Joan of Arc

Jan 6 1424

On this day, twelve years ago at midnight, I was born, the cries of my mother lost to the roar of heavens that welcomed me. Whether it was a herald or an omen remains to be seen. I am sewing beside my mother, trying to make stitches as fine as her. She likes me best I know, for I am her first daughter after my three brothers. Little Catherine is but a happy-go-lucky baby, with wheels instead of legs and no time to spare. My mother recites stories. Stories from the Bible, stories about the Church, fairy tales, anything. After I am done, I start to tread to the familiar path down the garden and into the village. Our house is big and strong and made of stone and so close to the Church. As I skip down the pebbled path, my friends join me and we laugh and chatter and make our way to the Ladies' Tree. It is a special tree you see, filled with fairies they say. We go there trying to spot one, perhaps it is green like the leaves where it rests.

As we play around the tree, I hear the distant rumble of the Church bells. I go down on my knees and pray, pray for my family's well-being and forgiveness for my sins. Lost in my reverie, I am disturbed by smothered giggles and snorts. My friends find my piety amusing. I do not know what is entertaining. It is what my mother taught me. Once when I believed I was perhaps, doing something amiss, the Voice told me, as clearly as though He was speaking to me, to continue and keep going to Church as much as possible.

As the sun began to dip across the horizon, I make my way home. I am quite early so it is alright I am alone. As I approach the door however, I am snatched by my mother inside. The last time her calm face registered such fear and distress, it had been the Soldiers, sons of France given to the enemy. As a tiny stem of fear grows within me, I heard the sound of skirmish already. The horses in the stable whinny and I imagine the cattle to be frightened as well. My family is seated around the table, appearing calm. Suddenly, the smell of smoke seeps in through the crevices in the closed windows. Alarmed, my father cautiously leads us out to witness a gruesome sight. The entire village is on fire. As my brothers try to help our neighbours, the efforts are becoming futile as wooden rafters cleave, as fire leaps from thatch to thatch. The soldiers have long gone, but by the time the last flame is put out, our beautiful village is lost.

Tears sting my eyes, as I see my friends wounded and in pain. I wonder, have we committed such horrible sins? We return home quite unenthusiastic. The next day as soon as I finish all my chores, I allow my feet to take the road that they wish. In the field next to house, I sit down trying to relieve the varied thoughts mulling in my mind. 

Is this God's Will? To keep France in poverty and war, all these taxes that father keeps complaining about? Nearly for a hundred years? 

No

What is this? Is it the Voice?

Yes

If it be not God's Will, then what be it?

It is God's Will.

I do not understand.

It is also God's Will that you do not remain here.

I am confused...

You will crown the uncrowned prince at Reims, away from Domremy. It is your destiny.

And who be you?

St. Catherine.

I awake, my heart easier than it was and trundle back home.

1428

I am about to sin. I cannot think of anything else. I try to brush aside my fears as I do to the dust inside my house. I thought I would tell my parents openly about my mission but only yesterday I heard my father tell my brothers that if he finds me in the company of men-at-arms, then they ought to drown me. 

I am about to lie.

I tell my parents, I am leaving to help my aunt who is pregnant. I know my uncle will be more persuasive. My heart thumps so loudly, yet they fall for my ill-formed lie and I make my way to the nearest town. I bid adieu to all those that are dear to me, my friends, flowers, birds, everything. I request to see Mr. Baudricourt who is my father's friend. My uncle is dismissive at first, until I look right into his eyes and tell him, "Do you not remember, a woman will ruin France and another Maid will rescue France?". My superstitious uncle relents but am met with scorn and ridicule by Baudricourt. He advises my uncle to return me home with an advertisement for a sound thrashing. Finally, I get my escort, Jean de Metz who is devoted to my cause. The change of heart caused partly because, I said I felt trouble brewing in Orleans which was true and partly because he had priests examine me and declare that the Evil One doth not reside in me.

As if!

I disguise myself as a page, partly for my own safety and partly because of my comfort on a horse. There are some who disapprove of me, but on hearing the prophecy they grant me resources and I make my way. Through Burgundian and English hands. And at court of Chinon, I recognise the King who attempted to disguise himself, but no disguise can cloud the eyes of God's follower. Slowly, I bend their unbending opinions, d'Alencon has become my closest friend and I even managed to convince La Tremoille, a Baudricourt in image. I had to be examined by priests and those fools, the Doctors. They actually asked me whether the Voices spoke in French? What other language do I know, not being as learned as they. The method I used to convince the Dauphin, will be my dying secret as he took me under oath.

