tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7179542968854769972024-02-08T11:07:46.238+05:30A Mouthful Of SkyNeelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-12731522058716855862014-09-20T01:18:00.001+05:302014-09-20T08:25:55.878+05:30'Happiness' Diary :D<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What is happiness? That elusive emotion of delight, briefly warming up our hearts and opening the gates to Heaven... </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Is it real? Or is it the mere idea of 'happiness" that makes us happy?</span><br />
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Of late, I had been inspired by my young students to escape the tragedy of human existence by focusing on the happy moments that shape my life. I was immersed in the pursuit of happiness...rather tracing the 50/100 shades of Happiness..."Impossible", said my Mind; "Hmm...challenge accepted!", high-fived my Heart.</span><br />
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Chasing the rainbow got a new hash tag on Facebook: <b>#100_happy_days.</b></span><br />
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I must say that this supposed act of frivolity added a new meaning to my life. Instead of whining and complaining about all the wrongs that happened in my life, I took baby steps towards optimism. I found courage in my words, hope in my smile.</span><br />
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Initially it started as an act of enlisting the personal triumphs of the day. Gradually, I transcended to telling stories...discovering joy from observation, fabrication even.</span><br />
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I would like to share a few such posts with you. Hope you like it:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 1:</u></b> Happiness is talking non-stop about the good ol' days of Bollywood over shingara and rosagolla on a warm and lazy afternoon. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">Happiness is being shown a crappy poem that you had composed for a friend ages back and to realize that after all these years, she still has it!</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAAQsAzBZk6dBIckQgyCF_1-dL090aEutmzW6nLhyphenhyphen2bx3BrQ_uqtiYMW2dg_snDfr_UV4_jhVM6tghuN6JuTklSnHk3ZMwZOqok7SgK6llxPKpNddzXbL9ICVLYQvFuSWjYZFc2iyQd8/s1600/laughter_quote_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAAQsAzBZk6dBIckQgyCF_1-dL090aEutmzW6nLhyphenhyphen2bx3BrQ_uqtiYMW2dg_snDfr_UV4_jhVM6tghuN6JuTklSnHk3ZMwZOqok7SgK6llxPKpNddzXbL9ICVLYQvFuSWjYZFc2iyQd8/s1600/laughter_quote_2.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;"><span style="color: #37404e;"><u><b>Day 3</b></u>: Happiness is locating a place correctly without GPS and reaching the venue on time. Thanks to the directions given by my colleague, Mrs.</span> </span><a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=100004760972806" href="https://www.facebook.com/malabika.chakraborty2" style="background-color: white; cursor: pointer; line-height: 20px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;">Malabika Chakraborty</span></a></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">Happiness is waking up to early morning rain and feeling the gush of sweet wind on my face.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">Happiness is dancing to Jessie J's Price tag all by myself...a free style P.T.kind of dance...It's a mood lifter ...really!!!</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">Happiness is finally getting over the misgivings of a few and realising the importance of inner peace. Yo Po!....</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 7</u></b>: Happiness is going on a walk after ages,flexing those tired muscles. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">Happiness is getting drenched in the rain. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">Happiness is feeling super good in your own skin and not aspiring to be someone else....</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 8</u></b>: Visiting a bank is always a nightmare. The long queues, the moody tellers and all queries beginning with the line "Na,eta to hobena..oho..uff..." causes nothing but distress. But today this lady took me by surprise. Not only did she attend my query super fast but also flashed a big smile saying,"Kono osubidhe hobena,sab hoye jabe"( All will be fine, don't worry). I walked out of the bank,pleased and contented.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 16</u></b>: Waking up late in the morning to the smell of luchi and begun bhaja,abar mishti and mishti and mishti, khichdi, long afternoon nap, long drive with hubby,polao and chicken and fruits and ice cream.....aur jeene ko kya chahiye...</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">Happiness is happy being who you are...You may be arrogant,cranky,obnoxious, self-depricating but you are you...and somebody(not every Body) loves you just the way you are!!! So <i>I'm awesome, you're awesome, everybody is just-soh-Awessomme!!!</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 17:</u></b> Happiness is smiling not to shoo away troubles but smiling because you want to,you feel like it. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">Happiness is a happy end to a beautiful weekend and steeling up for all the trash that life may drown you in. There's always an escape route. You only need to know where and when to run.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">"I am bullet proof, nothing to lose, fire away ,fire away...you shoot me down but I don't fall, I am titanium... "</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">Happiness is discovering your inner strength.Am ready. So hit me with your best shot..</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 18:</u></b> What makes you waltz, </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;"> What makes you sing?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">What gives you joy,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">The long-yearned zing?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">Is it the rain,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">The puddles or a paper boat?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">Or the sky,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">The trees or the creaky window?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">The lanes,the smuck?</span></span></div>
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The sitting duck?</div>
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The rings of smoke?</div>
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The vendors crying hoarse?</div>
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A special company</div>
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Or in a hive?</div>
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In a pensive mood</div>
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Or a long drive?</div>
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Lip-smacking food</div>
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Or a long walk?</div>
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A moment of silence?</div>
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Or an endless talk?</div>
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Memories or the present</div>
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What makes you smile?</div>
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What ticks your heart?</div>
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What keeps it alive?</div>
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Happiness laughs,</div>
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Nods her head and says,</div>
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"This makes you happy.</div>
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This lights up your face.</div>
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Don't look for a reason.</div>
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Let's rest the case."...</div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 19:</u></b> Plans are tossed out of the window with the darkening of the sky. The furrows between the eyebrows deepen. The oldest saree is chosen. Floaters are made ready to be worn.<br /><br />"<i>It'll rain today</i>." No sooner did I utter these magical words than the sky poured out with all its might. The rain was lovely,redolent of the happy days of youth but I had promises to keep...attend to my duties,rush t<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">o work! Yet there is something about the rains..a cathartic effect.<br /><br />Happiness is celebrating an early morning shower as the woods of Robert Frost change into the vignettes of a city,the drone of its white noise filling the insides.<br /><br />Happiness is singing "Ei ekla ghar amar desh"(a song by the popular Bengali band-Fossils) with your colleagues... the after effects of the beautiful weather! Solitary is not the same as lonely after all.<br /><br />Happiness is discovering a new lane while taking a walk...the path which I had never before explored. Happiness is being unafraid to set out new benchmarks for yourself. Where there is a will,there is always money,I mean, a way <i class="_4-k1 img sp_LWp1MpKGrs1 sx_85e800" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yP/r/90b8T5aM1AH.png); background-position: 0px -8088px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i>.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 20:</u></b> How many kinds of friends do you have? </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">Best, not-that-best, hi-bye sorts of friends?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">And how many dare to be friends with yourself? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">How many have the courage to stand before the mirror and look yourselves in the eye and say," You're perfect. You're beautiful. "?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">But then what makes you beautiful?! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">One Direction may like the casual carefree beauties but the world still falls for the ster</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">eotype.<br /><br />When Geet in 'Jab We Met' says that she's her own favourite person, it sets one wondering. When was the last time I told that to myself? We hate our misshapen nose,hair,complexion, height,nails,weight...oh! The list is endless. But the day we start loving ourselves for who we are,I guess all conflict can be put to rest. You'll not be lonely anymore as your shadow will either follow you or walk ahead of you and if you're really lucky,be one with you.<br /><br />Hence, Happiness is being friends with yourself and chanting " Main khudki favourite hoon" <i class="_4-k1 img sp_LWp1MpKGrs1 sx_35a5d8" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yP/r/90b8T5aM1AH.png); background-position: 0px -7986px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i> </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 21:</u></b> It has been years since I've visited Nicco Park. The roller coaster rides gave me such a thrill. It made me feel liberated, as if anything was possible. But each ride cost money. And money was always something that held me back from enjoying all the amazing rides. But today when I boarded the sparsely occupied E1 bus while returning from school,it seemed as if the driver had read my mind. </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">He drove at such a speed with liberal jumps and jerks that I relived my childhood fantasy. At the end I was aghast at the ludicrous driving but secretly thrilled at how little things can make you smile. This is happiness. <i class="_4-k1 img sp_LWp1MpKGrs1 sx_35a5d8" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yP/r/90b8T5aM1AH.png); background-position: 0px -7986px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i><br /><br />Happiness is watching 'Singin' in the rain' and aspiring to dance like those actors. Just wowed by their performance.<br /><br />Happiness is giving yourself a new haircut...snip snip snap! </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 22:</u></b> Scene: A regular classroom. Students,all tired and yawning, uninterested in what the teacher has to say. The teacher,on the other hand, encourages the daydreaming youth to critically analyze the wall magazine. Big words? Just say what you liked or didn't like about it. A few hands rise up.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">The moment the conversation begins the mood of the class changes. The ones who contributed to the wa</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">ll magazine are eager to hear how well their articles have been received. The rest try and explain the reasons behind their choices. And the stars are born. Budding poets,authors,artists.The nobody become 'some'bodies.<br /><br />Being appreciated is definitely wonderful. Even when the criticism is negative, something positive can come out of it. We can always work on our shortcomings. I mean,life would be so boring if we were always perfect. Imperfection adds the spice...that's nice.<br /><br />So,I hereby take the opportunity to thank all the lovely people who both hate and love my work.The pat on the back or that little colon and a 'closed' bracket 'opens' the floodgates of happiness for me <i class="_4-k1 img sp_LWp1MpKGrs1 sx_35a5d8" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yP/r/90b8T5aM1AH.png); background-position: 0px -7986px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i><br /><br />Happiness is watching the pictures of a friend from college with her little bundle of joy. Gosh! We have come a long way since our 'chyablamo'days. She is a wonderful human being and I am certain that she'll be the best Mom to her li'l angel.Congratulaions Debarati Sengupta.May God bless you and your family. Always.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 23:</u></b> Happiness is not always waking up with a Close-up smile.It is a journey towards contentment and reconciliation with the inevitable. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">I had been holding on to two little things for the past ten years of my life. One is my trunk that had been bought to me when I first came to Kolkata and the other my book rack,the one I had bought during my M.A. days in Phoolbagan. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">The two stood for the di</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">stinct phases of my maturity. While one encompassed all my dreams, trials and disappointments, the other shouldered my ambition, aspirations and trinkets from my lost self.<br />I had wished never to let them go. I had wished to move on with them all my life. After all, they were an integral reminder of my past,my beginnings.<br /><br />However, one look at my space and everything looked cluttered. Physically and emotionally. How could I aspire to start anew if I held desperately on to the past? One person called them a 'liability', the unessentials, that I was foolishly not letting go.<br /><br />But today I did let them go. I sold them off. Gave them away. Burned a chapter of my life.<br />All that's left now is the wisps of smoke and ashes. Yet am happy. For I am ready to create a beautiful tomorrow. I am free. The weight of yesterday has been lifted. For now. ....</span></span><br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 24:</u></b> Hitting an all time low. Have you ever encountered days when you feel that the universe is conspiring against you? When all you do is branded as wrong? When you feel that nothing will be ever right again? Of course, you must have. And what do you do then? Complain.Cry. Curse your stars.<br />High-five! I did the same.<br />But this post came to me as a saving grace.<br />Somewhere in between those un<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">controllable sobs and shooting pain in my heart, I searched for the silver lining. The mere thought of it was soothing.<br />I still believe in Karma. And am thankful for the chain of events that has helped me discover the reality. The illusory bubble that I had been dwelling in is finally pricked. So,happiness is embracing the reality and taking stock of situations.<br /><br />Happiness is your loved ones trying to cheer you up. Nothing like a good family time.<br />---------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 25:</u></b> The earth is spinning on its axis as we speak. Spinning at a dizzying speed. Moving on its oblong path. On and on. The silence in the space is countered by the din of human life. Emotions drowned in the white noise.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">It's strange. So strange. If one face of the earth receives light,the other is clothed in the dark. Such that all things spoken by us are only half-true. For when you say,"It'</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">s day now", at that exact moment a mother must be cradling her little one to sleep in some long forgotten part of the world.The multi-faceted monster. Truth.<br />Yet misunderstandings are born out of this very word for it is colored and spiced up to suit various purposes. Yet unfailingly all seek the Truth.<br /><br />To me, happiness is not relying on the Truth, the absolute, but in nestling in the 'in-between'- the Middle Path. In a world of lukewarm sentiments and 'half-girlfriends', half-truth can be satisfying. At least,it allows you to live at peace. Better than turning into a misanthrope...</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 26</u></b>: Once upon a time there lived a student who was fairly good at recitation and drama. The opportunity to escape the monotony of text books excited her. She participated in several intra-school competitions.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">Accolades only reinforced her dream, whetted her appetite for more. She yearned to participate in inter-school competitions too. This is where her parents stepped in. 'Good marks are more</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;"> important than any stage business',they said. 'After all that is what will help you succeed in future'. No drama. No participation in such 'useless' enterprise. "Porasona kore je,gaari ghoda chaure shey"(In order to lead an accomplished life,one must study).<br /><br />That child in me cried herself to sleep. For she knew her parents would never understand her undying love for stage. The dream was murdered in cold blood. Strangely no law in the land could offer protection against this.<br /><br />Today when I saw my students enthusiastically participating in large numbers in the <i>Horlicks Wizkids Competition 2014,</i> I saw the ghost of that child, jumping in glee, never leaving my side. She knew that the times had changed. No child would suffer from a broken heart. Today parents realise the importance of extracurricular activities. Hence, they are no longer perceived as an added or an 'extra' means of educating a child. It is co-curricular, i.e.moulding the child to be humane and just not a literate homo sapien.