have you read these?

http://www.youthkiawaaz.com/2013/12/upon-christmas-six-stories-christmas-us-read/

Random Ramblings

We'll find people, in any and every walk of life, doling out unsolicited advice for world peace, post-war restoration and a ton of other issues which would supposedly contribute towards emaciation of human suffering. Everyone's a humanitarian at the macro level. Where this feeling hides itself at the micro level is what intrigues me. We harangue about issues concerning human rights violation but do we let those thoughts become our actions when we deal with real people? Why is it so difficult to empathize? Why must our sensitivity and emotions be reserved for just ourselves or for the larger good of the society? What will we lose by extending warm gesture to someone in dire need of it? To someone that we may come across in the course of our normal day-to-day lives. To someone who may not necessarily have a story worthy of becoming the prime time debate on national TV.

#Something to think about.

~

Love possesses not nor will it be possessed, for love is sufficient unto love.
~
Kahlil Gibran

It takes that je ne sais quoi which we call sophistication for a woman to be magnificent in a drawing-room when her faculties have departed but she herself has not yet gone home.
~
James Thurber

When Those Eyes Looked at Him

A little bit of stage fright, then I'm ready.

~

Faith Hill

There was something about all those eyes in that room; just like there was something about all those eyes in all the rooms he had ever been in, that made him uncomfortable. He did not want to make eye contact with anybody, especially with her. He did not know what they were thinking but whatever it was, he was sure, it was not good. He cringed as he walked through the aisle between the benches, trying to close his eyes. He tried to convince himself that by shutting his eyes he could make all those eyes look away. But it did not help and his insides tied themselves up in knots. She was seated in the third row and he skipped a breath as he crossed her bench. She had worn white ribbons in her braids, and looked like an angel. He felt his cheeks flush.

His name had been called out as he was next on the roll call. The walk from his bench at the end of the classroom to the dais at the front seemed unending; and somewhere he kept wishing that the distance would keep increasing with every step that he took. Reluctantly, he reached the rostrum. It was his turn for poetry recitation but he did not want to face the class. He looked at his teacher. She mechanicallly made a tick mark with her pencil against his name on the assessment sheet and waited for him to begin.  He knew his poem by rote. He had recited it to himself in front of the mirror at least a couple of dozen times in the past few days.

He took a deep breath and mustered up all the voice he could. To his horror, he realised, he couldn't recall the first words of the poem. Almost all the students who had gone in front of the class before him had fumbled or halted with their recitation at least once. Sitting on his favourite last bench he had been imagining how he would have recited each of those poems, with alacrity and confidence. But now he had cold feet; like he had every time he had had to face an audience. He swiftly glanced around the classroom trying to place the students mentally as to who was seated where - desperate to find a friendly face. He did not find comfort in any corner. Helplessly he looked at his teacher who was on the brink of impatience. She stared at him blankly, tapping her pencil on her desk. Haplessly, he decided to get on with it. To hell with the immense amount of practice he had put in, to hell with the fact that he wanted to be the best reciter of his class, to hell with the fact that he wanted 'her' to clap for him when he was done reciting.

Still in a quest to buy time, he began " Hello friends, today I am going to recite Daffodils by William Wordsworth". By a quirk of fate he chanced to catch another glimpse of her. She was smiling sweetly, and was gesturing the 'thumbs up' sign to him. His stomach cartwheeled - once, twice, three times! He found his tongue and began to recite. "I wandered lonely as a Cloud - That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills, - When all at once I saw a crowd - A host of dancing Daffodils..!" He looked straight ahead and imagined himself in front of his mirror. His voice was clear, stance perfect. Without a single pause, he went on just like he had practiced. It seemed as if he were living the poem as he recited it. His mind was clear and focused. He went on confidently. As he began the fourth and final stanza, "For oft when on my couch I lie - In vacant or in pensive mood, - They flash upon that inward eye..," he stole a look at her once more. She was looking intently at him, as was every other student in the class - mesmerised. "Which is the bliss of solitude," he continued with renewed vigour. "And then my heart with pleasure fills, - And dances with the Daffodils..!" he concluded pompously.