I am granted my army, who work without wages for God, and as I march out, the guard insults me. I curse him to drown, only to hear a splash moments later to learn that indeed, he did slip into the moat and dragged by his armour. I make up my mind never to curse anybody else ever again. I go to Tours and ask for a sword which I feel will be found in the altar of the Church to St.Catherine. It is found with the fleur-di-lis and returned to me, repaired and restored. I get an armour that weighs my own I believe but I wear it, wear it with pride. I go to Orleans, to free it and clear the path for Reims where the king is to be crowned.

May 1429

I entreat my men-at-arms, who have swollen in their ranks to fight the English at Orleans. I ask the English, thrice to surrender and they have the audacity to insult me and kill my messenger. As tears moisten my eyes at these incidents, my heart grows stronger, my faith in God protects me and I attack regardless of night or day.

My people are roused. They believe that I am their leader. We attack. I do not kill, it is true. However, I am upset. The sight of blood nauseates me and the wounded arises my pity. However, my time is not that in safety. True to my foreboding, an arrow strikes me. I can see it sticking out of my chest, dangerously close to my heart. I cry, I who have never experienced pain, cried so vehemently. I still hold onto my standard and that arouses my men. Half in anguish and half in frustration, I pull the arrow out.

Pain. It dissolves me. I know not where I exist. I know not what is holding me. I know not the very air I am breathing. Yet I do not sleep, nor do I become unconscious. I am the slave of pain.

Somewhere, from the depths of my memory, I hear my mother tell me, that wounds ought to be dressed in olive oil. During the afternoon respite, I hasten to do so to feel immeasurable relief. In the aftermath, my men are invigorated and we drive the enemy out!

July 17

The Dauphin is crowned.

I meet my parents in embarrassment but they are so proud of me. My father heard of my mission before I left from my confidences to my brother, but had hoped Baudricourt would have restored me to my senses. I smile spontaneously on hearing this. Baudricourt is no match to me. My banner is displayed with pride. Also, I set my father and my neighbours free of a burden. When asked for a gift, I request for the removal of taxes from Domremy.

However, things are amiss. The Dauphin is quite on the path of his insane father, negotiating with the Burgundians. Does he not see it is but a ploy to get more troops into this nation? France, France is suffering and the royal blood is not doing his duty. And that fool, Tremoille is encouraging him. As much as I am put off by the lust of blood in La Hire, I'd rather he chop off the head from this conniving diplomat than entertain him.

I prepare to free Paris.

I march in confidence. Yet, my men show signs of doubt. Even de Metz is surprised at my haste, disrergading the King. I have not time for such things.

We fight at Compiegne and Paris. However, the enemy has grown in size and skill and my men are not what they were. Surrounded by my brothers, as I tried to reach the drawbridge to freedom, my accursed cloak, the one symbol of vanity I possesed, was used to drag me off my horse and I was captured. Rather than be tortured, I hoped to tempt death, refusing to surrender to no one except God.

I am imprisoned. I pray. I try to escape once by jumping off the tower to safety only to be brought back to it. I stay, I live and nothing. Perhaps the King has run out of money to ransom me.

1431

And then begins the trial. A sixty-year old Cauchon is called to question me. I am questioned and interrupted and questioned in hopes of  a mistake. I laugh inwardly, my extraordinary memory helping me as always. I decline to comment on the King but everything else was for them to know. I merely say "next question". They find fault with my men's attire, my friends, even the poor Ladies' Tree at Domremy. They question me about me running away from home and my speedy recovery from war wound. How can they not see the purity of the soul within?

After a few days, they ask me whether I am in God's grace. Sensing the trap I answer, "If I am, may the Lord keep, if am not may God take me there." All those learned lawyers adjourn as they are surprised that I escaped unscathed from a question where either yes or no would have convicted me. I am supremely confident.

Yet at night, I cry. I cry for the filth in my room, the insulting English guards and most of all, my beloved France. I am forced to wear women's clothes.

