobson’s choice she would choose.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">She turned around and found the indigo blue files staring at her. They were the same colour as the colour of the sky. She picked one and ran her fingers over its smooth surface. She was now holding a piece of the sky, her very own sky.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">~Written in response to Rommy's Prompt - Weekly Scribblings #53 : Beautiful Words at Poets and Storytellers United. I chose the word Zuiun: clouds that predict good fortune. Word Count:341</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;">https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2021/01/weekly-scribblings-53-beautiful-words.html#comment-form</span></span></p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-20779549653526965942021-01-21T19:27:00.001-08:002021-01-21T19:27:08.875-08:00 A ball of ideas<p>Life is all about engagements,</p><p class="MsoNormal">entanglements of</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">thoughts of action,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">actionable thoughts<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">action and thoughts, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and sometimes thoughtless actions<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">meaningless thoughts<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">until the colourful skeins transform into <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">one giant, jumble, colourful ball of ideas.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It takes a calm mind, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">cool and clear <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">to separate and put them to use<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">or to see meaning morph from <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">what is far from a mess. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">~In response to Earthweal Weekly Challenge : Entangled Up in You from Brendan</p><p class="MsoNormal">https://earthweal.com/2021/01/18/earthweal-weekly-challenge-entangled-up-in-you/</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-71359508180062236942021-01-20T19:07:00.000-08:002021-01-20T19:07:19.521-08:00Making Sense<p>It is always easy to unentangle</p><p>the Past into clarity,</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">fork and ingest, decipher <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">her epiphanous meaning <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">under cones of the clear white light,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">shone by fleeting Present. But sometimes, when <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">she lingers long enough, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">her diaphanous flecks <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">spill purpose onto the swell of Future,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">transmogrifying into a slip-fit link<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">so life becomes one long roller chain<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">of purpose. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">~In response to Prompt at dVerse by Merril D Smith : Connections</p><p class="MsoNormal">https://dversepoets.com/2021/01/19/poetics-connections/ </p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-74216261244221101742021-01-02T03:31:00.008-08:002022-02-06T03:05:43.008-08:00The new year<p>Here we are, at the cusp of a new year. </p><p>Last year was a painful year as a gigantic wave of loss swelled and spilled onto the banks of the normal idea of normalcy, engulfing many in its folds. It was like as if God had tightly closed the lid on our world and was rattling it like a salt and pepper shaker.</p><p>If there is anything the pandemic has taught us, it is, according to me, the need to be kind, the significance of being understanding. It has reminded us the ephemerality of our thoughts, our desires and our existence. As long as we are destined to be here, let us be kind to one another. For, long after a person is gone, what remains alive in the hearts of the living, are the wispy petals of kindness that she has dispersed. </p><p>Let us begin the new year, gripping the torch of hope firmly in our callused hands. Let us stand united and lend each other support till we can together surmount the challenges posed by these trying times and make it to the shore of safety.</p><p>Happy new year!</p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-7720623188923210182020-12-05T05:33:00.002-08:002020-12-05T05:33:13.417-08:00A new poem at Mothers Always WriteMothers Always Write is a magazine that I have always admired and read regularly. Happy to share that a poem that I have written - 'One Step at a Time' has been published. Here it is: https://mothersalwayswrite.com/one-step-at-a-time/Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-9097241652073574242020-11-21T03:49:00.007-08:002020-11-21T03:50:11.836-08:00A stolen afternoon The creased bedspread undergird your sleep, a sleep I do not want to disturb and have the magical spell and magical run that I have had with my writing, halt like it has arrived at an unexpected dead end. <div><br /></div><div>But you wake up and open those black eyes that I love so much. I realise my luck has thinned as I cajole sleep to curl into you. I cram in the last keystrokes, allow the sulci and gyri of my cerebellum to form thoughts as clear as possible and click the right buttons before I shut my work for the day and tend to you like I tend to the hidden desires in my heart.</div>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-47862579160645451912020-11-08T03:21:00.005-08:002020-11-08T03:21:25.717-08:00Flash Fiction<p>A piece of flash fiction that I wrote is up at https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/ekphrastic-writing-responses-maria-izquierdo. Thanks for reading! </p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-10858675296249264352020-11-01T05:00:00.005-08:002020-11-01T05:00:48.102-08:00Efforts at home schooling<p style="text-align: justify;">Krishna is now two and a half years old and at home, thanks to the pandemic. Much as I try to slot the days into neat little compartments of learning, art and outdoor activities (which has reduced to a bare minimum), I have not been able to. For, the mind of a two year old is as playful as the flitting butterfly that refuses to get bogged down by the rigors of discipline. