A Time of 'Their' Lives.....

Even though the action of football has always intrigued me..I fail to understand why the male department regards people who are clueless bout what footbaal is all about,or who is in which team..(and of course,who has the hottest babe next to himself!) as something unearthly giving looks which makes one (yeah,the females..mostly.) feel like getting rolled up inside her own shell by the inferiority complex!

I was talking about the whole issue to a friend who got married last year in April..and whose poor wife was cursing herself as to why did she affirm for the wedding to be held on a FIFA year,and that too prior to the World Cup..I could come to a few conclusions which my friend declared..the conditions(the only conditions,rather) in which the men would watch the matches..and how their girlfriends or wives should not be interfering (here,genuinely disturbing..)in the matches,with their television sets..and so on and so forth..I m just penning down the bold and the blatant statements..(kindly shift back on time..a scene of say 8th june'06 and imagine as if the guy is himself claiming the following..

I am alive and kickin....But its June 8th and that means World Cup is almost here....wooohooo!!

Please forward this to your girlfriends, wives, etc.

1. From 9 June to 9 July 2006, you should read the sports section of the newspaper so that you are aware of what is going on regarding the World Cup, and that way you will be able to join in the conversations. If you fail to do this, then you will be looked at in a bad way, or you will be totally ignored. DO NOT complain about not receiving any attention.

2. During the World Cup, the television is mine, at all times, without any exceptions. If you even take a glimpse of the remote control, you will lose it (your eye).

3. If you have to pass by in front of the TV during a game, I don't mind, as long as you do it crawling on the floor and without distracting me. If you decide to stand nude in front of the TV, make sure you put clothes on right after because if you catch a cold, I wont have time to take you to the doctor or look after you during the World Cup month.

4. During the games I will be blind, deaf and mute, unless I require a refill of my drink or something to eat. You are out of your mind if you expect me to listen to you, open the door, answer the telephone, or pick up the baby that just fell from the second floor....it wont happen.

5. It would be a good idea for you to keep at least 2 six packs in the fridge at all times, as well as plenty of things to nibble on, and please do not make any funny faces to my friends when they come over to watch the games. In return, you will be allowed to use the TV between 12am and 6am, unless they replay a good game that I missed during the day.

6. Please, please, please!! if you see me upset because one of my teams is losing, DO NOT say "get over it, its only a game", or "don't worry, they'll win next time". If you say these things, you will only make me angrier and I will love you less. Remember, you will never ever know more about football than me and your so called "words of encouragement" will only lead to a break up or divorce.

7. You are welcome to sit with me to watch one game and you can talk to me during halftime but only when the commercials are on, and only if the halftime score is pleasing me. In addition, please note I am saying "one" game, hence do not use the World Cup as a nice cheesy excuse to "spend time together".

8. Please do NOT ask me the rules of soccer when the game is on! If you really want to know, look it up on the Internet. The computer is all yours when the game is on (only when the game is on). And don't ask silly, stupid questions like "Oh, why is he walking out the field?" (He got a red card, dammit).

9. The replays of the goals are very important. I don't care if I have seen them or I haven't seen them, I want to see them again. Many times.

10. Tell your friends NOT to have any babies, or any other child related parties or gatherings that requires my attendance because:

a) I will not go, b) I will not go, and c) I will not go.

11. But, if a friend of mine invites us to his house on a Sunday to watch a game and his television and sound system is better than mine, we will be there in a flash.

12. The daily World Cup highlights show on TV every night is just as important as the games themselves. Do not even think about saying "but you have already seen this...why don't you change the channel to something we can all watch??", the reply will be: "Refer to Rule #2 of this list".

13. And finally, please save your expressions such as "Thank God the World Cup is only every 4 years". I am immune to these words, because after this comes the Champions League, Italian League, Spanish League, Premier League, etc etc.

Thank you for your cooperation.

Regards,

Men of the World.

(space..)

Siiighhh..!!thats all i can say..

-the girl.

Mind trains...

the mind trains baffle me..and the destiny and conclusive thought further...a few days back, i was watching a popular TV show with the name The Apprentice.there were two finalists ...one British turned American and the other a Jewish American.The latter had always mentioned his Jewish religion..and so it stuck in my head.i believed that the latter would win (coz he was young and a good strategist) ....he lost.