The circuitous trial continues. At one point, they actually ask me whether my Voice will disappear after marriage. Disconcerted, I reply God only knows. What is it with women and marriage? And am finally given a long document and they ask me to sign. They assure me that they will release me once I do. Unable to both read and write, I make a small circle with the pen, smiling that I have at last won, and I am not condemned by God.

It is not to be. I am condemned for wearing male attire again. And my petitions that it was because my other dress was stolen by my insulting guards falls upon deaf ears. They maintain it is my own doing. Absurd and illogical, I burst into tears again at the injustice.

May 31 1931

They are escorting me to the stake. Fear haunts my heart. I was confident of my escape. I trusted in these men. One of them even claims that he would have freed me if I had been English. No, France is the Lord's fiefdom. Ah, how many times I heard my father say, he'd drown me or burn me. His words sound so ironic. I am alone and friendless in an unknown land. My courage fails me, it finally loses. These are my final tears, and I let them flow. Can they not see I am a woman, so susceptible to tears am I. I curse Cauchon, curse him for his injustice.

I am taken to the stake and tied. I cry Jesus. I know France is saved. I believe in God. My death means my mission on Earth is over. Paradise awaits me.

                                                                           

Epilogue:

She is heralded as a Saint and Martyr. Her mother fought for her at the Rehabilitation trial. Her name was Jeanne d'Arc that was falsely translated to Joan of Arc. She died at 19, her ashes spread on the Seine river to prevent any relics. Her intelligence and intuition were extraordinary. And she did not know how to read or write except for her name. 

In retrospect, why this story moves me is because, she performed such spectacular feats for her nation at a time where women had no say anywhere. They were property carted from father to husband, meant to serve and not served. Joan for example, had to both keep house and farm. Yet her awareness of the politics, war and the nation was impeccable.

And her duty to her Voices. As metaphysical it may seem, I believe we all have a Voice within us, a conscience or God or whatever you choose to believe, a sub-conscious that goads us to do impossible things. She saved France. So much so, that a 19-year old girl in India is writing about her nearly half a millennium later. 

I often fret at being a girl, at being trapped, at being restrained. Come on, if an unlettered peasant girl followed her heart and conquered destiny 500 years before, I had better do better.

The Great Kidnapping Story

Once upon a time, a highly introverted three and a half year old girl was inquisitively surveying the landscape. She was seated beside her mother, her feet barely reaching the sandy floor. Through the slits of her eyelashes, tinged with the colours of the rainbow, she saw the tan coloured building as she attempted to shield her eyes from the scorching sun that mercilessly struck its rays at her in spite of the great purple canopy above her which seemed to be named as brother Shammi (Shammi Anna).

As she stared down, with awe at her feet in simple harmonic motion, she heard a great voice saying great many things. She listened in wonder, she had never heard such a great voice before. She thought that the man must be really big to have such a big voice. But try as she might, she could not spot that big man. She heard her mother whisper hurriedly to remain quiet. This confused the little head, as she could not remember parting her lips from morning.

Suddenly, the great voice stopped but the noise that followed was bigger than any she had ever heard. Discordant notes, all noise seemed to constructively interfere and create so much sound, she thought her ears must surely break. She saw people rise from exactly identical chairs talking and discussing. She did not like these wooden chairs. She had a nice green chair and a small rocking purple chair at home in which she could sink in whenever she wanted. She did not like brown. Why would anyone have such boring chairs?

As she sat, contemplating the chairs in distaste, her horizon lifted by many inches. It took her a few minutes to realise that her mother had carried her. Her mother said she was going to introduce her to the Mickey Mouse in the tan building. Hearing this, her heart began to race. She loved Mickey Mouse second best. She liked Aladdin better. Yes, Aladdin was always her hero. But still, Mickey Mouse must be good too. She followed her mother's hand and there she saw it. Mickey Mouse, complete with yellow boots and the twitchy tail she found so funny.

Yes, she clutched her mother's shoulder in anticipation, she was going to see Mickey Mouse. By now, she heard the strains of another big voice, this time a woman's. She thought, perhaps this is a place for wonderful people, big men and women and Mickey Mouse. She stood gazing at him, wondering why he was ever so still. Suddenly, she felt propelled forward as her mother steered her. To her great dismay, a stocky, swarthy man had collected her and carried her off. Aghast at being ripped from both Mother and Mickey Mouse, she began to cry.