<br /><br />I had a vision of that child sitting wistfully at one corner of the auditorium, with tears streaming down her patchy cheeks. Her dream was not a dream anymore. It was a tangible reality. She was finally happy. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 27</u></b>: Her little eyes wandered across the stretch of the busy lane. She took in the familiar smell of the food rotting at the nearest corner, the sight of a mother treating her little one to an ice cream, the unceasing string of vehicles. She rubbed her dirty cheeks and took one quick look at her tattered frock that barely covered her body. She saw a group of giggling girls boarding a bus. How s</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">he wished to be...oh! was she bold enough to dream?<br /><br />Next,she did what she had been taught as a toddler. Cup your hands, cast a sorry look, plead for alms. But just when she was ready to follow the drill, a litter of puppies caught her attention. The puppies were all set to play. They rolled in the dust,climbed atop each other while their mother watched them,bemused.<br /><br />She knew exactly what she wanted to do. She forgot all about the drill and ran towards the pups. Initially, the pups tried to run away,scared, but the soft comforting sounds disarmed them. They gathered round the girl and licked her hands till she laughed and laughed.<br />While the girls in the bus chatted merrily, that little girl on the street felt no different.<br />A song had filled her heart too.....Now this is happiness...</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 28</u></b>: He is just another guy boarding the bus or on his bike. An average man by all means. Not one who you'll consider giving a second look. Yet the moment he strides into his office and takes his seat behind the teller's counter with flair, you know that this man is different. From old to young,the common men look at him in anticipation. He has the power to get the money into our accounts. And </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">everybody addresses him 'Sir'. Not out of admiration but out of the necessity not to annoy him. If he is not in the mood, he'll hold up the queue. You may shout, you may grumble. But you'll still stand powerless before him. That is the power of a public servant.<br /><br />Think of the bus conductors and drivers in Kolkata now. In a city which follows the rule of arm i.e. you stretch that hairy arm, non- hairy arm, black arm, white arm, no arm, the bus is sure to make a halt. But who decides where to stop? The bus conductors mostly. Who asks the driver to speed up or slow down with the liberal string of abuses? Our very own "kaandaktaar dada". This is power.<br /><br />Power cannot be bought. It needs to be earned. Every person in the society is empowered in his own little way. We don't need to hold big positions in our work field to make a difference. The toddler in his cradle weilds power too. When he cries, the house members run helter skelter to look for ways to appease him. He silently makes them ready for a set of compromises. His wish is the parents' command.<br /><br />Happiness is the realisation that the power to make changes lies within you. It is not in the hands of God who is generally assigned the responsibility of shaping destinies. Each is powerful in her own way. So it's time we acknowledge it, and use it wisely....</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 29</u></b>: God knows how many times I have lied at social gatherings when asked about my favourite dish. Even my dabbawallah refuses to cater to my request stating that the others won't like it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">I'm in love with khichdi. Have been in love with it since that particular rainy afternoon, when it was served hot by Dida. Since then I have longed for this yellow porridge solely. Served with papad and alu </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">bhaja, my day is made.<br />But my lack of culinary skills makes me dependent on others. You should see how people smother a laughter when I express my love for this delicacy. "Khichdi? Are you serious? It's food for the sick." Sigh! I have stood in queues of puja bhogs only to taste a plateful of heaven. Every time it rains I look puppy-eyed at my dabbawallah and every time he scoffs at the idea or worse, makes a disaster of it.<br /><br />Somehow I guess this time my prayer reached the ears of my favourite God. As soon as he was done celebrating his Day on earth, he sent in my prayer-papers to the office of Lakshmi to calculate the costs and via a Devdut, my dabbawallah was instructed to do the needful.<br />Result? Saturday night was khichdi night. I folded my hands piously and thanked the Lord.Jai Ganesh!<br /><br />Happiness is staring wide eyed at all those titles at British Council Library and wondering if I'll ever manage to read them all. There's so much to read, so much more to learn every second of our lives. Our lives are enriched by what we do and not by what we daydream about. So, I borrowed a book and made my start on the road to knowledge.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 30</u></b>: It was that day of the year again when the Pisces in me was fully awake. The morning was overcast with a hint of grey today. Not the usual flood of strong light that awakened my stupefied senses. My mind urged me to go outside,cast away the mundane work and do something worthwhile. Watch a movie, may be. But just as I was about to give in to sweet temptation, my pragmatic self took charge </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">and shook me up from inside. I have been procrastinating this work for quite sometime now. Can't hold it up any further. More so, I've a reputation to maintain.<br /><br />The fish in me swam up to the shores only to dive deep inside. It rained intermittently. A strong breeze now and then broke into my room and ruffled the sheets of paper. No, I had made up my mind. Work is worship. As soon as evening set in, my pragmatic self allowed me to take a break. After all, she was pleased with my progress. As usual, I decided to go on a walk. Need to stay fit to keep lethargy at bay.<br /><br />And that spelt my doom. I let the wind mess up my hair. I let the rain drench my heart. I let the potholed road lead me nowhere. I felt a sense of calm. I was Nature. My mind had been cleared of all doubts. My pragmatic self had been locked up by the dreamer in me. I simply wanted to walk on and on and never feel baffled by earthly desires again.<br /><br />Once a friend had shared her deepest desire with me. She wanted to stop the traffic and dance on a Bollywood number. Crazy,huh! All of us had laughed at the impracticality of her dream. Yet now I understood the thought behind it. Today as I was washed away by the steady downpour, I wanted to write. Write on something...anything at all. Write and love and write again till all the ills were purged.<br /><br />And then I entered my room. My work glowered back at me, hurt at my indifference. With a deep sigh, I took up the pen...not to free myself but to get holed up again. This is the discombobulating life that we all lead. Reality can be escaped but never be ignored.<br /><br />"I have miles to go before I sleep"</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 31</u></b>: With neatly parted hair, he looked at the mirror again. His uniform was ironed, spotless. It smelt of detergent. His shoes shone black. He checked his bag once again. Tiffin? Check. Water bottle? Check. Homework copies? Check. His mind was riddled with algebra. He had a test in the first period. "I wish my teacher were absent." He muttered the small prayer like a mantra. Honk,honk! It wa</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">s time to leave. He carried his backpack and locked the door behind him. As he handed over the keys to his mother, she smiled and said," Hey,Champ! Ready for school ?"He smiled. He liked it when his mother called him Champ. He sat behind her on the scooter. Wearing his helmet, he put his arms around her. They vroomed away happily, chasing the wandering cloud.....This is happiness.......</span></span><br />
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<b><u>Day 33</u></b>: There is a rhythm, a passion, a madness in how she dances. She glides across the stage like a dream. Her smile is the ecstasy she feels. Her verve is infectious. She sways and glides and lives the beat as the music reaches its climax. She is a fire that sets ablaze everything she touches. An absolute visual delight. She scarcely does realise that as she is liberated at one small corner of her bedroom, her parents discuss her future - for her report card is out. She has failed... Yet she stands victorious, dripping in sweat, ready to be applauded by the esteemed guests that afternoon, a host of stuffed animals....Isn't this happiness?...</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 34</u></b>: The song on the neighbour's t.v wafted into her room. She knew it was morning. The 'another' same day. Her maid servant was due to arrive in an hour. It gave her enough time to enjoy a quiet cup of tea by the balcony. The sun was always so comfortable until it shone with vengeance as minutes ticked away. Her husband was still asleep. She hadn't taken retirement this well. She missed being </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">busy.Missed the chalk dust on her saree. Missed her red pen. Missed interacting. She didn't talk much now. She didn't need to.<br /><br />But as she got ready to prepare her Darjeeling tea, she heard the swish of the newspaper slide inside her house. That unmistakable sound. A welcome sound. She put on her glasses with her wrinkled hands. She took one look at the date and her heart skipped a beat. September 5.<br /><br />As the aroma of the hot beverage filled her senses, a zillion memories swirled through her mind.<br /><br />For those few seconds she was twenty eight again. In her school. Her workplace. Amidst glowing young faces. Wishing her a Happy Teachers' Day.Complimenting her. Making her feel special. Nobody had made her feel this special before. Had she really affected so many lives?<br />She was amazed. Moved. Thrilled.<br /><br />She kept aside her tea cup. Removed her glasses. Went back to the bedroom, and opened her cupboard. There it was. In one special corner. The handmade cards which read 'Best teacher ever'. Strange how simple words can make you cry...The sun was finally up and she was happy again. She let the tear fall on that card. Once a teacher, always a teacher...</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 35</u></b>: "...I know that you'll bring me down. Bring me down with your over enhanced vocabulary. With your literary allusions. With all your angst punctuated by strategic pauses. I am your only consolation in grief, ain't I ? </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">Do you think this will help you? Help you attain peace of mind? Help you to lessen the pain you feel? No...don't do that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">Look, I am ordinary. Average by definition. I was ma</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">de to serve Peace and not spark off silly squabbles.Why treat me such? Why make me bleed?<br />Why don't you just ease up a little, let go that rage and come back when your senses are not slashed by those scathing words?..." said the Pen to its Master.<br /><br />The mere mortal, being freshly soaked in the wisdom of the blessed Pen, took a stroll outside, only to return glad and contented. She sat down to share her happiness with the world.<br />Pen smiled as it knew that this wasn't just pent up feelings. This was mirth setting aglow distant horizons.<br />And it scribbled away...let itself bleed to see her eyes sparkle....</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 36:</u></b> When do you know that this is it? That life-altering moment when everything changes for the better? Bollywood has corrupted my senses into believing that such moments will be accompanied by some background scores or better still, everything will fall silent, and that defining moment will unfold in slo-mo. That's fantastic but hardly real. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">When I first met this handsome man outside Pantal</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">oons for the very first time,little did I know that he was the one. When I first stepped into my first class of B.Ed, I didn't know if I had it in me to be a good teacher. So how did I know? How do we recognise 'the voice', our calling? The world around is chaotic. There's too much of noise. Too much of talk. Too many choices. But I guess, things always work out in our favour if we are earnest in our desires. It is this strength, this determination that finally paves the way to the 'this is it' moment.<br /><br />Today as I am inches away from taking another big decision of my life, I wonder if this is it. It is a risk, a challenge I am meant to accept. Am I ready? Am I up for it? What if I fail?<br />So,happiness is staring into the eyes of Life and saying...The Game is on..</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 37</u></b>: So you are mad.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">Really, really mad at yourself. At the world, at society, at humanity at large! What do you do? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">Scream, jump, eat chocolates and kill yourself? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">Or write a bad poem, a bad blog?? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">Yesterday I decided to do nothing. Absolutely nothing about it. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">Anger doesn't need to be controlled everytime. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;">At times it can be a driving force and can help you see the real purpose of your l</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">ife.<br />I let this anger consume my soul, eat away my heart...yes, I would change, be ruthless. Might is right. I don't need the world...Nobody cares...and then..boom!<br />I ran into this friend from college and her sister. My Anger was confused to see my heart taking over and stretching my lips into a wide smile. We chatted for about three minutes at the most. Those were the best three minutes of my life.<br />Once I turned and walked on, I realised what a fool I had been all this while. Can anger ever heal? No. Can anger bring peace of mind? No. The 'drive' is fuelled by vengeance, and vengeance has never done anybody good.<br />I came back home. Took a last look at Anger and tossed it into the bin. Will not need that for a long time now. Am awesome just the way I am. Happiness is welcoming my old self back...Hello Me! ...</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 38</u></b>: The tap had run dry. She was standing at the end of the queue. 'No water. No food' echoed through her little head covered by dirty, tangled brown hair. Her little brother tugged at her skirt. "Didi, chalo na!" It was just another day.She looked around at the querulous older women abusing one another, cursing their fate, taking the name of God, pleading for mercy. God. She muttered the word</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">s under her breath. Her one time friend. Now her sworn enemy.<br /><br />As she walked away from the smelly bodies, she took the hand of the little one. She recalled how it was only a year back that her mother had passed away, burning in fever. She had been wearing her favourite red ribbon that day. She had even tried selling it off but who would buy a ribbon? She had wept at the altar of God. Her Ma had said that God looks after us. Then why won't he cure Ma? Why does he want to take her away?<br /><br />Knee-deep in her thoughts she scarcely realised that her little brother had slipped away. He was running far ahead of her, singing a song that he had picked up from somewhere. Life was cruel but what did he care?<br /><br />"Didi dekh...paani paani.." He pointed at the water flowing down the gutter. Black, ridden with the decomposed leftovers of the wealthy. Yes, that's what God leaves for them to thrive on. The gutter. She couldn't control that pain shooting up her heart. A tear rolled down her dense black eyes. And then something happened.<br /><br /> </span></span><br />
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A distant rumble was heard. The sky grew dark as dull grey clouds assembled out of nowhere. The hot air was pushed away by a cool wind. The bucket that she had been holding in her hand dropped on the dusty ground.And then...she felt something fall on her head. Lightly at first, slowly picking up pace. The qurarrels had ceased as every inch of the land was drenched in its rhythmic beat. A new sound had emerged. The sound of a victorious fleet.</span><br />
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Her brother started dancing. " Paani, Paani...kitta paani..."</span><br />