Could religion be a criteria for selecting people? how much hold on our thought process does religion have?(my mind trains started moving all over by now). In a country like America which is melting pot of so many many kinds of people...how many really hold onto their religions? how and what do they identify themselves with?being raised here in India...we know that we are not just Indians...we are from this caste..this sub caste..this state..etc etc.... we have a WHOLE flow chart coming to us...and everytime ...we talk or think or organise...we work along this very flowchart...

how do I think..? i think first like myself..then like my surname, then like my caste ..then my religion ..and so on..at EVERY level ..i modify myself...to suit and fit ...and ultimately....am i ME?and then ....as i kept on this line....those words emerged...words that were conclusive and truely something that amazed me ..i said..

"Tradition can either Pull u Down...or Keep u Grounded...its all about perspectives"..

is it? ...

-the girl.

time for another pomme..

The true worth,
Of a speck of dirt,
An oyster sees,
When a pearl he weaves.

Dew drops so small,
Enthrall one and all,
On a morning fine,
But only in sunshine.

These qualities divine,
Of oyster and sunshine,
In your mind,
Hidden u'll find.

And that's the key,
That'll fully change thee,
From a speck of dirt,
To the man u'll be.

-the girl.

Remains of the Storm ..

Look there. How calm those waters seem now that the season has turned. Only yesterday, they were savage seas. Churning violent storms and casting them our way. The vengeful east winds that crashed on our shores. Dancing dervish. As if they wanted to reclaim the land. To take it away to the sea. How they raged andplundered. How we waited and watched. Many days and many nights. And when it passed, we came out to gather the fallen pieces of our lives. To scavenge what the storm left behind. To mourn what it took.

The storm itself dissipated. Scattered itself across the land. Precipitated. Into a weeping autumn rain. Dissolved. Perhaps atoning for its sins.

Or maybe it simply wandered. Couldn't find its way back to the ocean. Who knows ?

Whirlwinds uncoiled on their vortex. Squalling over arid sands. Caught between nowhere and nothingness. The solitude of the desert drove them mad. Deranged, they shifted sand dunes by day - only to move them back by night.

Convectional crosscurrents ascended the firmament. Nothing remained of their wrath but a passing turbulence. Somewhere else, a translucent breeze touched land. It rippled golden through the tall seas of praire grass. Waxing-waning. Cresting-falling.

Some storms became winds. Some winds disintegrated. Into the cold drafts that condensed on your skin on muggy, moonless nights. Yet others, like tattered paper kites fluttered hapless from old telegraph wires. Gales rattled windows, crept in through cracks and settled in damp corners. Occassionally stirring but mostly silent. Fragments of air stood motionless. In suspended animation. As if they had died mid-sentence.

I collected them all. The fragile, broken pieces of a tempest dead. The consequence of sorrow. And its cause. Withered wafts surrendered themselves. I held them down with paperweights lest they should escape. They crumbled to ash between my fingertips. I inhaled every moving gust till my lungs could hold no more.

And I walked. I walked till the ocean found me. Till the tide drew in. It had waited long for the storm's return. Keeping vigil on the eastern sky. Hoping for the winds to ride back into the sunset. Water looked at me, questioningly. Melancholy waves leaped up and then subsided. They knew. They knew what the silence meant.

I stood there for a moment that was both brief and long at the same time. Reflecting. Reminiscing. Then I said a prayer. Exhaled deep. And in doing so I buried the remains of the storm. At sea.

-the girl.

to the Left of Right

I have always had trouble with fundamental truths.

As a child, I could never be sure if the long arm of the clock showed minutes or hours. Somehow, I had made the association that because an hour is "bigger" than a minute, technically, the longer arm ought to show hours. Then ofcourse, I would find out that I was wrong and would make a mental note of it. But the next time around when I was asked to tell the time, I'd go over the same premise and arguments in my head and become horribly muddled again.

Relative directions were another bane to my existence. I had a hard time telling left from right. Ironically, I understood cardinal directions very well. But if I was told to turn left, I would have to stop and think. Even then, much to my embarassment, Iwould end up getting it wrong some times. Then my grandfather taught me a trick.