She was not afraid at first, she was angry. She thought someone had snatched her from her happiness. She thought of gruesome punishments for that man, perhaps the purple mud monster that haunts her at times should haunt him too. Unbidden, unpleasant memories of her mother's dire warnings and punishments arose in her mind. Her mother had always been unpleasant if she came home late from play, especially if the sun had gone down. She heard of thieves, snakes and kidnappers, all after little girls like her. At this thought, she pounded her assailant's shoulder in defence, creasing his immaculately ironed shirt.

Hastening to get rid of his cumbersome charge, he deposited her across a half closed door to a woman in a plain saree. She, in turn, carried her and placed her down on the floor. As her feet found firm ground, her tears stopped as her eyes opened in momentary astonishment. It was a perfect jungle inside. People were running inside in all directions. Some were actually fighting. Now she had never, till then, seen a fight. There were two boys practically rolling on the floor holding on to each other. Never having seen either fights or boys, she decided that room with peculiar doors, one at the top and one at the bottom, was the hideout of kidnappers after nice girls like her. She renewed her sobs on thinking this, this time fear creeping into her and pulsating through her veins. She thought she may never see her mother again. She cried so loudly. Suddenly, through a haze of thick tears, she saw a smart big girl in blue tie and ribbons and white shirt. She was offering her a balloon. As she raised her head to see properly, she saw her face. Behind her were three boys who seemed terrified of something. All of them were quiet. But after the momentary hush due to an interruption, her voice reached a crescendo, much to the dismay of those blue-and-white attired people.

Meanwhile, she was in shock, wondering how people could expect her to keep a balloon instead of her mother. She started walking around, asking everyone for her mother but nobody seemed to know. Finally, she saw the lady who had carried her first and knowing she could help her outside this bizarre room, tugged on the saree's pallu patiently and asked for her mother. However, she recoiled in fear as the lady turned and gave her a beautifully-wrought frown.

Sunken in misery, she kept banging the lower door and screaming with all her might, hoping that either somebody would hear her and free her or she would be imbued with super-strength and break down the door. In vain, people tried to drag her to wooden benches, she thought resembled the churches she had seen in movies. They tried to make her see the beautiful decorations, which they all assured were for her especial benefit.

Finally, a kind lady attired in a purple saree carried her and said in a voice so sweet, that she stopped screaming but wept vociferously nevertheless. She showed the scene trapped in the half-door that was her ticket to freedom. Yet, the girl did not struggle. She did not want to accidentally hurt someone who had been so nice to her. The lady tried to feed her some milk from a stainless-steel tumbler. But she kept her lips pursed, for had not mother always warned her of accepting food from strangers? But not wanting to hurt the kind lady's feelings, she decided to pretend to take a sip. The lady pointed at the landscape, and asked where was her mother. Her heart leapt as she saw the scene. Why, everything was exactly how she left it, including Shammi Anna! She pointed eagerly at a place, where she hoped her mother was.

Now doubt crept into her mind, if her mother was right there, just beyond the magical half door, why didn't she come and rescue her. Her mother always rescued her from the magenta mud monster that haunted her at times, or those disgusting cockroaches that lurked in the bathroom. Confused, she stopped crying and for the first time she wondered, perhaps, just perhaps she had not been kidnapped.

A great big bell rang and the nice lady carried her to, oh could it be possible?, her mother. Smiling the lady said, "She is really short-tempered and gets very angry. She doesn't look like she's ready for school yet". Her mother shook her head, chagrined, "She's already quite late. She's usually really well behaved, I'll bring her around." The girl was oblivious to all of this of course. She clutched her mother's shoulder with her fist and wept tears of joy.

Epilogue:

This was my first day at kindergarten. First of all, I apologise to those seniors I gave a hard time. They were told off for not managing me, I know because one of them was my neighbour. I had never been away from my mother, except when I played downstairs in the little lane with all other girls on that street. Second, this day was followed by one of the most serious lectures I have ever had, about school and duty and honour. The upshot of all this was, I became the model quiet student who the teachers gaped at, wondering what caused this transformation from day two. I never felt bad anymore, as long as I knew my mother was nearby, which she assured me she was always on the stone path, just outside the line of sight of my window. I had no problems then, believing she patiently sat on that uncomfortable stone path, waiting for me to return as I always found her in the exact same place when I finished school and ran to find her. And then, went on to get the second rank in L.K.G, the first of very many in my school life.