He beamed nervously at the class, then at his teacher and wiped his brow with relief as he received a thunderous round of applause from his classmates; but all he could see were the pearly whites of that girl with white satin ribbons in her braids. He walked back to his seat with his head held high, feeling like a million bucks. He was going run endlessly around the school campus during lunch break, and mud wrestle on his way back home. What more could a ten year old wish for?

--

P.S. - Read the entire poem here.

~

As I Begin to Count My Blessings

For there is no friend like a sister

In calm or stormy weather; 

To cheer one on the tedious way, 

To fetch one if one goes astray,

To lift one if one totters down, 

To strengthen whilst one stands

~

Christina Rossetti

Sisters are a special yet strange gift from God, to each other. When they're little they will squeal as they try to tear out each others' hair, wear evil grins when they tell on each other and hide under the bed when they've meddled with the other's craft work. But as they grow, they have deep conversations as they braid each others' hair, say "I've got your back" when the other is in trouble and miss the days when they were so little that they could chase each other around under the bed. The worst of critics, the best of friends. The worst of enemies, but the most protective warrior one can have. They compete, they fight, they yell and swear; but they also love, care and worry like nobody else.

My sister is and will be the only link to my past, the companion in my present and the support in my future. Like I will be hers. We threaten to narrate each others' crazy tales to our yet-to-be-born children. We plan to spoil our to-be nieces and nephews sick; and in our moment of jest we threaten to dress them up like clowns. There are no pretenses between us. We know we'd kick each other if one of us tried to 'put up a show' in front of the other. We communicate without words, and understand the deeper meaning of the words we speak. We hit each other where it hurts; since we know each other so well, we know exactly where to stab. But we are each others' pillars of strength too. We draw inspiration from each other, and draw out our daggers should someone dare point a finger at either of us.

We know each other in and out, flaws et al and love each other nevertheless. It may have been a relation that we did not choose to have but it is certainly one that we cherish the most. My sister may be the reason I would want to be an only child at times, but she'd also be the reason why I wouldn't want to. Since I am the elder one, I like to believe that it is my duty to be more protective of my kid sister. If a storm has to strike her, it better face me first. When she needs a brother to nudge her way around, I will be that brother for her. No matter how old she is, I will still hold her hand when she crosses the road; still snatch the shopping bags from her so that she's not carrying too much load; tell her not to hold my hand when we're walking, because I know she won't listen and will still hold my hand just to annoy me. I would still pretend to be asleep when she talks endlessly after lights out; and she wouldn't stop because she would know I am pretending. She will still throw me out of her room every alternate night, whereas I will shamelessly walk right back in and plop on the bed. We'll still be called all the silly nicknames that we've conferred upon each other. We will always compete with regards to which one of us loves Snow and Leo more, and more so whom do Snow and Leo love more. (It's me, in both cases!) But most importantly, she will always be the doll my parents gifted me.

Many years down the line, when we have grey hair and crow's feet - I hope we don't get those though - our children will have flown out of our nests to build their own, and most of our links with our childhood and youth will have diminished, we would still have each other. We would have known each other all our lives and yet have not grown tired. We will still have a fraction, or maybe more, of our parents' reflections in each other. Nobody will know our struggles, our victories, our joys and our pains the way we would. All our private jokes would still be funny and I'm sure we would still laugh like maniacs scaring the daylights out of our grandchildren, the way we roll off chairs and scare our parents now. All the times we've been mischievous, the late night madness, the way we fought and swore not to talk to each other for as long as we lived, but got back together almost immediately - we will reminisce these things and a lot more. You need to have a sister, and be one to know what the world's most special bond feels like.

I'm sorry this came a little late, but better late than never. And maybe I don't say it often enough, but you know that I love you T2. Happy 20th! :-)

~

Let's Make it a Better Place - For You & For Me

You can't change all that is wrong in this great big world, but you can have an impact, even if it is just a tiny, positive impact on a stranger that receives a smile from you on the street today. There's so much we can do for others, and in the end, what we do for others ends up benefiting us tenfold. So let's do this. Let's make our little worlds amazing today. 