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She stood there. Silent. Bewildered. Amused. Should she thank God? Or was she still 'katti'? But as her brother took her by the hand and entered into another celebratory jig, she sighed and whispered to herself, "Chal maaf kiya."....</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 39</u></b>: How she hated falling sick! It was as if her life was slowly draining out with every breath that she sucked in with great difficulty. She had always loved her fast life. Party. Shopping. Chilling out. Yes. That's what life is all about, isn't it? Popularity, good looks, she had it all. The most sought after person in her college, the life of all parties off campus. Her seniors even took fa</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">shion advice from her. How cool was that! And yet now she was lying on her princess bed. Running a high temperature. Alone.<br /><br />She had a hundred friends on Facebook, eighty on her phonebook but she had none to discuss her illness with. Her best pal had been catty sometime back, rekindling ties with her ex-flame. Her next bestie was at a reunion party, posting selfies and tags stating how she missed her. Awww ...<br /><br />Huh! Her eyes were red. Her skin looked patchy in the mirror hanging opposite her bed. Her hair was sticky with sweat. She looked haggard. Old. The sickness was unveiling her hideous self. How she hated it! Hated the reality of her life. That she was alone. All alone.<br /><br />She stared at her smartphone and gazed at the messages. "Get well soon,dear"...blah blah. All the same. Empty...empty words. She knew it. She had done the same to others before. She hated it even more.<br /><br />Yup. She was sick. This sickness was getting her emotionally fuzzy. So, she pulled herself up and did what all ill girls should do.<br />" Hey guys, down wid fevr..(sad face smiley) Miss me @Reunion??" .... and click and post.<br />The message was up for the uncaring world. A final attempt at sympathy.<br /><br />While she coughed and sneezed, somebody pawed in through the door. He leapt up on the bed and cuddled right under her hand. He had not been sick yet felt neglected all this while. His friend was so busy partying and socialising that she had hardly realised his happy tail welcoming her into the house with a happy 'woof'. He was undergoing a lonely phase too. And now she was sick. Wouldn't be out of house for sometime. Blessing in disguise. His playmate was back! At least for some time. He gently licked her palms, till she giggled and took her eyes off her smartphone. The reunion was complete.<br /><br />Meanwhile, her status had received 50 likes and 20 comments. "Sry lv...gt wl sn <i class="_4-k1 img sp_LWp1MpKGrs1 sx_160c3b" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yP/r/90b8T5aM1AH.png); background-position: 0px -7850px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i>." The notification sound was drowned in the loud joyful woofs mixed with a hearty laugh. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 40</u></b>: A fat and ugly girl took one quick glance at the three mirrors in the trial room. The dress was too tight. Too uncomfortable. It brought out the worst in her. That thick mass of flesh bursting out of the satin was indeed laughable. She was short and round like a drum. Her freckled face did nothing to accentuate her looks. She twirled as she heard the restless shuffle of feet outside. She w</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;">as holding up the queue. Yet this was her inner sanctum where she could introspect at peace.Her diet had clearly not worked out. Damn the advertisements! They'd made such tall claims. She stared at herself. Wide eyed. Fat and hence,ugly. That's how she was known. Her name was forgotten. What was it? Maitreyee, Srinjana or Roopkatha? She could be anybody and a nobody. In that moment she certainly felt so dwarfed, so puny. Her self esteem was shattered, all set to grovel in the dust.<br /><br />Why couldn't she administer self control? Why couldn't she be metabolically blessed? Why did the puchkas beckon her? Why was she led astray by her sweet tooth? She had a zillion questions with no answers. "It's your destiny to be fat", sermonised the sage-like elderly at home. "Things will change for the better when the time is right." Destiny. Destiny. Destiny. The one to blame when nothing works right. 'Mera number kab aayega?' was the only question that riddled her mind. This caterpillar wanted its time under the sun. Earnestly and desperately.<br /><br />She got off the outfit with great difficulty. Changed back into her old clothes that welcomed her back with the same old familiar smell. There was this faint fragrance of deodrant which she had liberally sprayed a couple of hours back. Then there was the musky sweat that she wore due to long hours of travel. Both mingled as lovers intertwined in long embraces.<br /><br />The smell that finally awakened her senses was a unique one. It snapped her out of her reverie. It was the smell of her toil, her dreams. It was the smell of her laboured efforts on the treadmill. It was the smell of flowers that had been gifted to her by her baby girl. It was the smell of the meal she had cooked for her family. It was the smell of countless memories, countless desires. It was 'her' smell that completed her identity.<br /><br />She dropped the dress into the basket outside, flung the side-purse on her shoulders and took confident strides. People made way as she passed. She had been correctly nicknamed the Queen.<br />She rejected the dress for it had failed to match the lovely blue of her eyes. It was fit for the lifeless mannequins alone, she said to the inquisitive salesman. It wasn't meant for the living.<br /><br />She turned and strode towards another counter. Ready to try her luck and challenge her destiny... </span></span><br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 42</u></b>: Who do we trust when educated people unleash violence and terror?<br />What do we do when justice is denied?<br />When Law and Order becomes politically coloured, is it possible to remain indifferent? How long do we shut our eyes? When do we stop hiding behind closed doors? How long do we live in fear and dread?<br /><br />You hit me<br />I will rise again<br />You knock me down<br />I'll not succumb<br />I am not I but the st<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">rength of WE<br />And We will not take it easy<br />Silence will be broken<br />A stand will be taken<br />The wrong will be forsaken<br />To prove that we're human.<br /><br />Happiness is keeping alive the spirit to rebel against the wrong...Fight back Kolkata..</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">Bleeding and exhausted, she lay at one corner of the campus. Her shirt had been ripped off in places. A guitar lay broken, strings pulled out, crushed. The songs were muted. The lips were slashed. It was the kind of fear she had never experienced before. The horror swimmed in her eyes.<br /><br />She thought about what her parents would say or how her responsible friend would react. 'We are respectable peop<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">le. Ordinary men. Why get dragged in such affairs? Do your classes and come back. Keep out of their business.'<br /><br />Peace seemed as vacant and shallow as a blank piece of paper. She heard a few cries and shouts, indistinct and distant. Few books lay scattered beside pools of blood. They were students...the flag bearers of a glorious nation.<br /><br />And then she felt a fire burn. The flames set ablaze her sinking heart. She rose to her feet with great difficulty. No, she wouldn't let them get away. She wouldn't turn her back and flee. She had to continue with the fight. This was just the beginning.<br /><br /><b><i>This time the fire rises</i></b>.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; line-height: 20px;"><b><u>Day 43</u></b>: She was obsessed with big words. Anger was never anger but being tempestuous, livid, truculent. She was peeved and vexed and not annoyed. In smithereens by the tartness of the observations loaded with vitriol. On cloud nine, exuberant in joy. Vivacious and animated. Rarely lackadaisical.<br /><br />To her everything was to be viewed in terms of symbols and metaphors. Every colour, every emotion had <span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">a deep underlying meaning. So a Word ceased to mean the obvious but chiefly implied the unsaid. The rigmaroles of such challenging existence excited her. Every bit of the world had a story to share. Her pen captured the sentiments of both a lonely kite and a group in agitation. She could rarely keep it simple. She raised everything to an epic-scale. Treated the trivial with profound importance. Everything meant something...something beyond ordinary, something exceptional. Magical. Fantastic.<br /><br />On the other hand, her single mother came back home, tired and drenched in sweat after the long bus trip. Her cotton saree clung to her frail frame. A few cheap bangles adorned her right hand. The battery of her wristwatch had to be changed.<br /><br />Her life was simple.<br />Job= Paycheck at the end of the month =Fulfilment of daughter's dreams.<br />No frills. No thrills.<br />Short. Simple. Real.<br />The end......<br /><br />(Happiness is thus the coexistence of the real and the unreal. None can survive without the other.)</span></span></span><br />
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-75234408415681526572014-08-10T17:41:00.001+05:302014-08-10T18:16:13.488+05:30Pain and Joy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What is it about Pain and Joy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That inspire poets alike?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One drenched in the colour of dread,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The other an emboldened red !</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">While one is a celebration of Glory and Power,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The other, a wicked impostor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Together they affect us</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">By tears and cries,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In passing years</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of mirth and grief-</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">All so elusive, all so brief.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">Pain. The torturous demon. Merciless.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">Unspoken. To be suffered in silence.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">Enslaving for a longer time.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">Played and replayed on the stage of mind.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">Lived and relived in all its details.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">Pain.Easy to explore but hard to ignore.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">Pain. Lessened by Time.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">Lessened but never obliterated. Never forgotten.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">And one day it bursts forth the deeper chambers;</span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">Unlocking all bolted doors,</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;"><br />Bursting in hot tears of regret and remorse<br />Considering a moment that could've been, should've been<br />Yet was never meant to be so.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Joy. A light-eyed angel that is hard to come by.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Tiptoeing stealthily, lifting us high.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Engaging in games, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Without a fear or a care: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Banishing apprehensions, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Coaxing dull spirits to dare,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">To hope, to dream, to live and gallop</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On uncharted terrains- </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">To rise and stand up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Joy. Spontaneous and infectious.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Delicious, unpretentious.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The rainbow, the smile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The clear sky.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> A melody</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A kiss. A success.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">No tragedy. No mess.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">An hour when nothing seems impossible.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A moment of countless promises,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Till...when</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One gentle tap changes the motion of Fate</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Where there was love, now is hate:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then how can one possibly evade</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The spectacle that both create?</span></div>
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-36512348306423185242014-08-09T20:56:00.001+05:302014-08-09T21:04:13.531+05:30Chasing sunshine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTov3i14UasaCL2nzo3Scgy0zp2rsphrL1lTSecbFbFczU1jQh86EuRdI288V0DIuyA2ffwQBl9qU__Rmai8DchP5BTR64NwrWYX-x96tNvzKKKuSMWJ2De4i4p1SMoiEYHXYyKKg-VQY/s1600/woman-crying-5-300x270.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTov3i14UasaCL2nzo3Scgy0zp2rsphrL1lTSecbFbFczU1jQh86EuRdI288V0DIuyA2ffwQBl9qU__Rmai8DchP5BTR64NwrWYX-x96tNvzKKKuSMWJ2De4i4p1SMoiEYHXYyKKg-VQY/s1600/woman-crying-5-300x270.gif" height="360" width="400" /></a></div>
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A cry. A knock. A black out.</div>
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A tear. A window. A night</div>
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Expanding on and on.</div>
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Broken glass. Broken frame.</div>
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A picture. Smiling faces.</div>
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Our faces. Yours and mine</div>
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With fingers still intertwined.</div>
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Two knocks. Three knocks.</div>
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Too many knocks on the door.</div>
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The stars. The traffic. So distant.</div>
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Yet close.</div>
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"Tick-tock. Tick-tock." </div>
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Time's up. Time's up.</div>
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The game is up.</div>
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One leap. One decision.</div>
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The knock ceases.</div>
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The curtain drops.</div>
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It is morning. For now and ever. </div>
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-943785521370270222014-07-15T21:08:00.002+05:302014-07-15T21:08:33.866+05:30A love song<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Countless dreams in furtive hours,</div>
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Awakened eyes don't feel the sleep:</div>
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Sweet pangs of pleasure fills in deep.</div>
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Lyrics and rhyme lace a song divine,</div>
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The beloved burns and perishes...yet feels fine!</div>
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The enigma ne'er ceases, it kindles a fire,</div>
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A passion that intense, drowning in a fit of desire.</div>
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Yet meaning evades, playing hide and seek:</div>
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"You're in love, my dear,permit your heart to speak!"</div>
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Ah, but speech is a bitch, raising nothing but sighs,</div>
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While the bleeding heart saunters about the starry sky.</div>
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A Heart that heals is a Mind that knows,</div>
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Love is blind, it gropes and goes.</div>
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That's how the world breeds and dies-</div>
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In throes of adolescence, in promises and lies.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTwISK4j47jeYceb5c0K77JI_n1hP339V47Qtrte-uMi3HlKiF8GnjVChyphenhyphenpm1S6uiyfoSz-tj4fyhgG4IpeJFO4Vw93crdBz_VpK7lZaVjNBmajVKPzaVn_FmoldqLEH_cP-8WNGqjAvw/s1600/love_cupcake-1920x1200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTwISK4j47jeYceb5c0K77JI_n1hP339V47Qtrte-uMi3HlKiF8GnjVChyphenhyphenpm1S6uiyfoSz-tj4fyhgG4IpeJFO4Vw93crdBz_VpK7lZaVjNBmajVKPzaVn_FmoldqLEH_cP-8WNGqjAvw/s1600/love_cupcake-1920x1200.jpg" height="250" width="400" /></a></div>
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-61713052618650000532014-01-19T21:47:00.001+05:302014-07-15T22:04:06.635+05:30The Crow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZuUN-fTxM3ut1WURj_Zgj71nM2sx25Rn9IFFvDS_rumg3uJUepxyvEaPMf-E0NM15NJ_FtOAzLc6sjPmyUNgujAP7Ejd8U2FzEvVLSaSCBX2VHPbU_7-iCei3qTF7czqY01QSmbqgQ8/s1600/crow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZuUN-fTxM3ut1WURj_Zgj71nM2sx25Rn9IFFvDS_rumg3uJUepxyvEaPMf-E0NM15NJ_FtOAzLc6sjPmyUNgujAP7Ejd8U2FzEvVLSaSCBX2VHPbU_7-iCei3qTF7czqY01QSmbqgQ8/s1600/crow.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
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I have wings and I am black.</div>
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I wake at morn, go in search of snack.</div>
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I have shades of grey and I like to prey</div>
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On little insects, on any little thing that comes my way!</div>
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When I call in my glorious voice,</div>
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Little boys stone me: oh how that annoys!</div>
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I hop, skip and jump and beak into the piles</div>
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Of dirt, filth and vomit surrounded by flies.</div>
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I comb my feathers as neatly as I can</div>
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Yet nobody looks up to me and admires my clan.</div>
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I am looked upon as a bad omen, a witch's friend</div>
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But am not a stereotype, I believe I am different.</div>
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I perch on trees, I nest, I live,</div>
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I outstretch my plumes, I kiss the sky above.</div>
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As my friends are many, you poets ignore me,</div>
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You yearn for the rare kinds, that turns you all dreamy.</div>
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Yet when I see you men everyday, I have my peace, </div>
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I see my scavenger's soul reflected....we are one in deeds.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">This post is a part of </span><a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/category/write-over-the-weekend-wow" style="background-color: white; color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Write Over the Weekend">Write Over the Weekend</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">, an initiative for </span><a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Reach out to the largest community of Indian Bloggers">Indian Bloggers</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"> by BlogAdda.</span></div>
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-27905617561386158272014-01-19T12:16:00.002+05:302014-11-06T12:00:59.497+05:30Life is what you make<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"Life is what you make"</div>
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Is a wisdom you choose to take</div>
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And eat and swallow</div>
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(For the words aren't shallow)</div>
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And once ingrained,</div>
