Autophony

Cat. Quiet. Terrible when disturbed. Quiet again.

A glossy notice on the board said "Write an entrance test for an opportunity of a lifetime among the very best". I filled up the form, paid up the fee and as I wrote my paper I looked here and there; for I wanted for me a shoulder to cry on. An express letter in the mail said I'd made it to stage two. So an interview was the next thing along the chosen few. I befriended a fellow interviewee. Facing the committee I looked here and there; I hoped that his would be a shoulder to cry on I was diffident and frail; He broad-shouldered, strong-willed. He'd console me at the bad time when I heard my hopes were killed. But I made the list; God! He did not. As I stood bewildered I looked here and there; I had wanted for me a shoulder to cry on. But it was mine that had to be the shoulder to cry on!

The Sun dies on a summer eve; his light at last dissipates. The shadows lengthen under the streetlamps’ wistful, flickering, even extinct illumination. Then Night begins her rule and the stars sing a million – oh! A billion – little stories – each an epic in its realm, but a footnote in mine. The bull over the west; can you hear his groans? The hunter with drawn sword and bow and his dog at his heels claim their gory trophy and sing a victory chant! The bear looks on, its gaze turned northward, tranquil and unconcerned. But the night is mine – The many-headed serpent. Run away to your houses, frail men, beware my slithering children! Safe between your walls, lamps lighted, you open your windows to let in a sliver of moonlight and shut it again when you glimpse my blazing form! My writhing figure dancing on the zenith, my tongues aflame, and my tail in gracious curves rule the night! The moon shines dejectedly in waning glory, and the planets flee at my approach – The night is mine! Kno...

TESTOSTERONE Comment-allez vous? Parlez vous Francais? Every pearly word that the pretty girl says in schoolgirl French, laboriously learnt; yet an amateur's attempt at foreign speech! And I, with bastard, self-learnt tongue, ranting, raving, showing off phrases and words I do not yet fully understand. Nevertheless upon her each word I hang! And so does she, impressed with my fluent chatter, or is she? What would not a young man do, to impress a girl, and woo her too, showing off subconsciously, (chest expanded spaciously) driven, of course by that old instinct in our genes, to make an end, whatever the means. My metre fails me, I try again, and finally exhausted let it go. Later in the day, or night as may be when her testosterone-stirring presence has vanished, and reality comes back in full force; was she? Wasn't she? Did my incoherent sputtering, and French-sounding verbiage (But it was the genuine thing) have any effect on her seemingly wonder-stricken face? Nah! O testost...

R Gowri Raghavan c'est moi, Pensant de l'argent chacun foi, Assis seulement dans ce nuit noir, Je n'ai rien pour faire ce soir!

Raamesh searches forever and ever, In muscle, nerve and ganglion, Toiling ceaseless to uncover, Secrets of the mitochondrion.

Was never a myth so firmly in place, As the praying mantis' deadly embrace, She loves her man like we love food, Hunger is her only mood. The inhibition in his head, Is shed the moment he is dead, He sows his seed for all his worth, So that his future can take birth. Evolution has a thousand means, Death cannot stop our selfish genes, But many a mate does get away, To live and love another day, Another day, another wife, Yet human myth, it keeps its life!