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">I try to cram in as many activities as possible for him, into the lone hour that I get, before leaving to office. Ten minutes of which, gets spent in cajoling him to arrive at the table to read. I finally abandon my futile attempts and get him to sit on the soft duvet, a bowl of raisins in one hand and his favourite water bottle in another. He uses both of them as distractions to suit his whims, once every two minutes when he finds the process of listening, tedious. I carry on like this for the next fifty minutes in the solace of the knowledge that we are 'making incremental progress towards a meaningful goal', a la Earl Nightingale. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">And then I hand him over to my mother to carry off from where I leave and proceed to office till I return in the evening, hoping to read to him but never actually getting my exhausted self to do it.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">One of these days, hopefully, things will change. And hopefully the process of learning will get to be more fun for both of us, actually all three of us - my mother and me, as educators and my son, as a diligent learner. </p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-235232808079846772020-10-04T06:19:00.000-07:002020-10-04T06:19:00.485-07:00Buddhist Poetry Review<p> My poem titled 'The Destination' has been published in Buddhist Poetry Review. You can read it here at https://www.buddhistpoetryreview.org/archive/vol-three-issue-three/preeth-ganapathy </p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-27331065337690288742020-09-26T06:14:00.005-07:002020-09-26T06:15:32.420-07:00Two Poems and a piece of micro fiction<p>Hello,</p><p>Happy to share with you a couple of my recent publishing successes.</p><p>Willawaw Journal published a poem that I had written - 'The Flourescent Orange Swimsuit' in their Fall Issue. You can read it here - http://willawawjournal.com/category/journal/fall-2020-issue-10/page/3/</p><p>A piece of micro fiction that I wrote was published in one of my favourite magazine - 101Words.org. https://101words.org/divine-justice/</p><p>A poem that I had written in response to their prompt - 'Figures on a landscape' by Bertram Booker has been published in The Ekphrastic Review. It's up at https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/ekphrastic-writing-responses-bertram-brooker.</p><p>Happy writing! Happy reading!</p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-35562568671168648792020-09-21T05:47:00.001-07:002020-09-21T05:47:04.019-07:00In the lap of nature<p> Today is the last day of my three day mini-break in Coorg.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I must say that this time, I got to see a completely
different face of the land that I belong to, the land whose beauty I just can’t
get enough of, I just can’t stop raving about.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We arrived on Saturday morning after a short detour to
KRS(Krishna Raja Sagar) dam. Our car tootled on the cement pathway to our home
in tune to the light beats of a thin drizzle, when I caught sight of the patch
of clouds hanging delicately on the tip of the distant hillock, a hillock I had
never noticed before. They bowed low like hosts, eager to please, folding their
palms. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It has not stopped raining since the time we arrived. The volume of the rainfall
varies from time to time, alternating between heavy and light, but never
stopping altogether. This sound of pattering rain is a pleasurable change from the
constant din of honking horns of a dreary city life.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">During the past two days, Krishna, with his outstretched
palms, has been sampling drops of water dripping from different surfaces – from
the red petals of wild hibiscus, from the tips of green unripe coffee berries,
from the eaves of the two dog kennels, from the edge of the porch – all while
we entertained ourselves to some outdoor carrom, a game at which I fare very
poorly and would have happily joined my toddler in his adventures instead. Nevertheless,
we did have some great moments of family bonding, ones that will remain in our
mind for a long time to come.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today morning, we visited the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kere, </i>a small pond which serves as a natural well of irrigation to
the estate. It was as green as the leaves of coffee shrubs themselves and
Krishna was pretty excited to see all the different birds that hung around the
pond. We tried to match them with the birds we had seen from his book, but practicals
are always a different ball game when compared to theory. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Otherwise, I’ve been trying to nature-watch, bird-watch,
insect-watch, flower-watch from the comfort of a sheltered
porch trying to soak in as much as possible. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With a book on my lap and a fountain-pen in my hand, on our first
evening here, I remarked to my husband who was sitting beside me, sipping from a
cup of hot coffee, ‘This is my dream life, you know. Writing in the lap of
nature.’ Like one of my favourites, Ruskin Bond. And another favourite, Shivaram
Karanth. But now at the end of the third day, I realize - I was so lost in her
beauty that, in three days, I could only squeeze in a short poem in her praise.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The days and nights have been cold, a kind of cold that
lulls you into sleep and prevents you from getting on your toes to make
yourself a cup of coffee, to take a bath or to reach for the phone that
lies on the table a few feet away from your bed. ‘Lie down for some time more,’
the cold seems to say, a wicked smile playing at the corner of its lips. The
only other place that reminds me of this kind of cold is Mussoorie , which happens
to be another favourite.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘The chill in the weather is much better these days. When we
were young, we would find it difficult to even have a change of clothes,’ my
mother used to say. But today, when I call her up, I will tell her about the rains,
the wind and the cold. This pleasant kind of cold. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And hope against hope that this is the beginning of a reversal of climate
change. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-21831904474977993842020-09-01T05:24:00.002-07:002020-09-21T05:41:05.048-07:00PerspectivesThe world seems to be changing everyday. Tiny small changes.<div><br /></div><div>Of course, I'm sure change was a constant earlier too. It's only now that we notice it, thanks to the pandemic, thanks to the time to reflect and thanks also to the desire to get back to normalcy.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've noticed that the more fussed and obsessed I am about change, the more intolerant I grow towards it. Whether its work picking up pace, not picking up pace, change of inclement weather or even letting new people, new friends into our lives - the slightest of changes seems to evoke disproportionate behavioural reactions.</div><div><br /></div><div>But one thing that I have found that offers solace and a sense of rootedness is spirituality. Meditation, chanting, yoga and pranayama are practices, that I can say, by experience, should not be forgotten. And of course, please add writing to the list. And blogging. And cooking. And spending time with loved ones. The list seems to grow longer and longer !</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, looking at life, there seems to be plenty of things that seem to be a source of spirituality. It's all a matter of perspective - finding constancy in change and change in constancy. </div>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-37659570333542357572020-08-25T04:33:00.000-07:002020-08-25T04:33:02.507-07:00I wish I was...<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">a sunny day <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">caught in the folds of a month of raindrops<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">a bumble bee<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">amidst flies flitting around flaps of skin on a swivel chair<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">a page of my favourite book<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">savoured in the middle of an indulgent work break <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">the glow of fire in a lighthouse<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">waiting for salvation on the jagged banks of the Arabian Sea
<o:p></o:p></p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-3455348092788984282020-08-21T03:56:00.000-07:002020-08-21T03:56:00.843-07:00<p>In this blog post, I share with you a couple of my pieces that got published recently. </p><p>First up, another of my ten word stories found a home at Potato Soup Journal:</p><p><a href="http://potatosoupjournal.com/how-she-fell-in-love-with-him-by-preeth-ganapathy/">http://potatosoupjournal.com/how-she-fell-in-love-with-him-by-preeth-ganapathy/</a></p><p><br /></p><p>A poem that I had written in response to their monthly prompt has been published in Visual Verse Magazine :</p><p><a href="https://visualverse.org/submissions/cerulean-freedom/">https://visualverse.org/submissions/cerulean-freedom/</a></p><p><br /></p><p>A piece of prose that I had written for the Prose 500 contest organised by Wordweavers has been selected under their 'featured' category.</p><p><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2020/08/prose-500-2020-winners-featured-writers.html">https://www.wordweavers.in/2020/08/prose-500-2020-winners-featured-writers.html</a></p><p><br /></p><p>Happy writing, happy living! </p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-78760530132021470082020-08-16T04:15:00.004-07:002020-08-16T04:15:32.427-07:00Splash <p>Work gathers, picks pace and pushes aside everything else,
especially the hobbies that I had clung onto all these months. The weeds have been
pulled out, the table is spanking clean, the files – ready to be opened.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I clear out a section in my mind and make space for new work
stuff that I’m training to love. I do this between the lines of poetry in The
New Yorker.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Cheers to work! Work, here I plunge. <Sound of water
splashing></p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-13861133225035992762020-08-13T04:28:00.001-07:002020-08-13T04:28:04.040-07:0010 word story<p>My ten word story has been published in potato soup journal:</p><p><a href="http://potatosoupjournal.com/infidelity-by-preeth-ganapathy/">http://potatosoupjournal.com/infidelity-by-preeth-ganapathy/</a></p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-74885033815643591812020-08-11T05:14:00.008-07:002020-08-13T03:50:02.284-07:00Mars Confusion<p><span style="text-align: justify;">I try to introduce my two year old
to the beauty of outer space – the star spangled night sky, the
constellations and a telescope. I read out a book called ‘There’s no Place
like Space’.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">He gapes with wonder at the ‘Cat
in the Hat’- our official space guide and laughs at the turn of each page because the words end in a rhyme. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I talk about astronauts, comets, meteorites,
the Uranus and its satellites and he listens to the roll of the tongue with
each new addition to his vocabulary. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Today morning, when we are going through the months of the year, he starts with January, moves onto
February and progresses to March and then changes track to ‘Jupiter’. March and
Mars must sound very familiar to his toddler ears.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">If only I could take him to the
planetarium and sort out his confusion… My list of to-do tasks in a post-COVID-free world grows longer each day. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Word prompt : <a href="https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2020/08/11/rdp-tuesday-space/" style="text-align: left;">https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2020/08/11/rdp-tuesday-space/</a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1335456525959393796.post-27176353851968637692020-08-03T04:30:00.000-07:002020-08-03T04:30:06.651-07:00Voices on the Wind<p class="MsoNormal">Happy to share that two of my poems – ‘Family History’ and ‘The
Taj Mahal’ have been published in <i>Voices on the Wind </i>Poetry Journal.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You can read them at <a href="http://www.voicesonthewind.net/family82.html">http://www.voicesonthewind.net/family82.html</a>
and <a href="http://www.voicesonthewind.net/taj82.html">http://www.voicesonthewind.net/taj82.html</a><o:p></o:p></p><br />Preeth Ganapathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17199861487260791597noreply@blogger.com0