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Your life has changed.</div>
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Yet we never do what we should,</div>
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We revel in the bad and not the good.</div>
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Life is what you make-</div>
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A wisdom you hold at stake.</div>
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The world around is a hub of mean.</div>
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Bleeding red, inhaling green.</div>
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Dreaming blue but living black;</div>
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Abundant with rampage and attack.</div>
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No way to claim what was ours</div>
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For honest and true thrive behind the bars.</div>
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Hopes of a pale gleam of ray</div>
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Is what slowly drains our life everyday.</div>
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For our life is what others decide:</div>
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What we do is nothing but hide.</div>
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Hide..hide..hide in shame,</div>
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We are all part of this very game.</div>
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You run, I chase.</div>
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You die, I take your place.</div>
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Life goes on while you gaze.</div>
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It is such a complicated maze!</div>
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"Think simple,be focused"- is what they tell</div>
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But the language dies, the words fail.</div>
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What rises is a pungent smell</div>
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Of rotten souls, rotting in Hell.</div>
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Fear not, the end is nigh.</div>
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Don't build the walls so high.</div>
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When they come crashing,</div>
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You'll only be wishing,</div>
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If life was what You made.</div>
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And not exist by their dictates.</div>
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-85817488143910789982013-09-29T14:55:00.000+05:302014-11-06T12:01:11.446+05:30The Examination<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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5...4...3...2...1...and the bell rang. The time was up. The examination was over.<br />
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I stared at my blank sheet, exasperated. When the teacher asked me to hand over my paper, I didn't resist like Akshit or Ramya who were still penning down the last few words in a desperate hurry. I just didn't feel anything at all. In fact Mrs. D' Souza was quite puzzled to see nothing on my paper. With closely knitted eyebrows, she whispered to me, "Is everything alright with you?" I nodded feebly. The room was full of sounds. From cries of happiness to anguish, from the sound of pencils and pens to the click-clack of pencil boxes, all girls and boys were talking loudly, verifying the answers they had written. Some had their eyes closed, with a word of thanks on their lips. They had managed to ace the paper after all. But nobody looked at me. Nobody asked me if I had answered it well. After all, I was repeating the grade. I was "the" weak student, the rotten apple of the class. I silently exited the examination hall, collected my bag, readjusted the locket with Lord Shiva's picture on it, and headed downstairs.<br />
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Anxious parents had already arrived way before the end time of the exam. They were yelling excitedly at their wards. As I pushed my way through them, I felt insignificant, too small, like a speck of dust that could be blown away miles without any notice. There was no one waiting for me though. I had to trudge back home with heavy steps. I did not wish to take the bus today. Didn't want to hear anything about school, syllabus and exams. As I walked a few blocks away from school, all I could hear was muffled voices... "What! You didn't answer this? " "How did you solve this sum?" "How could you forget it?" "Did Rajan get all his sums correct?"<br />
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It was 4 p.m. I was hungry. I walked to the nearest bench alongside a park. I took out my tiffin box. It contained a packet of biscuits. I tore it open, and fished out the first biscuit. I took large bites of it. Its tiny crumbles hung onto the corners of my lips. I relished it. The breeze was quite cool today. The summer's heat felt no longer scorching. The rustling leaves and the cawing of the crows made me feel at peace. Made me feel like a different person altogether. So who was I ? I was a student of class 5 who couldn't add or subtract, who failed to memorize equations, who had no idea about the rise and fall of Indus Valley Civilization, didn't know the capital of Indonesia etc. etc. In a nutshell I was dumb, dull, and what my mother called "a good-for-nothing" chap. It was not that I didn't try. I had tutors for every subject. My parents took turns to help me understand my lessons. But my brain was like a bucket with a large hole. No sooner did information seep in than it would drain out. My parents feared that something was wrong with me. At times I feared it too. My classmates laughed at me. My teachers either pitied me or scolded me so hard for being clumsy, that school days were really not the best of my times. But then what was I really interested in? Nothing. I loved doing nothing. I loved staring at the wall. Once I had stared at the wall for three hours straight!<br />
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I was munching my fourth biscuit now. I was thirsty. I sipped into my water bottle. Life was good on this bench. A stray dog sat himself before my bench. It was a lean-framed brown and white dog. He had noticed the biscuits and was looking at it with hungry eyes, with its pink tongue hanging out. I threw a biscuit at him. The dog sniffed at it and looked at me again. I didn't understand? I didn't have anything else to share? Stupid dog. Doesn't like good quality biscuits. Biscuits are healthy. They don't make you fall sick like the oily parathas and the butter laden butter chicken. Chicken..perhaps the dog was craving for meat. Stupid dog. You don't always get what you want. Stupid dog. Stupid dog.<br />
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And then as I kept on wondering at the stupidity of the dog, I caught him gently wagging his tail at me. Somehow the dog seemed to be less stupid to me now. It was not barking at me. It wasn't growling at me. But there was some kind of affection for me in those brown watery eyes. All for what? A biscuit, which he didn't even touch. Perhaps the dog wanted to talk to me. "What is your name stupid dog?" I asked, squashing a mosquito biting into my thigh. The dog woofed and sat up on its paws. Hmm. So he did understand me. And in his doggy language, he said that his name was 'Woof'. Hmm. Interesting. "OK Woof, what do you want from me? I have no more biscuits to give you. " "Woof", came the reply. I was not understanding. Did he want to play, did he want to eat? I was all confused. Mother said that I was too dumb for anything. The dog didn't know that perhaps. Just as I was about to put forward another question, a stone came flying by and hit the dog's head. Frightened and terrified, the dog yelped to its feet and ran away. The stone was thrown by a young man holding the hand of a pretty girl, with her hair braided in knots. "Ha ha ...stupid dog!" said the man, while the girl looked at him in an expression of mock-anger.<br />
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I couldn't fathom the reason why the perfectly intelligent young man stoned a stray dog. I couldn't fathom the reason why the girl was going out with this young man. I couldn't fathom why the young man was stealing a kiss of the girl's rosy lips right before my eyes. The world around me was too complex. I couldn't fathom anything at all. Not addition, not different civilizations and capitals. The blue of the sky was now crimson red. A red ball had appeared in the sky. The birds we twittering back into their nests. I threw the wrapper of the empty biscuit's basket in a dustbin, and adjusted my uniform. I had to walk back home. It was getting late. Perhaps Mother would be angry. Perhaps Mother would be worried. Perhaps Mother would want to know what I had written in my answer script. I had to think of a way to avert the scolding. Stupid me. <br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">This post is a part of </span><a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/category/write-over-the-weekend-wow" style="color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Write Over the Weekend">Write Over the Weekend</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">, an initiative for</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" style="color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Reach out to the largest community of Indian Bloggers">Indian Bloggers</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">by BlogAdda</span><br />
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-2811830409083700082013-09-29T10:55:00.000+05:302014-11-06T12:01:22.472+05:30The Night Circus: Where dreams come to life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"The circus comes without warning. No announcements precede it. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not.<span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">" </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The opening lines of this magnificent book "The Night Circus" by Erin Morgenstern had held me captive right till the end. It is not everyday that you come by a book which is steeped in fantasy and carefully balanced with reality. The opening chapters may seem a little befuddling but it is only a matter of time when the reader is drawn helplessly into the fantastic world of Celia Bowen and Marco Alisdair. And then there is this circus, this beautifully scripted enchanting circus- where everything is possible, where the tricks never fail to confound the spectators, where magic meets scientific logic...The Circus...<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Le Cirque des Rêves ...where dreams come true.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">The outline is simple. Two great schools of illusionists put up their players against one another. The contenders haven't seen each other. They are educated, groomed and raised to fight each other in a venue. The Circus. But there has to be a victor. There is no time allotted for the completion of the challenge. Who'll be this last person standing? Or is the challenge not as simple as it seems to be?....</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Well, at the very onset of this blog I would like to declare that this isn't any book review. I am terrible at reviewing books. The excitement and thrill that I experienced while reading this book cannot be aptly put in words. It just opened up a whole different world to me.It also sort of reminded me of my memories of circus as a child. When I was young, a circus was synonymous with joy and a day off with friends and family. And popcorn. Those days popcorn wasn't easily available in our locality. I remember holding onto my Grandpa's fingers and walking with little steps to a large tent which smelt funny. It smelt of sweat and dirt and animal poop. But the odor was exhumed by the loud gasps of spectators at the sight of men walking on tight ropes ten feet above the ground, the trapeze artists where young girls and boys flung each other off like a ball, the fire-eaters, the clowns who were either too large or a dwarf, the lions and tigers jumping into the loops, the monkeys cycling across the stage. Yes, it was fascinating. And there was always popcorn and cotton-candy to hold on my interest.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">But today in the year 2013 I don't come across that kind of circus at all. In fact, a circus rarely comes to our town. People have lost their taste for it as every extraordinary feat can be digitally mastered. Why waste time watching cheap theatrics? There are no takers for that unusual talent. And the idea of a live-show now remains buried ten feet into the ground till there is some 'scoop' involved.Here is where I loved the book. The book recreates a circus which is not caught in the web of the sameness of tricks. It creates something different each time you visit it. It doesn't take place in a large tent but several tents are set up in a large piece of land. It is like a maze and one cannot be to sure to have seen the whole of it, as there is no one to assure you of the same at the exit.The description of the circus was similar to Life. Life is a circus and at every corner we come across something new, something exciting, something that may startle and astonish us and probably even exact a a little gasp of disbelief. But nevertheless, we carry on and at the end when it is time to make our Exit, we don't fully realize if we've seen the all of it, if we fully comprehend the whole of it. The enigma mystifies our senses. That is why we hold on to our lives. Not because we love it, but because we love to explore its hidden possibilities. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">The rest of the fiction is of course conjured by the magical realism, where you seem to take a ride on the bewitching carousel, with your hair gently blown by the soft wind smelling of caramel and an exotic essence. "The Night Circus" is simply a story of love camouflaged with layers of magic, unprecedented circumstances.It is the reality that we feel everyday, but are scared to admit. It is a celebration of words melting into sensation. It is "like stepping into a fairy tale under the curtain of stars".</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">This book made me fall in love with magic all over again. The love, the passion, the pain is felt by the reader each time you flip through its pages. It makes you fall in love with Circus once again, in fact you yearn for it once the book is over. It has been a week now but I have failed to get past this book. It has altered my perspective about life. "People see what they wish to see. And in most cases, what they are told that they see." It is really weird to realize that the entirety of our perception is controlled by the society. That there are things beyond our comprehension, existing by our side, unraveling their mystery right before us yet unknown to us. The idea is both exciting and frightening. Yet it makes you live your life large and go beyond the pettiness of routine and walk into the circus of dreams..in whose confines one feels more real and closer to life. But then again, one must not lose the grasp over the Real for it will only drive us mad, insane, burn our insides with the pangs of curiosity. Yet "the finest of pleasures are always the unexpected ones" and I hope to dream on, live on and await the arrival of The Night Circus. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Will you?</span></span></span></div>
Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-17834187313437372312013-08-11T22:00:00.001+05:302014-11-06T12:01:48.553+05:30The story of humanity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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'Honesty is the best policy'</div>
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Many a times we've heard them say,</div>
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Yet how baffling a travesty</div>
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We live, to see opposites hold its sway.</div>
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While true words are swept under the rug,</div>
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Headlines circled by the rings of coffee mug,</div>
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Incidents lie distorted, disfigured and maimed,</div>
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Debates ensue with no solutions gained.</div>
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While bribes are ripe, and justice blind,</div>
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The innocent thrives in a time unkind,</div>
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No cloud is marked by a silver lining,</div>
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The hearts are crushed, left forever pining.</div>
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As puffs of smoke darkens the core,</div>
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Crimes see a rise, with more blood and gore.</div>
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With philosophers of yester-years all proved right,</div>
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Homo sapiens resulting in his generation's homicide.</div>
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But does after the dark come the light?</div>
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The hope we harbour,the despair we slight,</div>
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Is it enough to make a wrong a right?</div>
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We strive, we believe and we fight</div>
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Day and night, to restore balance</div>
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To a civilization hanging precariously on chance.</div>
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As the dying century's death knell</div>
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Is heard closing the rotting generation's gamble,</div>
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Faith evaporates and Love bids farewell,</div>
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Nothing at all is well in this Hell... </div>
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But...can the present put the past behind?</div>
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Can we still preach that forgiveness is divine?</div>
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Can we still slay greed and lust?</div>
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Can we not our morality turn to dust?</div>
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Can we rise like a phoenix after the fall?</div>
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Can the lusty youth hold up promises for all?</div>