I remember him and I walking home from my Saturday hobby class. I must have been about seven years old then. Everytime we reached a corner, he would ask me which way to turn and I'd choose. It was our game. What amazed me was that no matter how many wrong turns we took, we were never wrong enough to be lost. We would always make it back home in time for lunch.

In the course of these weekly games, it had become apparent to my grandfather that I fumbled with directions. I'd say left when I meant to go right and vice-versa. He'd correct me politely when I made a mistake but was careful not to make me feel conscious about it. "We are just the same, you know", he said to me one day. "I used to have trouble with these things too when I was your age. But its nothing to worry about". And then after a brief pause, he chuckled "Maybe it runs in the family".

I was secretly delighted because this was something we had in common - something that bound me together with my grandfather. I was also relieved to know that there was hope for me yet. Afterall, for someone who claimed to bungle up directions himself, my grandfather had done pretty well in his life. I explained to him my futile attempts at memorizing left and right using all kinds of mnemonics.

"Well, lets forget all of that. It isn't going to help us. We must think in pictures. That is the best way to remember anything", my grandfather said as he walked ahead and stood at the corner of the sidewalk across from me and a red mailbox.

"Now remember the spatial details of what you see here. Try and click a mental picture of it and tuck it away in your head somewhere. The mailbox is to your right. I am standing to your left. If you want to go right, you walk towards the mailbox. If you want to go left, you come to me. Right - mailbox. Left - me. Thats all you need to know", he said to me and then we continued on our way home.

That was many years ago. A lot has happened in my life since. I have grown up for one. My grandfather has passed on. The house that where I grew up was torn down. Occassionally, I still have trouble telling time on a dial-type analog clock. But when it comes to directions, I have become very clever. If you ask me to turn left, I don't have to think twice - or even once for that matter. The neurons in my head fire away mechanically. A familiar scene flickers in my mind's eye. I see a red mailbox on one side. My grandfather is on the other side, smiling.

And I walk towards him. I just keep walking towards him.

-the girl.

badla lungi!!

a book review is anytime better than a post where the boy questions my gender! :-1

the boy must note that his 'little' post is well-regarded and taken into consideration to plan a few things against him.

glorious females,no comments,eh?? thou shalt see the consequences!

wait and watch! till the meantime,i pray to god that the boy gets basked in colours by his hostel mates and also that his room is flooded with water and walls coloured in vibgyor!!

-the girl.

Atonement

Writers are omnipotent. They sit by the brook on sunny afternoons and create bubbles of lives that sway with the wind - every bubble an universe in itself, pregnant with lives twisted and tortured by a greater purpose and responsibility. The writer can then create lives, destroy them, lure the eve with a shining apple or destroy the bubble with a indistinguishable colored pixel. Period.

They could either sweep the rug of reason off your feet and take you to another space and time where their protagonist becomes the center of an ever expanding thriving universe (like how an unassuming ten year old from pivet drive realized his parents were the greatest wizards of all time). Such a premise easily lends itself to drama and larger than life characters (like the man who cannot be named). Or they could show you a seemingly insignificant card and make you a witness while a minor accident sways it and makes it fall. And just as it falls, it kisses another card and takes it along and soon they all fall, an entire castle of cards, kissed with death and a twist of fate. And when the whole castle is in shambles, you have no one to blame but a minor insignificant accident - a woodworm that ate the cross. And a satisfied writer who orchestrated it all.

On a midsummer morning, 13-year-old Briony Tallis watches, from a hidden window, her sister take off her clothes before her father's ward and jump into a fountain. An admittedly unusual incident (aggressive foreplay if it were in a hollywood movie) but not an event that by itself could entwine three lives, destroy them beyond belief and dismember a family. But by the time you are through with Part one of Atonement, you realize that the lives of those caught in that decisive moment have been irrevocably altered and each of their picture perfect plans for future irrepairably destroyed.

The first part of the novel is a master piece. It paints an upper middle class setting in the early part of twentieth century, overlays it with an entire family of interesting characters. Briony Tallis is looking forward for her brother Leon to return and writes a play as a welcome act, that she plans to stage with the help of her cousins. Her sister Cecilia is spending time at home after her years in Oxford and living with them is Robbie turner, who's on his way to study medicine, after an exceptional year of academics. Each chapter is written from the point of view of one character and hence events are revisited and shown in the different perspective. And it's eventually this difference in perspective - subjectivity of realism - that causes the seemingly insignificant card to sway and fall and take with it the entire castle.

