My Muse. . . My IBN

Ever since I can remember, this pen has always wanted to write. Without intention, words have somehow always flowed out of the nib. Always have waited for the muse to arrive. Just like a dusky woman waiting at the threshold of her mud made house for her man to walk home through the green fields and carry home the smells that fill her home and she wakes up next to each day. The breeze lifts her dust swept skirts and dupatta and her silver anklets tinkle with the song of waiting. The wind carries the sweet smell of her land labourer's sweat... a day spent in hard toil. And she waits, as the handi on the pire smells of burnt rice and charcoal.

Kuchh aisi hi halaat hain hamare, ke kuch mudat ke baad hamri gharhi bhi aaye when my muse walks home to me and stings me with the sweet poison of chanting. . .

In the meantime, my muse wears itself around my neck each day, as I walk through the techno-coloured,neatly cubicle packaged, smelling of microchips and Breaking News blue and red cubicles of the IBN office.Love the tag, 'Intern.' Feel like a Geek at the Mart where news is traded. My tool, my keyborad. My PR, my smile. My work, my monitor. My ideas, my editing skills. My idealism, my script. My reward, my 30 sec of fame on the channel. Looking forward to another 7am to 9pm shift. Pampering my muse. Trying to squeeze it of every juice of promise, as I leave it behind in the not so distant future. Letting it rape my sanity for a bit.. After all, its just 30 days. And all is not lost yet. I have miles to go before I sleep. Till then, open me to cage of the Gir Lions, entrap me in the Bofors with Quattrochi, let me bowl to Sachin, watch and write what makes Gowda weep, watch in awe as Rahul Gandhi grows up to power. . . blah, blah, blah, blah......