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Of a mind lit brightly by the red of passion?</div>
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Of noise bathed solemnly in the calm of silence?</div>
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Of a reign of Honor, Compassion and Integrity?</div>
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Of a world where Honesty is still the best policy?</div>
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We dream of a change to alter the events...</div>
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Till then... we live and die, continue our existence.</div>
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This post is a part of <a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/category/write-over-the-weekend-wow" style="color: #b85b5a; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Write Over the Weekend">Write Over the Weekend</a>, an initiative for <a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" style="color: #b85b5a; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Reach out to the largest community of Indian Bloggers">Indian Bloggers</a> by BlogAdda<br />
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-50952464511540718072013-08-11T20:33:00.001+05:302014-11-06T12:02:02.133+05:30Pre-marital blues<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"Hey..you've got to buy this saree too...It's a part of the ritual where you have to place this on a plate adorned with flowers and a little sandalwood paste..and.." and my friend's voice droned on.<br />
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She had been married a year back. A modern pseudo-feminist otherwise, she has a surprisingly traditional take towards the institution of marriage. What is marriage? It seems to me now that it is a ceremony strengthened by lots of 'niyams'(rules). Non-compliance of rules isn't taken well by the in-laws(supposedly). Personally, I have never really bothered much about rules and regulations. I am more of a free spirit, difficult to be chained. Hence, when it came to the choice of a partner, I chose a like-minded fellow. But somehow, all free sprites turn mellow when it comes to marriage. I have no problems with adhering to a few rules. After all, rules at times add color to life and trying out something new doesn't harm...does it? But an overdose of rules is nauseating. More so when it is more emphatically enforced upon you by your friends.<br />
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Take this for example. "You need to gift your husband a suitcase. Buy only a branded suitcase. A V.I.P is a must. You must give them the 'pranaamis' in decorated plates called 'tatwas'. You ought to be very diplomatic with your in-laws...Say this and not that... You must buy many good sarees to wear after marriage..you can't be wearing your regular sarees after marriage.." and many more. I understand my friend's concern for me. She wants to 'prepare' me for life, cast me in the mould of conventions..to help me blossom into the perfect 'bahu'. But I am not she. I feel suffocated under the pressure of dos and don'ts. I am ME. And this 'me' is not a doll, does not enjoy dressing up , is casual about her style and cherishes the idea of a simple marriage and not the hullabaloo of The Grand Indian Wedding. And how on earth am I to explain it to them that it's my life, my wedding...which will happen my way?<br />
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In saying this, let me point out that owing to my radical views I have always been an outcast, at times even publicly humiliated by my so-called friends for not wearing a decorative outfit to an event celebrating <i>their</i> happy union (and not<i> mine</i>). But then again, at times I feel that I am too short-tempered to see the higher good of everything around me. Marriage after all is a social gathering, where families come together to celebrate a happy occasion. The conventional desire of every bride looking like a princess has been embedded so deeply in our minds that it is difficult for a mediocre-looker like me to uproot it and endorse everything simple. With marriage comes fanfare, and an array of everything loud and robust. This results in a show of extravagance, for it is strictly believed that it is a one-time affair, so one needs to put his whole into it.<br />
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Life is bitter sweet. One understands that better when one stands at the threshold of marriage. The bitterness of zillion rules overpower the sheer bliss of the concept of marriage. To me, marriage is not bondage but it is liberation. It is not conforming but paving way for a new life, a new beginning with the one you love and trust. It reasserts the moment when you made the choice, to share your life in health and sickness with this special person. This lovely feeling cannot be outweighed by number of 'tatwas' and sarees. It is a feeling that goes beyond the layers of bridal make-up. It is a day when our search for a companion concludes. It is a day when we move from "I" to "we". And that is a moment one needs to treasure.<br />
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I don't know what life has in store for me. But the fact that I will be getting married is sinking in gradually. It is indeed a necessary evil. Although I am not enjoying shopping for it unlike girls of my age(more so because my bank account statement is nearing a big zero), I am looking forward to the day with utmost excitement...to the day when I officially become a part of his life..for at heart we are already one...<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">This post is a part of </span><a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/category/write-over-the-weekend-wow" style="background-color: white; color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Write Over the Weekend">Write Over the Weekend</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">, an initiative for </span><a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Reach out to the largest community of Indian Bloggers">Indian Bloggers</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"> by BlogAdda</span><br />
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-27380666041801019772013-08-07T00:26:00.002+05:302014-11-06T12:03:02.088+05:30The Wedding Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A strange feeling engulfs my soul</div>
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As I listen to the departing steps.</div>
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With soft giggles and a gentle caress, </div>
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I am ushered into a room, where 'am put to rest.</div>
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Here I am to metamorphose,</div>
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Here I am to live the change,</div>
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Here I am to endorse</div>
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My new identity, my new surname.</div>
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What has changed in me today?</div>
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Do I cease to be the girl I was yesterday?</div>
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My thoughts are interrupted by the hushed tones</div>
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Of the flock outside awaiting the groom. </div>
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Adorned in red of fine silk, with palms reflecting a deep maroon,</div>
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I sit and wait...wait for the anxiety to abate.</div>
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The stillness is broken by the fan's dreary drone,</div>
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The buzz of mosquitoes ring in a melodious tune.</div>
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The exhaustion I wear weighs me down,</div>
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The jewellery seems jaded that I unwillingly adorn.</div>
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The flowers lay scattered, my will broken,</div>
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I lower my eyes and offer a quick prayer to Heaven.</div>
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I hear the door open and close behind,</div>
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A sudden fright takes control, leaving me cold.</div>
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A strange figure, tall and turbaned takes my side,</div>
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My self quivers, while I try to remember what had been told</div>
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To me of such a night as when it would come,</div>
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Of mixed horror and pleasures, that it would summon.</div>
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I wanted no adventure, nor desired any thrill,</div>
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I was only a child of sixteen,wanting to live her share's fill.</div>
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-66084259423813057342013-08-06T23:38:00.003+05:302014-11-06T12:03:14.502+05:30Kuch waqt tanha...(a Hindi poem)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch waqt tanha, kuch hum berukhe,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch bheega sawan, aur hum jode umeedein,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch hum yahan, kuch tum wahan,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch lamha mayus, kuch hum muskarane chale.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch khoye aashiyanon mein khoye se sapne,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch bikhre se rishton mein dhoonde apne,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch mann ke sukhe panno ki adhuri khwaishein,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch aalam bebasi ka, kuch palchinn suhaane.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch ankahi baaton mein khilkhilati zindagi,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch bhoole bisre kahaaniyon ki meethi si dhwani,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch kam, kuch zyada, woh</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"> kaanch sa waada,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch humne tode niyam, kuch dagmagata iraada.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Leelao ki vibhinnata se pare hain aaj hum,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Chintan ki peeda se katraye, gum sum,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Mitti ki chuppi khalti hain, jalti hain angaaron si,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Kuch jwala ki aas mein khade, kuch bujhhe aangare hain hum. </span><br />
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-3095267329312754402013-08-04T23:19:00.001+05:302014-11-06T12:03:54.647+05:30Those were the best days of my life...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Its very memory triggers a whirlpool of emotions,</div>
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With a quiet lingering smile evoking tingling sensations.</div>
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They escort me back to the years now half-remembered, </div>
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When Friendship itself was a religion to be revered.</div>
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Life meant only school, and school meant friends alone,</div>
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When outdoors stood for running little errands for our home.</div>
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When school was for mischief : harmless and juvenile,</div>
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Where like-minded chaps were befriended with a smile.</div>
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The backbenches livened up with our muffled giggles,</div>
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And the recess saw us devouring each other's tiffins.</div>
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'Twas a place where secrets were sealed by a swear of faith,</div>
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'Twas a time when there wasn't any room for jealousy or hate.</div>
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A friend's win was our win, a friend's foe was ours too,</div>
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It was a time of high-fives, of sharing life in a classroom.</div>
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But then time flew past, we grew up... alas!</div>
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Simplicity took the back burner, remained sulking in a corner.</div>
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Responsibility became our priority,</div>
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Serious became our demeanour, </div>
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With no space for frivolity,</div>
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Innocence was lost for ever.</div>
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Those little laughs were smothered,<br />
Swept back in a chest without a key,</div>
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With experience the child got murdered,<br />
In the healthy view of diplomacy.</div>
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Yet in lonesome hours,<br />
Through a mistaken glance,<br />
When I come by some children holding hands,<br />
I wonder to myself where my friendship now stands...</div>
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The euphoric sight of ceaseless laughter and delight,<br />
The satchel-laden boys' entering a mock fight...<br />
Fills me with questions,<br />
Fills me with pain.<br />
For I realize all that I have sacrificed,<br />
The friendship's lost in the bargain.</div>
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Today the ice cream cones have run dry,</div>
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There's no one to push our swings high.<br />
The slides are dusty and moss covered,<br />
The familiar voices are long forgotten, and muted.</div>
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There is no one to share a stupid laugh with,</div>
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We are 'grown-ups', and we have got to live like it.</div>
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While we ping or poke to revive the estranged chords,</div>
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A day like today gets us lost in sepia-hued thoughts</div>
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Of the moments we shared, of our spontaneity and fun,</div>
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Those were the best days of my life!..that'll never return...</div>
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-22237100757263146572013-07-28T19:18:00.002+05:302014-11-06T12:03:38.999+05:30The phone call<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"Tring..tring..."<br />
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The phone rang.<br />
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I dreaded phone calls. Phone calls portend work. Working the tongue to engage in the sameness of the ordinary chit-chat or an intimation of work that needed to be completed within a mentioned deadline. I didn't want to engage myself in any of those.I didn't want to work this weekend. I was tired...of everything.<br />
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It had been a busy week altogether. In the midst of the alternating dry and wet weather, I had been racing against time to complete my work within the given schedule. What do I do for a living? I am a teacher by profession. Yes, a boring and uninteresting person stuck in the job meant for grey-haired folk who teach for recreation and not out of the passion for something exciting. Most people presume that it is one of the easiest professions to opt for. We have seen hundreds of parodies of teachers either dozing off in the class or struggling to stay awake in the middle of street-smart and mischievous students. But all that's rubbish. Far from the truth our clan survives everyday. I need to get my lessons ready,employ innovative techniques to add zing to the dull chapters, assign loads of homework(which apparently proves how serious I am about my work) and correct them carefully too. Around 200 copies get corrected every week. Red pens turn into a fearful weapon, inking the fates of hundreds of hopeful students. In the manner of gossip mongering old ladies, the time when we are free(usually the 20 minutes of recess), we leaf through the brown-paper covered copies and wag our tongues by way of multitasking, discussing either the way a particular student misbehaved or how bad our current education system is or worse..in-laws. The chatter insipid, the days weary..I feel tired by the end of the week. Teaching today has turned into a thankless profession, for all demand a show of work....parents and administration alike( and nothing is very noble about that).Nobody really bothers about the quality of work till the quantity(equal to copies corrected and students passing the examination) is sufficient.<br />
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And then the phone rang on..and on..It wanted to put my reverie on hold and probably scream something important. It wanted to shake me out of my numbness. It trrrringed its way to put my limbs to action, to answer the phone and get it done with. The quiet had already been broken. The stillness of the room had politely taken its leave. I tossed and turned in my bed and took a look at my mobile phone once again. An unknown number flashed on the screen. I lost all the remaining will to receive it. It had to be either one of those telemarketing calls or a crank call. I finally did answer it and put the ringtone out of its misery.<br />
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"Hello..."<br />
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"Hello....Miss? I'm Manisha...Do you recognise me?"<br />
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"Aaaah..yes ..yes..Manisha...So...how are you..?"<br />
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"Miss...I am fine...We miss you here a lot...Nothing's the same after you left school...Miss you were the best..Please come back Miss...Miss where do you teach now?...Come back please Miss..." and it went on for sometime.<br />
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Well, it is not everyday that one is appreciated for his or her hard work. It is not everyday that one gets to create an impression on the mind a child. It is not everyday that you are given an opportunity to shape the thinking mind of a young one, trigger his or her imagination, challenge the child to think out of the box.<br />