The story could have ended there. But the laws of cause and effect wouldn't have been complete. The unlucky wouldn't have been victimised and erring soul wouldn't have repented. The rest of the book binds the ends and records the atonement of the protagonist. Though the text is exquisite, the imagery detailed, these introspective parts fail to capture the magic of the first act. More so because they do little to advance the story - time goes by slowly as the characters trudge through the walk of life reconciling themselves with here and now and try in their own little ways to mend it. But like the author himself writes, "The crystalline present moment is of course a worthy subject in itself ... it allows a writer to show his gifts, delve into mysteries of perception .... However, such writing can become precious when there's no sense of forward movement ... underlying pull of simple narrative".

In the end, time flies. Lives end and plot twists are resolved. The thirteen year old girl reaches the autumn of her life and waits for the witnesses in her prosecution to fade so that she could finally atone for her sin. In a master stroke in the end, the line between the reality as in the book, and those recorded as a work of fiction by the Briorny is forever blurred. And when the final page is flipped, she stares out at the autumn sky and reconciles with herself and her written word.

Atonement is no doubt a work of class. And as with anything with class, it runs the risk of being compared with itself than with its contemporaries. I would have loved to like Atonement a little more. You know that when the last word is said, you don't feel the emptiness that only art could leave you with but in its place a sigh, a shadow of what it could have been. A master piece.

ps: [Atonement : A Novel - by Ian McEwan].

- the girl.

The song of the road..

It is one of my favourite fantasies, a long-cherished romance. And as favourite romances go; this one too is as yet unconsummated, waiting for a bolt of lightining to strike and bear me away in a flash. Cause that is the only way it will be realized.

And one of these days I mean to. Board the first sooty, smoke-belching State Transport bus or a train I see to nowhere. No plans, no nothing. Just like that. Me and my backpack, the bus/train and co-passengers.

Journeys fascinate me. It is my ‘fix’, though I have remained an armchair gypsy much more than I like. Travelling is a process I love. It is a simple kind of a joy, to trace the path you are going to take from point A to point B on a map. Wondering just what lays in store for you this time as you go through the motions of booking your tickets and packing your bags and taking stock of your fellow passengers as you make yourself comfortable on your seats. And then actually travel the way your finger has already traced.

But, as I said, it is a simple kind of a joy and though I revel in it, there is something more; before I could emerge as somebody befitting the tag of a traveler. In my eyes at least.

You see, it has always been the unchronicled that holds a special place in my heart. The undiscovered and the ‘boondocks’. The places you don’t hear much about. Or only of unsavoury incidents if you do. These are the ones that are the farthest from the ‘touristy’ and the ones described as sleepy. The places which long-distance trains whiz disdainfully past or stop by for only a few seconds.

But I want to sightsee these. To know their hawa, paani and fasal as Mulayam Singh Yadav would put it. To know the meandering roads those lead to these far-off places. Removed so far from the kind of life I am familiar with and know.

These are really small towns and cities. Some unknown and some fairly known. The kinds where a stranger would be immediately recognized. I want to experience their character, to know their reactions to a stranger who crosses their path for no apparent reason at all. No reasons, except a curiosity to just see their way of life and their native habitat.

Perhaps, it is the omniscient journalist in me, but it is a strange kind of longing this. To want to attach; an image, a face, an experience to these far off places that lure and intrigue and are nothing more than names on maps to me right now.I want to trade the known for the unknown. Revel in the luxury of knowing that I am unafraid to try the untested. To just step out off a train as it halts at some random station somewhere. Wish I had done that in Bongaigaon in Assam for no reason other than the fact that the name had a nice ring to it or Cooch Behar because it looked so beautiful in the early nippy dawn of December and I so badly wanted to linger around and wait for the faint pink stain morph itself into a heart-warming blazing orange.

Or oh, when it struck me the strongest in Delhi because she left the train there. She earns a living singing Bengali folk in trains. I don’t know her name, but regulars on the Azad Hind told me that though they didn’t know where she boarded from, she always got down at Delhi. I had followed her through the length of the train trying to speak to her as she went about singing the most sweetest songs I had ever heard.