A Tale from Decameron

Using Google's reverse image search, I finally found the story behind my blog header. It was simply an image I had googled on Story Telling.

Now I found out that John William Waterhouse, a British Painter born in 1849 painted the painting after naming it "A Tale from Decameron". Decamaron is a medieval Italian story that describes how ten people (seven women and three men) ran away from their homes to escape the plague in Florence. As they fled through the countryside, they decided to tell ten stories each making a total of a hundred story. In all surviving texts, Bonaccio, the author was the first one to introduce the storyteller's story in a story! 

Coming back to John William Waterhouse, he painted this one nearing the end of his life battling cancer. He lived for his art and was recognised rightly so, thankfully, in his own lifetime.

I am really proud to have stumbled across this picture for my blog. I couldn't think of any other picture that could portray the basic idea of my blog, the power of stories any better. I think Google has come up with a wonderful concept. Also, as the title is a tale from Decamaron, I think the story teller is actually telling the story of another story teller!

Story behind my Trips to the Theatre

I've had this post bouncing around in my cranial cavity for sometime but two things finally dragged my bored fingers to finally put it up.

#1 - I saw the film Ko yesterday in the theatre finally.
#2 - Dunston Checks In is on Movies Now at 7 pm today.

As a girl who spent more time at home with imaginary friends, books, rooms built with four pillows, books, Barbies, books, Dragon-Ball-Z, books, Cartoon Network, books, Age of Empires, books, trips to the theatre were very rare. So, I try to recollect the films I saw in theatres in chronological order - of course, they are filled with  stories.

Movie #1 - Dunston Checks In - Somewhere in 2000

As a part of a school field trip to improve English, our IV th standard class was taken to Motcham theatre. That was my very first confrontation with the movie theatre. I was so absorbed in the movie. The next day, the English set up a quiz. Questions were like, "What was the colour of the cake Dunston ran into?". And, thanks to my near-photographic memory, I got all the answers right. I also made a complete fool of myself. I was new to school then. The person next to me was telling me this wasn't as big as Ega theatre. Now, locked away in my vast recesses of memory, I  remembered my mom describing the aforesaid theatre and I repeated the words pretending I knew all about it to fit in. She burst out laughing and told the whole class how her mom told her that my mom told her mom I hadn't actually been to a theatre before. (Good Luck on making that out!). And soon, all the girls in the class started laughing and I felt like imitating an ostrich and burying my head  in shame. I promised myself that I'd try not to lie again.

Movie #2 - Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone - Somewhere in 2002

After much pleading and first-rate grovelling, I finally convinced my parents to take me to the movie. I had read only the second book but I wanted to see this before it was too late. Me and my family had an amazing time in the summer vacaction seeing this. And then, we got the CD and me and my sister saw the movie everyday after school from 3 - 5 in the afternoon. We practically know it by-heart.

Movie #3 - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - June 7th 2004

I fished the exact date from my diary. It was an amazing treat to see that movie. I saw it in Satyam. Awesome! I saw it with my mom, her friend (mentioned as my friend's mom previously) and her son (my friend's brother). My friend, incidentally, was caught up in a handball match in Shimla. It was, till I saw the last HP film, my favourite. I'm sure Miss Autumn Sunshine would agree.

And yes, Chamber of Secrets released in India six months after, so I saw it already.

Movie #4 - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - 2006

This movie was a party! Three friends with their families and my best friend from class. Also, had the first taste of buttered popcorn at Satyam and enjoyed criticising the movie with my friends. Honestly, you call that thing THE MAZE??? Loads of fun, an entire row was ours.

Movie #5 - Mozhi - 2007

My first Tamil movie in theatre. Mind-blowing! I loved the film. I am almost exactly like Archana in that film. I fight, I work, I care and am proud of who I am. My friend's treat. Same as before, three friends and their families. (Oh yeah, that includes my family in the three). Bala Abirami theatre. P.S. I did scream when I saw that cockroach, so huge, on screen. Also, my eyes did, sort of, get clogged with tears at one point. I think, seeing someone cry, affected me. Now, I am a hardened soul (hopefully!)