And it is not everyday that you're told that you are the best, that all your effort was not in vain.I smiled to myself after concluding that phone call. A pessimist might have said that this girl was simply oiling my heels to get the better of me. But then, had the pessimist heard the excitement so obvious in her voice? To me at times my job appears to be dull and monochromatic. But it is this very 'me' again who can turn the tables around, and make my life worthwhile. Good things just don't happen, but one has to make them happen.<br />
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That phone call gave me that much-needed push. That phone call made me rediscover my lost self again. It made me rediscover the reason why I had taken up this profession. It made me relive my love, my passion for teaching.<br />
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It brought back colors to the jaded routine of my life...and those colors have not faded since then.<br />
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This post is a part of <a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/category/write-over-the-weekend-wow" style="color: #b85b5a; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Write Over the Weekend">Write Over the Weekend</a>, an initiative for <a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" style="color: #b85b5a; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Reach out to the largest community of Indian Bloggers">Indian Bloggers</a> by BlogAdda<br />
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-87892341439837182022013-07-19T21:57:00.000+05:302014-11-06T12:02:18.074+05:30Love over a cup of coffee<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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...And I blushed!... Soaking in the wordless praise,</div>
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How such acts of admiration set my heart ablaze!</div>
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The man that I had so long in my mind had chased,</div>
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Now seemed to reciprocate my passion, unfazed!</div>
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This gentleman I had come across in a forgettable cafe,</div>
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He was engrossed in his laptop, sipping an insipid latte.</div>
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While I observed him with keen eyes, discreet and unsure</div>
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Of my instant likeness for a man, who to my friends seemed a bore.</div>
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A gentle smile, through the unkempt beard, played in an occasional interval,</div>
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At other times, he only gazed deeply into his dog-eared novel.</div>
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The sudden spark of a long-forgotten memory sent him in throes of euphoria</div>
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Yet the eyes, I observed, had a distinct stillness, speaking volumes about his persona.</div>
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I wished I knew what he was writing, if it was a letter to his beloved...</div>
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For he seemed like a man thriving in romance,(not a rookie wasting ages discovering it.)</div>
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A strong tension built up,as a silent attraction took place,</div>
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As I yearned for him to cast his eyes on me..just that single once!</div>
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A queer tingle deep inside, my emotions running uncontrollably wild,</div>
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I felt my good senses getting numb,</div>
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And I could definitely feel a distinct lump</div>
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Down my throat, as my palms got clammy,</div>
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Yet my eyes stayed fixed on him, my world was so topsy-turvy!</div>
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But then, out of the blue, he looked straight into my eyes,</div>
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My heart jumped into my mouth</div>
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He acknowledged my curious gaze, without a seed of surprise,</div>
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His smile was my escape route</div>
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From all binding inhibitions,</div>
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From all my insecurities,</div>
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From all exhausting tribulations,</div>
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From all mundane trivialities.</div>
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That smile,that half crooked smile, charming and alluring,</div>
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That faint nod, those merry eyes, brilliant and sparkling.</div>
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Revealed so much of him to me yet it surely meant nothing...</div>
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After four years of marriage, of courtship and clandestine meetings,</div>
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I now realize that lingering smile, had chalked out 'our' story's very beginning.</div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">
This post is a part of <a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/category/write-over-the-weekend-wow" style="color: #b85b5a; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Write Over the Weekend">Write Over the Weekend</a>, an initiative for <a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" style="color: #b85b5a; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Reach out to the largest community of Indian Bloggers">Indian Bloggers</a> by BlogAdda</div>
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...Ant yet again, this post was adjudged a WOW post...This time I topped the list (it may have been a random selection..but feels great on topping the list of WOW entries)....Am super happy...<br />
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-16370810958160863262013-07-19T07:46:00.003+05:302014-11-06T12:04:12.529+05:30Words<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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What hurts more than a look of despise?</div>
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What brings tears to those frosty little eyes?</div>
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What causes the tremor in the aching heart?</div>
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What has a sway on emotions from the start?</div>
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Words, ah! simple words:</div>
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A mysterious temptress.</div>
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Arresting people far and wide,</div>
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In its silken waves of unfathomable delight,</div>
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Defining and outlining our earthly existence,</div>
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Rendering silhouettes and shadows solid substances.</div>
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Forging and strengthening ties, new and strong,</div>
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Shaping and creating history all along.</div>
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What would we ever do in its very absence?</div>
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How would be survive without airing all our grievance?</div>
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How would we surmount strictures, paint beautiful pictures</div>
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If the mind's canvas was stark, groping in the dark?</div>
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How would one profess one's sincere affection</div>
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Without songs and rhymes revealing one's undying passion?</div>
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Words, ah! simple words:<br />
The miracle of the universe.<br />
Stringing a pearl of thoughts so rich,<br />
The wise lay besotted, weilding its power which<br />
Can bridge the gulf, bringing in equality,<br />
Can liberate the lost souls of its dreadful drudgery.<br />
Words of love and words of hate,<br />
Words of wisdom and unending debate,<br />
Their pacifying power withstands the climes curdling in rage,<br />
If chosen carefully, they delineate our Fate.<br />
Empowering and enriching,<br />
Enlightening and bewitching.<br />
A harmless play of words,<br />
The cornerstone for all absurd.<br />
However,<br />
More than ever,<br />
In the midst of deafening laughter and chuckle,<br />
The somnolent indifferent people buckle<br />
Up for an era where there isn't any place for a healthy retort<br />
(For these are times when the trove of words fall short)<br />
Paving way for void and vacuum<br />
"The death of words": walking into our doom.<br />
So, ponder and reflect and regroup the alphabets,<br />
Let us form a Word that'll salvage the wreckage<br />
Of a civilization blinded by emotionless emoticons;<br />
Remember words once lost, will be for ever gone.<br />
Speaking without expressing is not effective communication,<br />
Let the rainbow of letters result in our race's resurrection.<br />
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-69906671048371678242013-07-10T23:57:00.003+05:302014-11-06T12:02:40.052+05:30Death of a Pen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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O mercy! O mercy! my vein is running dry,</div>
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I breathe my last, my time has come, alas!</div>
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The death knell's been rung, the mourning's begun,</div>
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With the final parting sigh, it's time to bid goodbye.</div>
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Confounded with grief, I beg your leave,</div>
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O White Lady, me... I plead you to forgive.</div>
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The promises we shared, the dreams we bred,</div>
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Today lie shattered, and brutally battered</div>
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In the hands of time, echoed (in vain) in this fruitless rhyme.</div>
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You'll forever be in my heart, here we'll never be apart,</div>
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Our love and affection, will in certain find rendition</div>
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In the songs of bards, on your lips as words.</div>
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Yet a pain so intense, fills the final hours of my existence</div>
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With memories and regret, of the words I couldn't correct.</div>
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The blue goes dry, an emptiness is alive</div>
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With the final blot, that your white does clot,</div>
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I announce the demise, of a Pen once wise. </div>
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-53293104745005448802013-07-10T22:56:00.000+05:302014-11-06T12:04:28.167+05:30Are you visible enough?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When Griffin turned invisible courtesy all the medical concoctions in the famous novel by H.G Wells, the world let out a gasp debating if it could be a near possibility where human beings could alter their refractive index, and merge into the thin air,unnoticed. Some said it was impossible. It was a mere work of fiction, debunking facts, playing with our imagination. Then came Mr. Ralph Ellison who had a 'colored' perception of one turning invisible. The margins were drawn and the intellectual debates on the question of identity rolled on. Harry Potter's cloak of invisibility turned into a prized possession for every creative mind. It was Harry's tool as it helped him unveil secrets galore in many of his post-bedtime adventures. Moreover, as youngsters we have often been told and re-told stories of disembodied spirits and ghosts, who are 'invisible' to naked eyes but their existence can nevertheless be denied.<br />
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"If I were invisible.." is a common topic to nurture writing skills in creative and imaginative children of all ages. What gets me amused is the answers I receive as a teacher. Imagination runs wild as children quench their desire for adventure and fun in their well-written essays. If one decides to plunder a chocolate shop, the other wills to spend a quiet time in the library hidden from the view of critical eyes. Another yearns to quench her longing for travel to countries afar by gaining admission in a flight unseen by the attendants. Being invisible is such a boon to these young minds. It can make their dreams come true, can help them perform the unthinkable, unleash their naughtiest side and still not get caught...it is the route to freedom and bliss, the same which are denied in actuality, curbed by norms, destroyed by morality.<br />
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Yet, even though we dream to be "invisible" are we <u>visible</u> enough in the current state of affairs? I would like to share an incident that took place recently in a public bus. The fare was six rupees. I was not carrying adequate change. The seats were full, so I had to stand my way to the next stop. While trying to balance myself and coping with the multiple road-bumps, I managed to fish out a ten-rupee note. The bus conductor was visibly in a bad mood. He started hurling abuses at me for not carrying the exact change. With some remarks being too offensive to bear, I joined the war of words, desperately beseeching the other passengers for help. It seemed that every soul in the bus had lost both their senses and voice. They looked out of the window, indifferent to the hooliganism demonstrated by the conductor. I was shocked and hurt. Hurt by how my co-passengers chose to behave. Hurt that they chose to remain <u>invisible</u>.<br />
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Scene 2. A busy thoroughfare in a metropolitan city populated by the literates and the educated. A truck collides into a car driven by a a gentleman in his mid-thirties. He is accompanied by his young daughter of five.The gentleman suffers a fatal head injury due to the tremendous impact. He lies unconscious, with blood trickling from the sides of his forehead, turning his pale cream colored shirt red. The child with tear washed eyes pleads for help from the passing vehicles. She needs to save her Daddy. Her Daddy is lying still and motionless. No help was extended. No generosity shown. The father breathed his last in the city peopled by invisible men.<br />
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So what makes us invisible? The sameness of our lives? Our self-centered nature? The desire to avoid trouble at all costs by leading a 'safe' life...a life where there is no room for 'unwanted' disputes and aggression? Or perhaps all of them. We live in a society where all people turn stone faced in public but share winks and LOLs in the virtual sphere. It is a dog-eat-dog world, where survival of the fittest attains new parameters. "Your problem is your problem, and my problem is yours too" is the attitude that defines us today. Anonymity is a part of us and we inhabit the anonymous.So basically, we don't need a cloak to envelop us in secrecy or a pill to guarantee our invisibility. In being what we are today, we are invisible (and not invincible, as many would choose to believe). A reason enough to celebrate, eh?<br />
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With witnesses turning hostile in corridors of Law, and Justice seeing the light of the day after decades, I wish we decided to be visible for a day, and fought back our complacence, be passionate, feel alive to each moment of our lives. I wish we took an adventure down the common streets by standing up against the wrong and backing up the right, by finding our voice and behave rationally (for a change). I believe, that at present, turning invisible is the simplest thing that one can do, but turning the visibility button on demands courage...and a lot of it.<br />
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Enough of receding to the background as a wallflower, </div>
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Awaiting the wheels of fortune to turn in our favour.</div>
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It's time to be the change we so long desire,</div>
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Let go off our inhibitions,and kindle the fire.</div>
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Set minds ablaze with a passion so strong,</div>
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We need to be visible... to right our wrong.</div>
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So, as a teacher, my question to you is if you were given an opportunity, would you embrace invisibility with open arms (and savour a part of yourself that you already are..) or would you decline it and choose to be visible instead (and save yourself and posterity)? </div>
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-45531830355965817342013-07-08T22:40:00.000+05:302014-11-06T12:04:41.793+05:30Opposites attract<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You break my heart each and every time,</div>
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You flip and toss it like a coin.</div>
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You say you love me yet wound me bad,</div>
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Your head full of arrogance simply drives me mad!</div>
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You never listen when I try and explain</div>
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Why I obsess over something, while you cast a look of disdain.</div>
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Every conversation with you is a struggle of its kind,</div>
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With you it seems, it's useless exercising my mind!</div>
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When the dinner lies untouched on the table,cold,</div>
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You continue to bicker on the orders, new and the old.</div>
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You cry buckets when we break up</div>
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But ignore my calls the day thereafter,</div>