Regulars greeted her with familiar smiles and so tuneful was she that first-timers shoved currency notes into her outstretched hands. She charmed me, this frail old lady with the most beguiling smile. She who made a living out of something which was a ‘heritage’. And while it put food in her belly, it also gave joy to people as she sold back to them their own long-forgotten and fast-dying out culture. I wonder if she realizes the enormity of what was for her a matter of living. This unwitting symbol who was a reminder and guardian of folk culture.

These are the stories I most like. The ones that I want to write. And there are many, I know. Buried in the boroughs of places salted away from mainstream eyes, going about their businesses far from the madding crowds.

I want to go there some day. To Mithila, Muzzafarpur and Deoband. To Gadchiroli, Jamkhed and Tikiapara. To Thangachimaddam, Shirpur and Malegaon.

And then some more.

To experience, a slice of life.

PS: Of course there is Prague too.

So, Godspeed.

-the girl.

tank tank tank

heebeejeebies.

see and edit.

waaaaaa.

The evanescent flicker

He stood in solitude in the looming darkness,
A candle of unrequited love mired in a tempest,
He burnt himself in futile waiting,
For a ray of hope to enliven his being.
But she turned deaf to his heart-rending pleas,
And blind to the drops, rolling down his cheeks.
Leaving time to heal his damaged destiny;
As she watched him melt into oblivion.
She thought the dying flame would leave no trace,
But in the hardened wax she could still see his face.

this is just it..just it.no explanations for its creation.

-the girl.

Phew!

i just missed out on something..bad!

before i posted my previous post..i was just running through all the posts on this blog and it struck me..that the nature of this blog seemed to be conveniently shifting its place from sad to the merry shade..

i realised that if a person reads all the girl's posts,he would surely get an idea that she faces 'serious' nervous breakdowns every week or so..the posts are that gloomy..n the boy seems to be too kind (read: only on the blog!) to actually see where the cloud is heading towards n posts in sumthing funny..to get back the audience from the gates!..

and now,when he was actually coming my way to write sumthing grim..i shooed him off..shya!why i am missing this thing is coz this dude never fails to smile..alright,he succeeds in making people cry n yeah,wail to stop his highly stupid-bordering-on-silly pjs..and so its different to see him getting into that mode..

perhaps,i shud make an attempt at collecting some pjs,emphasis on dead silly ones..; and make him go sad..which then compels him to post in sumthing of my genre..

so..its the pjs then..beware,mah friend!..

-the girl.

You want to beg..?!!

Some things never end, and some things we never stop talking about.

Accent, arguably, is one of them ! It almost always has one in splits when someone mimicks an accent, or when a word is pronounced so wrong that it gives the sentence a completely different and silly meaning...
I live in this place, where the strength of the janta is, shall i say, pretty accent-uated. The other day i was at the groceries store to buy some kulfi. After placing it on the counter, the lady started entering the details on the system, when she looked up at me and asked:
Lady : "you wanto beg ?"
I was sure i heard what i heard .....ok, i know i havent started earning as yet, but an offer to beg ?? Wow !..and i thought begging was a self-inspired profession all the while !
Me: i am sorry! i'd like to pay!
Lady: "yes, but do you wanto beg ?"
Stumped by her insistence, i almost gave it a thought, before i shouted out,"No, i don't want to !"
Lady: "ok!", she said, peacefully removing the kulfi out of the carry bag she had put it in, and handing the kulfi to me!
"here you are, no baeg !"...striking me at that time that she meant "you want a bag ?" !!!

I've always believed that teachers are probably the most important reason students develop an accent in the first place. Not that the teachers do it intentionally, but well, they have been taught that way !
At school, often, we were introduced to the gay and the 1-dimensional world simultaneously, by our math teacher, who wouldnt as much as flinch when she used to direct us saying "please all the gerls and boys, draw a straight lion !", while some cheeky blokes would hiss at the back "wonder how a gay lion would look like"!
Lecturers and profs in college usually used to be the butt of the jokes when it came to accent. more often than not, the bad ones used to have a bad accent to go with, which would not only make them look dumb, but atrociously funny to discuss!

