I walk with the heavy heart of someone who is easily impressed.
A heart that feels like it's about to explode with all the beauty in the world.
So much beauty.
A heart of someone so happy to be alive and tired at the same time.
Jaded.

I walk with the heavy heart of someone who can never find the right word.
So many thoughts die before they're even born.
A heart of someone who knows that nothing is as it seems-
but wishes it was.

I walk with the heavy heart of someone who's aware that gifts that are so easily given-
Are just as easily taken away.
A heart of someone who realises he's just another face
In the Crowd.

Full Circle (prelude to the music album)

While we're on this little journey,
The road is often hard and long,
And it sometimes seems to lead away,
From the place where you belong.

And every time the road leads off,
To a place I do not know,
I think back to the places,
That I passed through long ago.

That's when the thought occurs to me,
(I realize it's a little strange)
But these places aren't so different,
I'm the one that's changed.

And then I look back and recall,
My journey from Boy to Man (?),
And reflect on how I made it back,
To where it all began.

I do not know where it goes from here,
But I hope to God I'm strong,
And wherever it takes me, one thing's clear-
That's where I'll belong.

Week 3 of the course and it was time for Haiku. If you just went "Haik-who?" (or, more accurately, "Haik-wha..?") you are not alone. As it turns out, these three-line poems are a major form of Japanese verse. Hai, meaning amusement + ku meaning sentence, which roughly translates into English as 'Poetry for folks with Attention Deficit Disorder'.

After much deliberation and discussion, here is my feeble attempt: *drum roll*

warm clothes strewn about,
I gather
you've left me

staring into my coffee
as I drink
Sunrise in a cup

he rakes the leaves
recently shed,
the Fall Collection

When one blog dies, another has to take its place, so here goes:

Introducing myself has often been a struggle since I arrived. While most people would get past the first obvious hurdle -that of pronouncing my name- they would inevitably stumble at the second. This of course would be the point at which I have just answered their question: "So where you from, Ajay?" Their vacant stares would be my cue to launch into my orientation speech, which I can now rattle off in my sleep. "In the west of the country, three hours drive from Bombay, about the same distance between Swansea and London..."

Lately, however, this process has become a lot easier, thanks to a certain Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. "Poona?" they ask me now, a flicker of recognition already passing across their faces.

"Yeah," I begin, "In the west of the country, three hours drive from..."
"I've heard of it, that's where Brangelina are, innit?" "Shooting a movie, yeah?"
"Yup," I say, "that’s the one."
"That's wicked man."
"Yup."

So, thanks are in order, I guess. To 'Brangelina' and the hundreds of paparazzi that have followed them all the way to my little hometown, three hours drive from Bombay. Alas, soon they will head off to Ulaanbataar or some equally random place, and Poona will go back to being the place no-one has heard of.

And I have to go back to cringing each time someone goes "Pooh...Nah?"

Yeah. Wicked, man.

The smell of freshly baked pies. Even now I can conjure up that smell just by thinking about it. They were sometimes apple pies, sometimes pumpkin, sometimes some other thing I had never heard of. But they all smelt the same to me. I think that made it all the more exciting, the thrill of not knowing what was in them, of finding out. It was all very magical, the way she pulled them out of their brown paper bags every evening. Like rabbits from a hat. Magicians did that a lot, I saw it on tv. I thought about what a great job she must have, going away every morning and returning with these wonderful treats she had made. A ‘baker’. That’s what she told me she was; and from that day on that’s all I wanted to be. She taught me English too. One new word every day.

*****
It always amused me, the look on his face when I got back from the bakery and handed him the bag with a few crusty old pies. I was only allowed to take them home because they’d gone past the sell by date, but he always thought I made them just for him. I didn’t have the heart to tell him. He had the same look on his face when I taught him a new word; he would bite into it like he did with the pies, and then roll it around in his mouth, his eyes full of wonderment. He called me a magician once, I’m not sure why. But I felt like one sometimes, unlocking his sense of taste and language, and watching him play with both.

Room 1.1 (E Block)

Finding accommodation at the University was always going to be a problem; I was told two months before the course had begun that it was full-up. So it was quite a surprise to learn that there was one room left in Ty Beck, the 'poshest' halls of residence. There was a catch though; well, two catches really: it was a small room, and I couldn't see it before I signed the contract. Not one to make impulsive decisions, I hesitated. And tried to buy time. “How small?” I asked, followed by “can I see a photo at least?” The lady smiled kindly and then said No firmly. There were two people in line behind me, supposedly for the same room in question, so I was faced with a curiously tricky dilemma. I could sign for the room and move into what might well turn out to be a medium sized cupboard, or I could refuse, spend the rest of the month walking in and out of private accommodation, and feel like a prize idiot.
So I signed.

Any relief I felt at this uncharacteristic display of decisiveness quickly evaporated when I reached the accommodation office to pick up my keys. “Ah, Mr Jacob” said the caretaker, who seemed incredulous that I had not just agreed to take the room but actually seemed quite pleased with myself for doing so. “You do know it's small, don't you?” I gulped. I hadn't even been 24 hours in this place, and I was already being scammed. By the Welsh. With a binding 12 month contract to boot. “Well, it's liveable,” he offered helpfully, “as long as you hang from the ceiling.” I smiled weakly, the humour completely lost on me.

As it turns out, the Welsh are great at Exaggeration. And Reverse-Psychology. So there I was, completely resigned to the possibility that I'd be spending the next one year sleeping upright, so that when I finally walked into Room 1.1, I couldn't help but laugh. It was a beautiful, well-equipped little room. There was a table, a wardrobe, two sets of shelves and a sink. And a poster above the almost-double bed that said simply- 'Welcome to Swansea.'

My Friend

I can see that you are in love,
Though you say it isn't so,
Not surprising: for when push came to shove-
You were often the last to know.

I'm sure she's completely sweet,
In a way you cannot express,
You worship the ground beneath her feet,
And feel no more loneliness.

But your best friend's eye is on her,
And his feelings are just as strong,
Who's to say he cannot love her?
Who decides the right from wrong?

And if they end up with each other,
As they most probably will,
You'll find that you are now a brother-
And must learn to love her still.

For Mother

The floor looks faded,
The ceiling seems jaded,
Everything is bare but the walls;

The sun is setting,
The stillness is upsetting,
Until footsteps echo in the halls.

There's no room for slack,
There's no turning back,
What's begun must be seen through;

But the thrill of arriving,
Is offset by the pain of leaving,
And all i can think of is You.