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(You forget how we were set up</div>
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In the midst of merry banter!)</div>
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You forget my birthday, even the date of our anniversary,</div>
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The flowers you sent a month later only adds to my misery.</div>
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You dance a dance which I detest,</div>
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You fight a fight which I protest.</div>
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You are the wrong to my right,</div>
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You are the darkness to my light.</div>
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Yet why do I love you head over heels?</div>
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Your smile makes me realize how strongly I feel</div>
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For you and your stupidity, and all the rest you do,</div>
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For love sees no reason: it's only companionship,sublime and true.</div>
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When you say nothing ...nothing really at all</div>
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You say more than you think..Silence speaks volumes after all!</div>
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With all love and hatred you're still mine.. (silly brat),</div>
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Finally I understand why people say that opposites attract!</div>
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-84841032336782393592013-07-02T21:48:00.002+05:302013-07-02T21:59:54.837+05:30In search of Muse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"On a rainy day I wished to..." Riya stopped writing. She put her pen down, stared at the written words on a new crispy white sheet of paper. There were deep furrows between her eyebrows. She closed her eyes for a moment, scratched out the words and angrily crumpled the sheet, making it fly off into the nearest bin. Why wasn't she getting the inspiration to write something beautiful? Something that would not be forced, something that would echo her thoughts and emotions, something that would be a part of her and still be more beautiful...something that would be perfect! Well, probably Riya was thinking too much of the outcome and not of the matter. She needed to focus and draw inspiration from her surroundings. She needed to think harder...<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-06IJgdodVeQ/UdLpRwtCFCI/AAAAAAAAAWM/ES4sqSW4QMw/s600/rains.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-06IJgdodVeQ/UdLpRwtCFCI/AAAAAAAAAWM/ES4sqSW4QMw/s320/rains.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Meanwhile, as Riya was immersed deep in her thoughts, the sky was darkening outside. The distant rumble of thunder and a strong cool breeze was received with cheer by the urchins on the street. The hawkers were assembling all their goods inside large polythene bags. The pedestrians walked faster. They didn't wish to be stranded in the midst of a thunderous shower. The branches were swaying menacingly from side to side as if uttering a mystical chant, beckoning the drops from Heaven. The red of the sky was now replaced by a dull grey and growing black. The howl of the winds drew every soul back to the shelter of their houses. Demands for deep fried snacks were increasing steadily in every household. After all, what is rain without a warm cup of beverage and a plate of steaming hot 'pakoras'? While people outside were busy readying themselves to witness God's miracle, Riya was oblivious to the excitement outside. Her heart was tormented. She had to submit an article on 'A Rainy Day' by the very next day. Her English teacher would be furious if the work was not completed. Riya was sitting in a closed room, with the doors and windows shut tight. She could barely see the outline of the city now getting blurred by the strong gushes of rain. All she could feel was the tension building up as time was ticking away and she hadn't written anything on the topic. She still needed to think harder...<br />
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As the thirteen-year old chewed on her pencil's tip for the umpteenth time, she grew nervous. Her mother wouldn't like to be told by the teacher that she had failed to do the homework. (Mrs. Mathews was a grumpy old woman who took the submission of tasks seriously and non-submission of tasks even more seriously.) She really couldn't ask anybody for help as the phone lines were dead, thanks to the storm outside. With no network coverage and Mommy out of home, she had to battle the demoniac article all by herself. Mommy..Mommy always arrived home late. She was forever busy at office. And Daddy..was always out of town, out of the radar of family-life yet smiling happily through all photo albums. But Riya couldn't afford to spare a thought about her miserable life. She had to complete this assignment as soon as she could and then move on to prepare for the horrifying Maths test for next week. After all, she was a good student. She couldn't let her image get tarnished on account of a failure in a silly article. Yes, silly. When Mrs. Matthews had given the topic, it had sounded very simple, a child's play. But Mrs. Matthews wanted a personal impression on the topic and not a generalised essay. That was very challenging indeed...for not many could understand their emotions, let alone penning them down at this age. She struggled hard to invoke her Muse who could guide her with the correct words that would make the teacher happy. But the Muse was failing her. Her mind was drawing a blank. All she could feel was the heaviness of her eyes, and an ache down her shoulder. School bags these days were so heavy.<br />
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Riya didn't give up hope. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate more and more on her topic. But all she could hear was the muffled roar of winds outside, with raindrops lashing against her closed windows. It was 6.30 pm by her watch. Her mother wouldn't be home soon. She slowly raised herself from her chair and walked towards the window. She was going to do the unthinkable. She was going to let the rain in. She had never ever done that. She had never danced in the rain like her friends in school. She had always been the perfectly disciplined girl leading the perfect childhood( though, at times, she asked herself if her life was perfect at all!) With two working parents earning bucket loads of money, being a part of a good school, in possession of a neat academic record of straight As in every subject, she was living a dream of many young girls of her age. But what about Riya's dreams? She was still a child, she too wanted to jump into the dirty puddle of rain water without a care in the world. She too wanted to get dripping wet in the rain, shout with glee and cuddle up to her parents at night being read a cozy bed time story... Well, this wasn't the time for her disappointments to surface. This was the time of joy. She took anxious steps towards the window and flung it open with a racing heart.<br />
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The strong gust of wind and rain drenched her in a matter of seconds. Her loose sheets of paper were flying all over the room. The pencil case lay on the floor with pens of different colors peeking outside. The calendar on the wall was about to cut lose. No divine picture could confront the power of Mother Nature. But was Riya scared? Her heart was beating wildly. She had kept her eyes shut. She didn't wish the dust particles accompanying the slanting rain to blind her. But strangely, she felt no fear. She felt at ease for the very first time of her life. Her hair was flying all over freckled face. Her skirt was swishing to the rhythm of the pitter-patter. She could feel the cold of the rain on her body and the warmth which followed, as her soul absorbed it with joy. She felt happy...happy and pleased...happy and...<br />
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Her thoughts were obstructed by a blinding flash of lightning accompanied by the clap of thunder. She let out a loud yell and hurriedly shut the window. She was breathing heavily now. She didn't know why she had given into the madness of impropriety. This was so unbecoming of her. Her mother would be back home in no time. How would she react about the mess? What possible explanation could she give Mommy to pacify her anger? ....<br />
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....Perhaps she could say that she had been touched by the Muse. Perhaps she could say that she had had the taste of liberty. Perhaps she could say that she had experienced something heavenly..she could say that it was a one time opportunity, not to be missed. And then suddenly, just like that, in the manner of the blinding flash of lightning, words struck her mind and flowed on the empty sheets creating a symphony of language..<br />
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"On a rainy day,</div>
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I wished to play</div>
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And feel the water on my lips.</div>
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On a rainy day,</div>
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I wished I may</div>
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Dance to the the drip-drop beats.</div>
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On a rainy day,</div>
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That is today</div>
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I am forced to stay inside.</div>
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Do my homework,</div>
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Put in all my effort,</div>
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While others make merry outside.</div>
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On a rainy day,</div>
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With great dismay</div>
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I put forth a question to my elders:</div>
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When best things in life are free</div>
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And all we seek is happiness for our family,</div>
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Then why put us in fetters?"</div>
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And this was the end. End of innocence....for she had been touched by the Muse now...<br />
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-56360166963384507672013-06-30T23:10:00.002+05:302014-11-06T12:06:27.775+05:30So still is the night....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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So still is the night and dim is the light,<br />
I can figure out the right in the dark starry night.<br />
I can sense no trouble, no cause to grumble,<br />
I feel ready to travel through life's joyous miracle.<br />
It's the joy and the cheer in my mind's rusty corner,<br />
That makes me recall distant memories with a tear.<br />
Oh dear, dear, dear! I had so longed for this cure,<br />
Not criticize or compare but cherish all that's here.<br />
The simple joys of today, I value all the way,<br />
With so much to say, I dare simply wish and pray.<br />
Pray for this small little world battling demons of disarray,<br />
Pray to the stream of Poesy from meandering away,<br />
Pray to all the twinkling stars shining above,<br />
Pray for the sinners, to be very gently touched by Love.<br />
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-56886435153793291172013-06-26T02:07:00.002+05:302014-11-06T12:05:48.788+05:30On breaking the loop of Plans...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
At times I wake up with a real dead feeling inside me. I don't know exactly why do I feel so stressed and drained out early in the morning. It may be a sign of sickness or excessive work pressure. Perhaps it may be the result of nothing working according to my plan. Plans...plans are some very dangerous tools provided to children early in life. A plan gives one the fake assurance of well-being and there is always that deadly undercurrent of probability associated with it as "things may go wrong" and then, we need to save our souls by reverting to a different plan. So basically, all our lives we are drawing one plan after another. Some work, some fail, and that is how life goes on silently. Finally, before we meet our end, we measure our success by determining the success rate of our plans. We do it unconsciously, never deliberately. Doing that calculation deliberately would make us feel terrible, but once we allow our subconscious to guide the unconscious mind things run pretty smoothly...A life of no regrets, as there'll always be a plan to salvage our lost hope. (At times praying for a miracle may be a part of a large plan too. After all being the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve, we are forever up to something edgy.)<br />
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Now, my point is, in my life of twenty-seven years I have devised many such plans for myself too. Since childhood, I had been encouraged to push harder in academics and secure 'good marks' in all subjects. No 'good mark' however was that good enough and I was eternally hungry for more. My family believed that I was cut out for something great, something spectacular. In the hindsight, every family has the same story to share. Everybody is unique and everybody is running off to coaching classes to get that something 'extra' that'll give them that cutting edge...that'll empower them to be triumphant against all odds. That is the common plan. But somehow gradually, I realized that perhaps I was only an average and not a brilliant student or a prodigy. I failed to meet the high standards of expectations at times. I turned sad, depressed and soon felt dejected, thrown into the dark abyss of hopelessness. The monumental decision of choosing between Science and Arts arrived before me after ICSE exams. While it was unanimously believed by my teachers that a good student should always prefer Science, I believed in the latter. I made a choice. A difficult one indeed. My life, my future, my career stood right before my eyes. While Science could offer me temporary respect in society, Arts could offer me the peace of mind, my true calling. Without a moment's hesitation I deviated from my original plan, of entering the medical field, and embraced reality. Arts became my reality. The choice paved the way for my liberty.<br />
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I still remember the first day in my classroom where the apparently 'dull-minded', weak students had huddled together. 'Dull-minded' because we had voluntarily chosen Arts over Science. The students in the Science stream scoffed at us, mocked our subjects and claimed that it was all too easy. We ignored their jibes believing that they were too foolish to understand anything. Those jibes were followed by more hurtful remarks by their parents who said, " So, why didn't you take up Science? Is it because you couldn't cope with Maths? How badly did you score in ICSE? ..." And the questions ran on endlessly. "Arts has no future" became the oft-repeated statement in all conversations. I still chose to ignore that. But the problem arose when our class teacher looked at me and said on the very first day, "Oh! Neelima. I'm surprised to see you here. You've taken up Arts? Why? Are you sure you don't want Science? I had always considered you intelligent." This really shook my confidence. It got me thinking over my choice again and again. But all that mattered was the voice that spoke to me from within reaffirming all that I believe in. Today eleven years later I have never ever regretted my decision. I ended up being the topper of Arts Section from my school in class 12 in ISC examination. I took up English Honours and completed my Masters from the most prestigious university in Calcutta. And now I'm in a profession that I enjoy the most. I'm a teacher.<br />
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But how would have life turned out for me if I had chosen the otherwise? If I had followed the PLAN? I don't know. I never will know. And frankly, I don't desire to know. Today whenever I wake up all stressed early in the morning, battling to discover the reason why I'm miles away from home, living in a foreign place, in a job that most consider 'boring', I tell myself that I am the reason behind this choice. And I am proud of it. I couldn't have asked for anything better. I enjoy teaching young children, being a part of their 'whacky' world, teaching and learning new things at the very same time. I have shaped my Destiny with my very own hands. I am the master of my own Fortune. No tarot card or parrots sitting by the dusty lanes have outlined my choice. All that matters is I have had the courage to make my choice and believe in it. I have dared to pursue it endlessly. All that matters is now I have the courage to live my life on my own terms, to fuel my dreams, to live my passion. After all, we have just one life, So why waste it on unnecessary plans and rue over it when its execution fails?<br />
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One usually lives under the assumption that plans determine true happiness in life. Negative.<br />
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I believe that being able to make mistakes and learning from the same is blissful.<br />
I believe that being able to choose our paths in life on our own is blissful.<br />
All that matters is what makes us happy.<br />
If we're happy, how long will the world outside remain unhappy?<br />
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And if everyone's happy then nothing really matters actually...<br />