Sometimes they twisted and rolled the words so badly, it's got innocent people in a tight situation on many occasions. We had this lecturer in college, who spoke in thick malayalam accent, and looked like an adult midget. Roll call was the worst, since she pronounced numbers like she was frying something round in her mouth before uttering the words. My friend, had 412 as his roll number, and unfortunately for him, the teacher always pronounced it as "for toll" !. well, it did take a toll on him, if you think about it, since he took ages to comprehend what she had said, answer out of turn, and get kicked out for giving proxy ! that's the unluckiest one can get - Roll number for toll!

...and there were some who pronounced a specific letter differently.

My friends' lecturer in college couldn't say the letter 'P', and would instead say "Fee". Unfortunately for him, his 'P' vocab was better than his 'F' !
One gloomy day he caught one 'Premnath' sleeping in class, and launched himself on him,
"Hey you Fathetic Frame-nath !! are you sleefing in class ?" ...to bring all back from sleep...
Before foor frame-nath could get back to his lenses and senses, a tight blow landed on his head, with another blooper on it's way...
"You are feeling so sleefy, someone else has to wake uf for you ?".
...i'd like a job where someone else could wake up for me, while i slept!!

Another prof of mine had an issue with the 'T's, often coming out as 'thi' or 'tha', and the evil mind that we were, we had named the prof "thomatho-pothatho". she'd go "you guys are therrible, whaths the need to thalk in the labrathory ?" during the microprocessor lab sessions...well after this, we couldnt talk, more so because we tried hard not to howl in laughter!
...but the one that takes the cake was this lecturer who couldn't say 'sa', and would say 'sha'. Imagine the look on this new girl in the second year, when he asked her almost smilingly to "please shit down where the girls are shitting" !, directing her towards them!
much as i would note layke to be kyencerned about these, shumtimes it becomes fainfully unbearable !
Accent proves to be a little hard to digest when you are in a serious situation though. You can't really laugh at times, more like just be green faced trying to control it, but it's funny nonetheless !

There's this dude friend of mine, who pronounces "Brian" like its "Brain". ok, it's not very funny, and could be a compliment in many cases, you'd like to think! Well we had planned this hang-out one day, and this dude friend wanted confirmation from Brian,he hadnt received it..so in a slightly surprised tone, he mused : "I sent a message about this to brain an hour ago , but haven't got any response yet !". I can swear my other friends pinched themselves once to check if they weren't sleeping since they was hearing things, while i was knocked off my chair trying to control my laughter! That's one cheeky brain which not only knows it is slow, but brave enough to tell it out !.

Well all said, these are but innocent mistakes people probably can't do much to change. That's way better than the ones who try to put up an accent, and half way down the line forget to continue it, and start sounding like they've eaten crab legs.....that's a different story to be taken one at a time!...that's when "you'd wanto baeg" to puke into!

-the girl.

A future full of questions..

A journey full of trepidation

A decision full of misgivings

A meeting with a long-lost friend

A walk in the rain

A confession to a listener

A workplace with the much-needed space

Return of tensions full force.....

Sigh... nothing is perfect, is it?


-the girl.

existence.future..

Have you ever wondered about your exsistence in this world?

seriously... im a ponderer i think a lot and sometimes my thoughts dwell into a lot of aspects of the purpose of my existence on this planet, there is a fire in my soul that doesn't die, there is this want, need to achieve more than i was meant to do, to make a difference to the world that i live in.

But then again.. am i a dreamer? As a 20 year old young woman , am i expecting my self to create wonders.. i often wonder if there are more people like me out there who feel lost and uncomfortable and feel like they have been restricted from unleashing their true selves?

just the other day...I saw a baby with a golden ribbon around her head. and i kept observing the twinkle in her eyes and the innocence in her smile and it almost brought tears to my eyes.. being next to her made me feel so impure , I have to admit i was jealous of her.. she didn't have to worry about which lecherous man was watching her, whether she was dressed appropriately?, how was she to earn money? .. such a carefree and lovely existence.The thought that hurt was that one day that innocence will be lost and that she will be like any one of us, in this terrible wicked world , helpless and fighting for her survival. making sure that she is safe at all time, having to worry about creating an identity for herself and fighting it out in this deep dark world where one has to throw away all his values and morals and kill and cut anothers throat to get forward in this race of money ,wealth and fame.