Movie #6 - Vinnaithaandi Varu Vaaya  - Feb, 26 2010

On the second day after release, ten girls from my class saw the film. No adults and my friend had to assure my parents that they would take great care of me. I liked the experience, the buying the food. Of course, I still thought buttered popcorn cost Rs.20 in Satyam, like it did in 2004 and had to be bailed out by my friends. It was really funny when people asked me how I thought the film was. It was kind of weird, I mean I hate illogical stuff and, well, all Tamil movies seem to be illogical (Mozhi exempted and also 23rd Pulakesi), what do I say? I didn't care how the movie was, I had a great time. Afterwards, I was informed by my better peers that this is a typical storyline but considerable cute locations and dialgoues made it run.

Movie #7 - 3 Idiots - Somewhere in 2010

This time, the same three families, under my continual nudging, saw the film at Ega theatre. I enjoyed it. One of the rare movies, which I enjoyed more than the book. I later realised, that I saw the film on practically the last day.

Movie #8 - Boss engira Baskaran - October 2010

Me and my uncle's family saw this film in PVR cinemas, Bangalore. Also, had buttered popcorn. I really enjoyed the movie a lot, especially the comedy and the songs. I was a bit disappointed on not getting Endhiran tickets, but still I had nothing to complain at the end of it.

Movie #9 - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - December 2010

A cosy get-together with five girls from school in EA Escape theatre. Me and my best friend got a couple seat which we ceremoniously adorned with chocolate mousse, popcorn and evrything else, you could spill over in the dark. And it didn't help that she had forgotten half the story and I had to keep prompting her. But still, sky was the limit to the fun we had. I think we sampled every food item for sale and actually missed a precious five minutes of the movie buying food. And, we ran into our school yoga teacher!

Movie #10 - Endhiran - December 2010

For the first time ever, my family went to a Tamil film, organised by us and for us alone. It was great. No other word for it!

Movie #11 - ManMadhan Ambu - Somewhere in Jan or Feb 2011

One family, but the same three friends and my sister in one dragon themed theatre at Abirami Mega Mall. Nice fun. Especially the fact that it rained when we were on our way home.

Movie #12 - Ko - June 21 2011

PVR cinemas, Chennai, me and my Mom had a great time together. The theatre was almost empty and we had a great time in that AC hall during summer solstice. I bought virtually everything popcorn, samosa, sweet corn, soft drinks. I enjoyed it in a pleasant sort of a way.

The End.

And yes, I exist and I am perfectly happy.

The Story behind the day Google Failed Me - Designing Chrome Themes

As a Harry Potter fan, who eats off a Harry Potter plate, keeps books in a Harry Potter cupboard and has a Harry Potter wallpaper for her desktop, I ventured into finding the Harry Potter themed Chrome browser.

For the first time in living memory, Google had failed me.

The Chrome Store had nothing to offer for regular members of the witchcraft community like me. I saw two themes, and disliked both of them.

So, as I had an amazing amount of time to kill, I decided once and for all, that I will have a Chrome browser theme for Harry Potter.

Finally,  after relentless Googling, I ended up with making my first customised theme.

The Story behind this result goes like this. A guide by a most relentless person on how to design a Google Chrome theme.

First I accessed the online chrome theme creator by googling it (you could also download it from the chrome webstore).

The first tab was pretty simple for me as it just asks you to give the theme name and description.

Now the images tab was also very explicit. As you mouse-over every option, the indicated portion is displayed in red. I have to upload an image for every section. For some strange reason, even if I simply wanted just a solid colour, (for example black for the highlighted theme_toolbar option), I couldn't specify it in the Colors tab and had to upload an image for every portion.

Thus, for the theme_ntp_background, I uploaded the Harry Potter wallpaper.

Then, for each colour, I had a square tile 120x120. The minimum height is 119 pixels. (Learnt that after many disastrous results!). I found that a nice way of choosing colours is to use them from the picture using the dropper tool. 

Thus, I used this picture for the theme_toolbar.

Continuing in a similar vein, I ended up with this layout.

Now I realised that I can't make out the text at all. Later I found that the next tab, Colors, takes care of that. 

Unfortunately, all the colours are specified in hex codes.

To know the hex codes of the colour I used the Dropper tool in GimpShop. Then, I filled the frame option with the exact code corresponding to the image I have uploaded.