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-27930006103081233112013-06-23T16:09:00.000+05:302014-11-06T12:05:00.619+05:30East or West: My daddy's the best!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<strong style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">‘I am writing ‘<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">10 life lessons I learnt from my father’</strong> at <a href="http://www.parentous.com/" style="border: 0px; color: #990000; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank" title="The best community for Parents in India">Parentous.com</a>'</strong><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">From the very first moment that we learn to steady ourselves and learn to grab the first object that comes our way to the moment when we are hungry in our pursuit for success, grabbing every bit of opportunity determining a professional high, we are always supported, guided and counseled by our parents. The mothers are forever more vocal about the things they like and dislike, more expressive by way of emotions whereas the fathers are the quintessential symbol of Man and how all men should behave in society. We look up to our fathers and marvel at their ability to calmly sit through the mother's barrage of rebuke while they gently take us in their arms to render life's important lessons quietly, without any fuss. Personally, I am indebted to my parents for teaching me everything about life and it would be really unfair to single out the lessons taught by one parent alone. But as we celebrate Father's Day on June 16, I also do realize that I get an opportunity to express my gratitude for all that my Baba has done for me throughout, expecting nothing in return. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Here follows the <u><b>10 life lessons I learnt from my Baba</b></u> :</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">1. As a child I hated being bullied by the elder bullies, who seemed to scold me for apparently no reason. At times I would return home crying, not knowing what to do. I didn't want to answer them back fearing that it would be rude. But the insults were too much to take. That is when my father used to tell: </span><b style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Treat people the way they treat you. If people misbehave with you, don't go soft but oppose the wrong.</b><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"> As Bhagawad Gita says," It is wrong to commit injustice, but is a greater wrong to suffer injustice in silence."</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">2. In one's childhood one faces innumerable disappointments. And every next setback seems bigger and more frightening, even insurmountable. But my father always believed that when Life punches you straight into your face, one should not be rattled.<b> 'Bad days' is just a phase which will soon drift away. So, fight back and never lose hope.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">3. Friends are always an integral part of life. Being a social person by nature, I always ended up being friends with almost everyone in the class. But I always had a hard time understanding why my friend never called to speak to me when I fell ill, or later failed to secure good marks in a subject.That is when my father imparted me life's most crucial lesson: There will be many friends surrounding us, offering us advice, promising us that they'll be with us till the very end when one is a comfortable space of life. The number grows thinner in the bad days. <b>The ones who don't leave our side in the foul weather are our true friends. Treasure them.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">4. A young girl wants to be the best at all she does. She wants to be popular and known by name amongst all her juniors and teachers. At times this leads to foul plays and unhealthy competition that distracts us from the most iportant thing, i.e the task. So, Baba always told me : <b>Do not long for popularity. It is transient. Pay greater attention to the quality of work you do, every day, each moment for these moments'll pass by quickly, never to return again.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">5. I remember the day when I wasn't awarded the prize for scoring the highest in Hindi in class 7 due to a technical glitch. I had cried buckets that night. I thought that I had failed everybody in the house as I was so sure of winning that prize. That is when my father comforted me by saying: </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><b>It doesn't matter if you win or lose. All that matters is you've given the task your cent per cent effort.</b> <b>All that matters is you believe that you're the best. </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">6. How often do we get impatient when things don't run according to our plan? I used to lose my temper every time when my 'perfect plan' got delayed or stuck indefinitely owing to some problems. Baba however made me see the brighter side of things always. He said: <b>Patience is the key to success. When coupled with hard work it will tantamount to life long prosperity.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">7. As I grew up I learnt to be vocal about my feelings, especially the bad ones. At times I used to end up in terrible fights with my best friends and would return home annoyed, irritated and disturbed, My father would always readily lend a patient ear to my problems and then say: <b>Nothing can be won by violence. If one resorts to aggression and abuse, one will end up only harming himself. It will not pave way for peace and resolution of the conflict. Be reasonable and logical even when you're angry. Do not keep your mind aside while you unleash the animal in you. </b>And</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">today I spread the same message to my students as a teacher.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">8. Since childhood I was never interested in dressing up. I was forever comfortable in casuals and hated when my mother dabbed powder on my face saying that it would make me look pretty. Thankfully, Baba always supported my protests in this case and didn't put any pressure on me to dress up like a doll for occasions. In fact there were times I refused to buy new frocks for Pujas and purchased books instead to read! The words of my father has stuck with me till this very day: <b>Don't be ashamed of being yourself. After all, that is who you are. You don't need to be someone better as you're already the best being you. </b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">9. There were times when on the day of exam our driver would absent himself from work owing to sickness. I would stare teary-eyed at my father saying that without a car I would never be able to reach school and appear from my exam. But my father would rubbish it and say that if I needed to get my work done, I must be independent. I couldn't always depend on cars to offer me a ride wherever I wanted. He would take me to the nearest bus stop and would let me pay the fare to the conductor under his watch. Thanks to him, today I understand that <b>one needs to be independent in life. Nothing should chain her down to a hole. The solution is always right there before our eyes. We only need to see it. </b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">10. Finally, my father believed that the blessings we receive from our elders is invaluable. It helps us in becoming better human beings. So, <b>we should always respect our elders and obey their wishes under all circumstances. </b>After all a family is all about love, faith and respect, none of which ought to be compromised ever. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">With all things said and done, I would wish to say that I am imbibing lessons of life from Baba still today. The list can go on and on, and I don't intend it to draw to a close. I am my Baba's pet and I am proud to state that. And nothing that I do will ever be enough to show how much I love him. East or West, My Baba's the best. </span></span></div>
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-36367522349290241632013-06-22T18:45:00.000+05:302014-11-06T12:06:17.709+05:30The Demon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"I have something to tell you...!"<br />
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The little girl shifted her gaze to the window. It was raining heavily by the normal standards. Rittika detested rains unlike young girls of her age. She detested the rumbling cry of thunder, the howls of the wind. She said that it made her feel that God was angry, really angry with somebody. It reminded her of the smacks that she received when she failed to answer the sum correctly at her tuition. It always scared her, left her feeling mortified. Yet as she was looking at her mother through the eyes of a six-year old, she knew that she wouldn't be really happy to receive the news she was about to break in. After all, her mother was a single parent. Her father had died a long time back in a car accident. No, he wasn't driving the car, but the large vehicle had vroomed over his body of flesh and blood, smashing his intestines, crushing his bones. The onlookers had said that that he had tried to seek help till his last breath. But the public was too scared to help him. They were mortified too. The killer car was after all driven by a minister's son and his drunken pals. Nobody wished to get into trouble for some dead body, whom they didn't even know in person. The man's time had come. He was safer in heaven..probably would be even happier.<br />
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But Rittika's mother was a strong woman. She knew that the world wouldn't stop for her loss. She needed to pick herself up again and continue to live for her only child. She needed to give her a good life, good education. She needed to be both her father ad mother. Rittika was too young to realize what she had lost or who she had lost forever. It really perplexed her to see her mother crying her to sleep at night. She didn't understand when relatives flooded her house to offer condolence. Rittika was too young to understand anything. And that turned into a problem. You see, Rittika's mother wanted to give her the best education possible. After all, the least she wanted was people reminding her that her husband was no more to support her. She did not wish Rittika's grades to get affected in any way. But with one loss weighing down her thin frame of shoulders, she had to brace up for the office job that she had taken up lately. She needed to earn. She needed to earn enough to keep the fuels burning. But with all the wolves pouncing on her in the world outside, she was too tired to help Rittika understand that 5X5= 25 and not 26. So, like all busy people, she took up the next best possible alternative. She hired a tutor. This man had been highly recommended for his efficiency by the neighbours. In fact it was said that under his tutelage even a dumb student could crack the IITs! Well, all was well with the hyperbole and Rittika's mother was nevertheless assured that he could teach her dear daughter the tables to pass her examination. However, there was one problem. The tutor had to step inside her house in her absence as she usually worked late at nights in her office to fetch the overtime money. The willing neighbour, one Mrs. Singh, gladly came to her rescue and offered to babysit Rittika at those times. Nobody knew one thing. Mrs. Singh had the reputation of dozing off for hours at the slightest given chance.She could well put a certain Kumbhakarna to shame.For the same reason her own husband never trusted her alone with the house. But Rittika's mom didn't know this. And how could she?<br />
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Well, everything was fine initially. Rittika was frightened of her tutor due to some reason but she managed to score decent marks at Maths every time. But gradually, Rittika had been subject to illusions, it may seem. She complained of a demon living inside her room, who visited her in the dark, and caused her a lot of pain. Now,Rittika's mother was fighting demons of her own back in office where vultures in suits and ties were swooping down on her from every corner to ask if she was 'available'. So much for all talks on gender equality. However, Rittika's mother left no stone unturned to coax her little child believe that demons don't exist. Demons existed only in our mind, in the bad people we might come across. But her room was the sanctum of the divine which would never allow her any harm. Yet all her attempts seemed fruitless. Rittika looked scared every time. Scared of anyone touching her. She had never been so quiet. Her eyes were always on the look out of the demon. And she still hated her tutor. Rittika's mother would often enquire Mrs. Singh about the tutor's behaviour with her daughter. The seventy-year old woman would comfort her by saying that he was always polite and cordial, trying to be friendly with the girl..but the girl never strangely reciprocated the politeness."It's so typical of children to hate their tutors at times. After all, they give them additional homework and make them do stuff that they don't like...i.e studying."<br />
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Days crawled by. And then came today. Rittika's mother had come home early. After all it is not everyday that it pours cats and dogs in a manner of drowning the city. She feared that if she wouldn't hurry, she would be left stranded in the lonely cubicle of her office.She took the bus home and reached her apartment in about 20 minutes. It was 7pm. The rain was devouring the roads,hindering clear vision. She could see from the distance the lights in her house. Rittika was in there with her tutor. She could never really understand why Rittika disliked that middle-aged man. He was not handsome by way of appearance but he had a charming smile. And then he was really dutiful and helped Rittika do well in her tests. "Kids are confusing", she thought to herself. She took the elevator and in no time she was standing outside her door. She rang the door bell once. No answer.She rang the door bell again. No answer. "Strange" . Se called out for Mrs. Singh, tapped the door and rang the door bell again, and again and again..till finally there was that familiar sound of unlocking....<br />
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"What is wrong with you? Why didn't you...What's all this red on your dress..is it bloo..." She couldn't wait to finish her sentence. Her little darling daughter was standing right before her eyes, covered in someone's blood. She could see the figure of a large woman slumped into her armchair, facing television on full volume.She could see a few books lying on the table across. She could feel her room circling all around her. She was sure that she was dreaming. She sank to her knees. She did not know what to say.<br />
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It was still raining hard. Rittika detested rains. She gazed at the window. "I have something to tell you...! Ma..." She put her hands behind her back as if she were to recite a poem. She was looking down at her pink shoes, spotted with drops of red. "I have killed the demon." A lifeless body of the middle-aged man was lying in a pool of blood with a knife plunged deep in his heart. And then it dawned upon the child's mother.."Make them do stuff that they didn't like..."<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">This post is a part of </span><a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/category/write-over-the-weekend-wow" style="background-color: white; color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Write Over the Weekend">Write Over the Weekend</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">, an initiative for </span><a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Reach out to the largest community of Indian Bloggers">Indian Bloggers</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"> by BlogAdda</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">And this post was adjudged a WOW post ......</span><br />
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-717954296885476997.post-15809716452336042532013-06-22T17:11:00.000+05:302014-11-06T12:06:46.734+05:30I have something to tell you<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I have something to tell you...!</div>
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You have been living a web of lies.</div>
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Lost in the castle of deception.</div>
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Yes, you're trapped, disillusioned.</div>
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And there is perhaps no escape possible.</div>
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Wait..did I just say 'perhaps'?</div>
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Stain my lips with the word of probability?</div>
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Ah! I see...hope never dies...</div>
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They say hope lives on deep inside us.</div>
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This hope carries us forward.</div>
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But where are you going?</div>
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There's nothing in there...nothing that you'll hope to see.</div>
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In the barren deserts of Time skeletons fill the space.</div>
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Skeletons who spoke once,</div>
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Thought once, reasoned once...loved once..</div>
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But love's labour's lost.</div>
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No love to water those dark pupils of yours.</div>
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The water has dried up..the sun is dead.</div>
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It's dark here, dark there..dark everywhere.</div>
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A pain..an excruciating pain beyond tolerance is filling up my head.</div>
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I can take this no more..no more live this lie..be a part of it...</div>
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Hostile faces surround us.</div>
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Colours,green and red, merge into one..anarchy..sheer anarchy!</div>
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As I make an attempt to feel the feeling</div>
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I perceive the castle collapsing and burying you, me and everyone</div>
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Under its debris.</div>
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Time has run out.</div>
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The show is over...awake now...</div>
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But wait, do I see a waking dream?</div>
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Indeed do we wake... or sleep?<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">This post is a part of </span><a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/category/write-over-the-weekend-wow" style="background-color: white; color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Write Over the Weekend">Write Over the Weekend</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">, an initiative for </span><a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #b85b5a; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Reach out to the largest community of Indian Bloggers">Indian Bloggers</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;"> by BlogAdda</span><br />
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(Drum roll)....And this post was adjudged a WOW post...on cloud nine.....</div>
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Neelimahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05707192986997688035noreply@blogger.com8