And then i ponder, is this what i have come to? Is this why i exsist, to have a fancy car and a 6 figure salary and handsome man by my side and be selfish and turn my self away from the real world, which is where i should be!...


Just in case,you have started thinking that i am a highly pessmist girl,who always tends to think bout the big,black,dark,evil world then no..it isnt that.on the contrary,i think the world is rosy and beautiful and i can see and feel the sushine also..but its just the on-off bouts which take me to such paths which would lead me somewhere..which are undiscovered..n which i am scared to discover..

-the girl.

back,..with a bang (?)

yes, it has to be a big hi, that too in block letters.have been absconding for god knows how many days..
but now surely back with some things which i gave a thought to, realised n felt.coming up soon. till then..
:) ..just a smile.

- the girl.

God in small things..

Have you ever been big enough to notice small things? Have you ever walked down a street looking at the trees and see them smile at you? Ever seen a dry leaf being carried away by the wind, taking somersaults, running from nobody like a child in the park, waiting for something to come its way so that it can topple over once again?

Have you seen a small child smile… at you… because of you? Ever felt at the top of the world even after a worst possible day because you made someone smile… and could see that someones day being made?

Have you ever had the time to time the time? When you had to rush nowhere… like still water! No work to go to, no friends to catch up with, no calls to make, no mails to check. Just stand like a tree… smiling at everyone who bothers to notice. When you are very calm and serene, in a mood to appreciate the beauty of nature… notice the small but beautiful things around you that you overlook most of the time. When you are in a mood to listen and not talk… this is when you should try talking to small people, one that do not matter to you… oldies for example… who probably are the only people who could feel the earth rotate around its own axis. People abandoned by people, by senses and waiting to be abandoned by life. Try and talk to them… connect with them… and you shall realize that they do think… think big… think smart… just like us… the only difference is that may be they cannot maintain their flow of thought. But its very interesting listening to them… and best part is… if you do listen… you are blessed with that one small smile on their face at the end that says, dear… you made my day! One smile that can speak more than 1000 comprehended words per second and infinite happiness… far beyond any communication bandwidth. Make you feel good… big… happy... blessed. Reinstates the belief that God exists even in small things.


Love everyone, because life is like a game of chess, once the game is over, the king and the pawn go in the same box.
– Inspired by Being Cyrus (The Movie).


The quote has not much relevance with the post... I just like it.

-the girl.

Of Long Drives and Camel Rides.......

You're trying hard to sit still but you can feel your insides moving from side to side, back & forth, while you try to steel yourself n keep reciting lines from the bible/bhagwat gita/qoran/guru granth sahib/etc hoping you're alive by the time you reach your destination.By the time the ride ends and u alight from your means of transportation, you are certain thatyour internal organs have been re-arranged giving you that queasy feeling.Camel ride anyone? Just in case you're not anywhere in Rajasthan or nowhere near a camel inhabited zone, have no fear! Our dear ol Pune has everything you need!Just get your car(or bike or cycle or rickshaw) n cruise (???) around our marvellous city on the even more marvellous and smooth roads(???) and i assure you that the drive/ride will definitely remind you of an excellent butt breaking cruise on the ship of the desert.Whoever it was at OPEL who came up with the slogan "Life is a journey; Enjoy the drive" has obviously never had his neck on the line on Pune's roads.I'm stopping this article here for fear that in case i do continue and use the correct adjectives for the concerned officials, I may land up in legal trouble (Not really..I'm just feeling so darned lazy...Also, I'm stopping coz i'm a lil fed up of the mediocre nature of this post..writer's block you know.. )

And yes,kabhi alvida na kehna..(which gives me one more kick in the hindmost to watch this one!)

hey boy,would like to watch it with me?the 'simultaneous' plan that is..m waiting for it to materialze..

-the girl.

not a nice place to be in..

