Monthly Archives: January 2011

3 MR Classes at NIFT

Hey people.. ok I am writing a blog after a long time, and this time it is about my class..
I am a Fashion Management student at NIFT, Delhi and today we attended 3 Marketing Research classes at a stretch.. that means 4 and half hours of one subject, one teacher, and one chair.. pheww….
I am glad that me, my classmates and our professor survived that session…This all inspired me to write this crazy poem.. (This is one of my many passions.. writing stupidest poems ever…) I wrote this one while I was in the class, and when my brain was almost numb of attending 4 hours of classes..

We just had 3 back to back MR classes
and I have even tied my shoe laces

We have read innumerable cases
Now we all have very sleepy faces
I can see Jannat playing with her braces

We all are doing and saying stupid things
oh i just remembered Chandler Bing
Sir said that they should take a photo of our class
but all we need right now is a coffee glass
We just had 3 back to back MR classes
and I have even tied my shoe laces

hehe… ok guys thanks for putting up with my craziness all the time.. but i must say that college days are some of the best days one could have in a life time, and I am glad to have a class that is equally crazy as I am.. this one’s for all my wonderful friends and classmates..

With Love


Soiled Half Pants

Wherever I traveled, wherever I went,
I saw the similar innocent faces running in half pants.

I saw their small hands, but no toys in them,
Which were stretched out for something, they didn’t yet understand.

They had that familiar twinkle in their eyes, besides a rolling tear.
A hungry, aching stomach and an unknown lingering fear.

Those frizzy hair and cracked lips made the sight to one’s eyes, more hard,
As they walked alone and barefoot on that burning boulevard.

They didn’t seem to be bothered by their own running noses,
But managed quite well, while handling a sibling or two in different poses.

Not knowing the joy of eating a chocolate, riding a bicycle or hearing a bed time story,
Those smiling faces sometimes looked for a generous soul, who would return the gesture and not just a heartless penny coz they felt sorry.

Amidst all this, they had the enthusiasm to dance, every time there was a rain,
As, they were not yet aware of the real sorrows and pain.

For them, sorrows were just momentarily palpable,when they were hungry thirsty or beaten,
Else they lived in their joyous land, collecting stones and running after kites or kittens.

Then I finally saw their real hunger, which was nor for food neither for money. It was
A hunger for love, for they had had enough of hatred
A hunger for empathy, for there were many to sympathize
A hunger for awareness, for they never developed an appetite for knowledge.

And my heart ached at the sight of what I saw,
And wished if we could just add a decimal point in making their life meaningful and worth living, difficult it may seem though.

And even now I believe that every time we hold their hand to bring them towards light,
We help them, overcome their fears, feel the love and forget their deplorable plight.

The end.

This is one of the poems on social issues that are close to my heart.

She who listened

She was made to listen is what they say
And she had to listen is what they say.
She listened and listened all her life,
As a daughter, as a mother and as a wife.

She listened when it was her turn to play,
And listened even when it was her turn to say.
She listened to her father and even her brothers,
And listened, on how to listen to others.

She listened until she lost her voice,
Then, was sent to a world where she had to poise.
There she listened to people, she dint even know
But still she bowed, and worked on her toe.

She wailed but there was none to hear,
As she was the one, made to listen and bear.
She listened until her daughter was born,
As now the little one was to be put to the thorn.

Life had taken a full circle from where it began,
And now she had to witness her life, all over again.
But this time it was her daughter on the stage,
Who had to recite what others wrote on her page.

She couldn’t have let it happen to her blood,
So she dint listen when it was to save the bud.
They tried to trample her and tear her apart,
But she withstood it all just to save her heart.

She might not have won the race she was on,
But she dint listen to what they said or had sworn.
This was a step which changed not only her life,
But gave voice to a daughter, a mother and a wife.

So she no more listens is what they say,
And she never should have listened is what they say.

This one of the Shivani Ahuja’s poems on the issues close to her heart.