~

Craig Ballantyne

Why does it take us so much of an effort to compliment someone; whereas we could point out a dozen flaws in that someone without pausing for a breath? What is it that makes it so difficult for us say nice things, and so easy to dole out copious portions of harsh words? Would it be a bad thing if someone who passed us by on a street somewhere not only secretly admired the attire that we had worn or the bag that we were carrying but also said it to us? Likewise, would it be such a bad thing if we did that to someone else? Nobody minds hearing good things about themselves; but do we like saying good things to others just as much? Simple things like smiling at someone or saying 'thank you' seem to have become so tedious. Most people wait for the person across to break the ice, not realizing that the person across is waiting for them to do just that. What ensues is that all good things that should have been said and done walk away - unsaid and undone - and the world remains devoid of innumerable pretty smiles and the probable little bursts of cheerfulness

We don't usually see it this way, do we? We find a strange comfort in negativity and embrace it like a lost kin. Eventually we also overlook the opportunity to spread joy in our own little way. But I believe it's never too late; to join little children in a game of hopscotch in the streets or to help someone gather their belongings that they may have dropped, to thank the valet in the restaurant for parking your vehicle or maybe to just tell the sweeper in the compound what a good job he is doing. Next time you have the chance, seize the opportunity, smile and do your bit to make your world a better place.

~ 

Life Simplified

Song Time!

This has been a Sunday where I dug out a few of my old favourite tracks and gave a treat to my sense of hearing. Sharing the one that tops my list today. No doubt Kumar Sanu's voice and R D Burman's music bring it alive, but if it were not Gulzar's words this song wouldn't be as mesmerizing as it is. And of course, I like to sing this one to myself now and then. (Ha Ha! No kidding.)

Enjoy!

Life is short, break the rules. Forgive quickly, kiss slowly. Love truly. Laugh uncontrollably and never regret anything that makes you smile.

~

Mark Twain

Life moves on, whether we act as cowards or heroes. Life has no other discipline to impose, if we would but realize it, than to accept life unquestioningly. Everything we shut our eyes to, everything we run away from, everything we deny, denigrate or despise, serves to defeat us in the end. What seems nasty, painful, evil can become a source of beauty, joy and strength, if faced with an open mind. Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such.

~

Henry Miller

Success comes in a lot of ways, but it doesn't come with money and it doesn't come with fame. It comes from having a meaning in your life, doing what you love and being passionate about what you do. That's having a life of success. When you have the ability to do what you love, love what you do and have the ability to impact people. That's having a life of success. That's what having a life of meaning is.

~

Tim Tebow

The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A fresh graduate with ambitious aspirations lost in the fast paced life of New York city. Simple plot but new story. As Andrea Sachs tries to put up with a she-devil of a boss who also happens to be the most powerful (and most difficult) woman in the world of fashion for an year in order to achieve her dream of becoming a writer for an acclaimed, intellectual, non-fashion magazine, Lauren Weisberger takes the reader through the ups and downs (mostly downs) in Andrea's life; how her demanding and demeaning job affects her relations with her family, friends and boyfriend - and how she tries, fails and eventually manages to cope with it to take a purposeful step toward her dream job.

The story unfolds in print with such finesse as though it were being shown on the silver screen. The story is well conceived and very well executed. The characters are perfectly crafted with a keen eye for detail by the author. The story will keep you on your toes and make you wonder what's in store on the next page. The description of the ins and outs of the fashion world are amusing as well as informative, and at times even harsh. There are not-so-subtle yet effortless tones of satire and humour almost throughout the novel. It is a very realistic and relatable piece of work and deserves a read. For a first novel, Weisberger has done a more than remarkable job. Kudos!