What do you do when a favourite dream grows old? Revisit and stoke the dying embers of what was once a raging fire which consumed your whole being? Be prepared then to be unsettled. Since it was your favourite, the embers will willingly relinquish the burden of the survival struggle. They know that intentions notwithstanding, your visit itself will be their Elixir. Fuelled on further by your guilt at having forgotten this dream.As the fire leaps up again, you unconsciously shrink away. At first you think it is the heat that has you all bothered. It soon has you fighting with your back to the wall. But it won’t let you win. Or leave. Tired of sparring with the flames of forced introspection, you stand and analyse. Yourself. With cool detached calm, far from what you feel.You fear not the fire. You lit it after all. But why the shadows which are lengthening by the second? Standing between the fire and you is your newest dream, just manifested into surety. Mint fresh and gift wrapped in the sunny paper of happy feelings, it landed some time ago on the touchstone of your belief. And it made the transition. From plain metal into gold. You scarcely believed that alchemy worked until then.But now, the fire is powerful. It swells and rages, feeding itself on long cherished aspirations and goals. “How can shift your goalposts so?,” they accusingly question. “Extinguish us and you lose a part of you. Unfulfilled at that,” they remind.And you stand there. Your face a picturesque canvas. A play of light and shadows. A study in contrasts. The only decision you make is to buy time. You acknowledge your dream, a part of you back. The fire becomes like before, a part of you. Only it has to compete.And now begins the fight. The real contest. The fire is important but it must be contained. Or it will burn and smother, leading you to asphyxiate on stifled emotions. What worth then the glittering diamonds, if surrounded by the ash grey of charred feelings? Yes, you need him on your side. He is the only real touchstone. Father Time.

-the girl.

why write?

Whoever it was who vanished in the silence of words, who said writing is an art, pervades all minds save mine. For me words are loud and no matter how loud i shout.it seems quiet.Here I am staring into the placid walls of my room , with a willingness in my eyes, rummaging deep into my memories for words; but easier wished than done,it just doesn't come.Staring into my empty computer screen, I feel no need to write.The willingness has died and so has the necessity.But as i settle my vision on the wall above me with very little sleep in my eyes and as I burrow deep into my memories,walking lonely along untrodden alleys, I feel the need to write.Ofcourse,the boy has done his level best by telling me '101 reasons why i shud not stop blogging'..The inertia is overwhelming.But seated against a cosy chair as of mine, I have mustered enough patience to pen a few lines.With a pleasant feeling of this jarring pain and at a loss of lexicons, my mind has lost its agility.The legend of phoenix inspires me to push my limits, to resuscitate my tepid spirit.Take a deep breath and you can still smell the pleasant aroma of ash on me.Words are all on which I survive and (what an irony) at those I arrive with a conscious try!!Come , join me in this journey of mine and do walk alongside me to the divine...the journey is short and has some bends though inevitably it has to see its end...

-the girl.

the song of silence..

The creeping voices of this silence, are slowly pouring through my soul,
I’m standing all alone on a stranded road with my life in a million folds.
And I can feel the walls falling stone by stone on me,
The screeching voices are held in a breath too long to feel.
I can smell my fingers going numb, all along life has lost its sense.
But, the darkness is putting me to sleep through sweet song of silence.
My lids are closing down, to the darkness of my pain,
The paths I’ve meandered through have all gone in vain.
The words no more have meaning; I’ve heard what you have to say,
I’m tired of walking all alone; it’s such a long day.
My life is stuck in a moment, a moment too long to live.
Like breath held too tightly, too tightly too breathe.
I’m seeking the lost beauty of innocence,
But the moment is pulling me into the sweet song of silence.
The days are so long and dark, the time is at a hault,
The rooms are so empty, everything so untouched,
And I gaze through my desolate eyes, helpless, screaming it not my fault.
And as try to feel the depth of my pith, I fall inside my sin,
The broken pieces of my soul are pouring through my skin.
The stillness of moving pictures, I can feel in the broken mirror,
I try to peep into the pieces, but pulled back by fear,
A fear of seeing the unseen, a fear of seeing the truth I’ve not been.
The sweet smell of life is tucked away, somewhere far from my essence,
And somehow, striving through the fields, I start humming the song of silence.
Now, when I walk through the crowed boulevards, I see the voidness inside concrete,
Forging myself into life, I see the stifled surrendered streets.
But the time has washed away my tears; the winds have swept away my fears.
Trying to extinguish the fire of my silhouette, people turn their heads around,
Moving on, exalting the silence of sound.
But life has its way of showing the girth of resilience,
Sometimes through words, sometimes through a song of silence.


- the girl.