So, the hex code is 001B22. I set this for the frame portion. Now the Colors tab is not very clear about the respective placeholder of each option. The frame refers to the place behind the tabs which has already been given an image. Frame inactive is the same region but when the window is inactive. I later learnt can give the colour you want straightaway or give the same colour as the fame active and tint it light or dark using the Tints tab. The same applies for the tabs in incognito mode. Now the toolbar option is a little tricky.

The toolbar option affects the arrows, the status bar at the bottom, and the background of the bookmark panel. Also, I had to choose a dark colour to complement the grey in the status bar. I still haven't figured out how to change that font colour. However, the code is open source and the more HTML zealots can try it out. And the arrows' colour  jar at the moment but I found that they could be easily tinted in the next tab.

In the above screenshot, I have changed all the required font colours. Now, the ntp_header option refers to the background colour of the border in the most visited section. It is not visible in the preview. I've taken a screenshot from the final result for the idea.

The next three options refer to ntp_section. That is the region that is highlighted when you mouse_over the apps.

So then, I chose the appropriate colours for the background, text and link. Sometimes, the changes of text are not reflected in the preview but they are faithfully reproduced finally. The last two options refers to the control buttons (minimize, restore and close).

Next, we come to the tints tab. Here, I just chose the colours that I would like to tint (or add onto) the ones I had already chosen in the previous Colors tab. Sometimes, when I did not want a tint, I chose the exact same colour as before. Also, as I wanted the buttons to be grey, I tinted them so. 

And finally, in the last tab Pack and I chose to apply the theme. But later I learnt it is wise to regularly download zip file and then upload it for changes. Otherwise, I had to start from scratch even if I just wanted to change one parameter.

And I am just enjoying my new creation. 

P.S. I can't wait for the release of the last Harry Potter film!

And, I think my tenses went awry because I have edited this post near twenty times juggling between past and present.

Daddy Dearest

Happy birthday daddy. Writing for you,
this dark and dusky hour, I find the few
words I know incapable of saying
all that I want to say. As I'm playing
the game of life, you are there when I slip,
when I am lost. You are there on the flip
side as well. You encourage me to speak,
whatever it may be, you make me seek
the answers at home. You gave me freedom
to ask and question.You don't let boredom
pervade this house with your jokes and antics.

You taught me to be wise, independent
and brave. You told me to make tears redundant.
You told to believe in me, myself and I.
You let me dream as high as the sky.
You made me lose my short temper,
as you brushed aside the steaming ember
to reveal a wrong act, not a wronged person.

Yet, sometimes I feel you encumber me,
restraining my wings as I strive to see
whether the coast is clear. And then, I feel
this epic bond of love protecting me with zeal.

You make me pampered yet not pompous.
You teach me to be proud, yet magnanimous.
You make me lead, yet serve.
You teach me to be bold, yet reserved.
You make me work hard and play hard.

Daddy Dearest, I simply cannot make you see,
how much you have done for me and our family.

So, I am simply going to say,
Daddy, happy birthday.

With lots of love, your daughter Sowmya.

Once Upon A Rhyme

I suddenly unearthed an ancient diary today. I have kept it from when I was ten till thirteen. I was just reading everything and I realised I haven't really changed much. I was always confused, worried about exams, thinking about various things too much, obsessed with Harry Potter, lamenting yet so supremely happy and a die-hard feminist. Just that I didn't know such fancy words existed at that time to describe my character.

To my pleasant surprise, I found the first poem I had ever written. It swept me into this wave of nostalgia. I remember well how it came about. We had poetry recitation in fifth standard and I had learnt a very nature-laden  poem by some Kjmnerva aged 12. It was a poem I had fished from the Internet. I did not remember anything else about it. Over there, I met a friend who recited her own poem. That sounded very fascinating. I used to play around with words but those poems were shorter and less complicated than "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". I came third in that competition. I googled for the poem I recited and I found it!

