The Raghavan Instincts

I sit on my cot, leaning on a wall, fiddling with my phone. I'm at awe with Android, which makes me think of an operating system, and in turn Linux; Windows; I stare at the window next to me, and I see that it's raining outside; water water everywhere not a drop to drink; poetry; how I'm so terrible at it; what else am I terrible at?; literature, music, dance; arts for that matter; who knows it all?; Kamal Hassan?; what phone does he use?; a Moto in vEttaiyAdu viLaiyAdu; Goutham Menon; viNNaiththANdi varuvAyA; love; singledom; #ForeverAlone; marriage; kids; house; car; social pressure; job; money; economy; politics; corruption; desire; misery; humanity; evolution; science; technology; engineering; electronics; communication; telephones; mobiles; Nokia 1100; Lumia; oh, how I wish Nokia had made an Android phone; Android; I'm still looking at my phone. A circle of thoughts gets completed as another begins, and I try to shut it down, only to fail miserably. I've bee

Every morning, I walk to work crossing on my way an empty dustbin with much garbage strewn around it than inside it that makes it the habitat for plenty of flies & mosquitoes and emanates a foul smell that triggers most of the sensitive passers-by to promptly close their noses. And the problem is thus solved with nothing more than a pair of fingers. India is a single huge country; rather, a lot of smaller countries put together; cultures, I'd say. Each culture has its own way of life and thought processes, so it's hard to unite them all so easily. But one thing that seamlessly unites them is cleanliness, or the lack of it. It would be arrogant & foolish to claim that all the cultures fail to maintain some standard at being clean, but not to say that the people do. After all, it's the people who define the other. I haven't traveled much of India, but with whatever I have, I'd say that one can't rate the sanitary level across the country to be uniform.

At the end of a roasted day In the warmth of a lonely night I look at my window expecting a breeze And gaze through it at a lonely star. A star that arrives there every night & Yet remains dead for a million years Why am I destined to stare at it? Just to realize I'll die too? The world's so strange, for all I know. And my experiences, so very few. There's a design, I'm so damn sure. And it's all but just impure. The star looks surprised for I'm here just tonight. And I already begin to miss The dead one I met last night. Do all dead become stars? Would I get to be one too? For I can twinkle forever And laugh at some mere mortals.