Nature's Wish

What a beautiful place!
Flowers blooming on spring
Trees shake of their leaves on Autumn
Trees by the side are covered with snow in winter

NOW, Look around you - What do you see?
Life's slowly dying. . .Losing its glee
Remember the seeds on earth we plow
They were forgotten they fail to grow

The sweet air around me yesterday turned gray
The sweet smell of the trees in the forest turned
into a bald forest.
The cool blue ocean turned to black

Sometimes it peeks among the trees
Sometimes it whistles sadly
someplace where it is polluted
It is slowly dying . . .

will the next generation still have
sweet air to breathe in?
tall trees to climbup?
or a cool blue ocean to swim on?
No! there is nothing left for the next generation

How dare we all say that we care
when paradise then is now a nightmare
Was that a whisper or a gasp we hear?
Is it a denial for a picture so clear?

- Kjmnerva, age 12


Then, in sixth standard, we were in charge of an English activity to fill up the bulletin boards. As I was head of the group. Now my artistic temperament was brought out by my teacher much later in eighth standard, until then I pretty much was the clumsiest personality to handle glue, scissors and paint. So I racked my brains about what I could do to out-do the others and the answer came to in a brilliant stroke of inspiration.


I would write a poem and take a printout of it. And I also made a plan of how the charts would be, colours and everything and got everyone else to do it. We were supposed to do the work in the double English class. So I tried to remember the poem I had read a year back for inspiration. Back then, I couldn't go on the internet on my own and I felt my father wouldn't allow me to see the poem for this silly reason. It was for the best because my first poem was born.

Nature is a beauty
It provides free of cost our needs,
But we fail to do our duty,
And do more bad deeds.


We cut down the trees,
the producers of life
Those who gracefully dance when blows the breeze
Thus we are more cruel than a knife.


With that weapon, we kill animals
For sport and recreation.
Are we bloodthirsty cannibals
To destroy God's creation?


Today the air was gray.
All through the day.
People seem to have enough on their tray
To care about the air being gray.


Fishes jumped out of the sea,
Death seemed better
Than to see the sea
Far worse than better.


One day we will pay
for all of this injustice
'cause our future generations will say
We were greedy for bliss.


Our nature satisfies our need
alone not our never-ceasing greed.


It's a bit weird but am proud of it. I capitalised regardless of necessity. My teacher told me that "when blows the breeze" is syntactically wrong but it can be accepted in poetry and is known as the poetic license. I was happy. It was a grand success. Similarly I read a poem about the fear of exams in Children's world Magazine that was so reflective of my own situation then, that I entered into another venture.

The Hindu

Exams are near,
I tremble with fear.
I'll die of thirst,
trying to come first.


Math tires me out,
so much that I could shout.
History is so boring,
That you could hear me snoring.


Geography has got funny names,
and at that I am so lame.
Civics is all about administration,
which squeezes out my perspiration.


Physics is all about matter,
Trying to learn it I break into tatters.
Chemistry is all about mixtures,
Learning it is worse than boring lectures.


Biology is so icky(?)
That it makes me sicky(???)
Computers are full of programs,
so much that it gives me the cramps.


Hindi is such a git.
I cannot bear it.
Tamil is so confusing,
that I wouldn't mind accusing.


Even English scares me,
Its the questions you see.
Finally, I've lost my confidence
because of my Exam's dominance.


All the subjects that appeared 
interesting, seems to have disappeared.
What should I do?
I feel like I am trapped in a zoo.


I've been laughing so HARD over this. I really was at a loss for words then. Also, my sense of exaggeration was astronomical! Of course, now I can brush of saying it is a poetic device, hyperbole. But the poem that really initiated my journey into poetry. It's the last entry, dated 16 Apr 2005. It's spontaneous and it didn't borrow ideas from anywhere like I did before. I had been both praised and scolded that day. Even if one of those things happened, I'd be befuddled. Both together was the perfect outburst of emotion.

Escher - Drawing Hands

On 27th September
in the year 2004.
I began to remember,
How life was before
being thirteen. Wasn't it great?
But you can't do anything,
It is just your fate.
No one feels like singing.
Every loss pricks you.
But every joy does
make you a conceited view.
Everyone feels you're making a fuss,
But that's not true.
It's like being 2 people.
You know that, don't you?
It's like being a cripple,
Having 2 legs but cannot
control it to walk properly.
Then, the pain tells you 'Better quit'
What a bummer!
In the end
I'll tell this,
If you're a teen around the bend,
Watch out, you may hear a hiss.


None of these poems are titled. They are all there as drafts and bits and pieces. The last one alone is a part of an entry. It felt good to see where it all started. 


It made me see the beginning of 'The Road Not Taken'.