~

The Raven's Claw - Part 2

Like every other morning, the chirp of the cuckoos heralded sunrise that morning too. The visitors on my window began to flock in slowly. The sparrows first, followed by the pigeons, interspersed by the crows and ravens in no particular pattern. That day the ravens were out in their glory since morning. They circled round the trees and screeched loudly, much to everybody's annoyance - especially Bouncy's.

Bouncy is the colony dog. She is a very sprightly animal, full of life. Her merry nature and the ability to jump unbelievable heights led to her being named Bouncy when she was a puppy. The crow & raven fraternity and Bouncy have been at loggerheads for as long as I can recall. In fact, she has been at loggerheads with practically all the birds and even squirrels. She manages to hunt down a pigeon on a good day and makes a sumptuous meal out of it. She, however, does not consider the members of the Corvus family as particularly delicious; so she tries to plainly kill them. They try to peck at her, and caw in unison to tease her. She, in return, barks her lungs out at them and is always on the lookout to catch a few feathers in between her teeth. The brutes in the form of birds irritate her no end, and she chases them around the colony incessantly. This is routine.

That morning Bouncy had managed to scavenge a piece of stale bread for her breakfast. She held it with her teeth like a trophy and looked around to check for any hostile two-legged beings who might intrude her meal. Having made sure none were prowling, she settled for breakfast between a Hyundai i20 and a Honda City. A sly raven had been observing her all this while from a distance. No sooner had she begun to work on the hardened piece of bread than it swooped down adroitly, snatched the piece of bread neatly and flew away. An astonished Bouncy was quick to react, but not quick enough. The raven definitely had the advantage of flight which she could never match. As though it were pre-planned, and it definitely seemed so, the raven alighted on the bird bath at my window. The poor dog was left agape and hungry. The raven held the bread in its claws, at the same time balancing itself on the edge of the bath. It broke off little bits of the bread and dipped each of those bits in water. When the hard bread softened, it was gulped down with ease. Bouncy sure wouldn't want to discuss this incident with anybody, so we'd better keep mum when she is around.

Ravens are omnivorous birds. They can survive on practically anything, be it food grains, fruits, vegetables, other birds' eggs, meat - raw, cooked, stale, rotten - rodents or carcasses. Just about anything. One morning when the ravens were out foraging for food, they came across a dead rat. Four ravens darted at it simultaneously. They wrestled among themselves, each trying its best to grab the rodent. In a few minutes, the mightiest - may have been the shrewdest - raven picked the rat and flew. Not the ones to give up easily - especially a chance to bicker - the other three followed suit. The four birds swooped and swooshed past buildings, cars, trees and people in the quest to claim ownership on that apparently prized bit of delicacy. Nobody knows what ensued in the interim but in a while all the birds had gone back to their nests, empty handed - empty beaked literally. The dead rat was found a little while later resting in the now slushy waters of a certain, much discussed, bird bath on a certain, equally discussed, window.

There were squeals of shock and disgust when this present from the ravens was discovered. The window, and even the room, were abandoned after that. Three people quelled nausea and wondered how to get rid of this rather unsolicited gift. The best option would have been to upturn the bath so that all its contents just fell prey to the force of gravity. There could be people passing under, but that could be taken care of. Somebody could always stand guard to warn them. After a lot of deliberation and discussion, when someone dared to return to the window and peeked into the bird bath, the rat was missing - much to the relief of the entire household. Perhaps the ravens had taken umbrage because their valuable gift was not met with the enthusiasm that they had expected. Or some rascal just got lucky. Quite obviously, it was the latter. Either way was good for us. We were spared the ordeal of cleaning a dead-rat-infested bird bath with mucky water. Messed up, yet a rat-less bath was still a better deal!
~

The Raven's Claw - Part 1

This morning I chanced to notice a specimen of the Corvus Corax, or what we would usually call the common raven, a tad more closely than I had ever before. On the grille of the biggest window of my house, one will find kept a bird bath and a bird feeder. These invite the sparrows and pigeons to drink water and feed on grains; and the crows and ravens to take dips in the bath and create a racket in the process. So it was here that this magnificent bird was perched while I admired its rich black plumage and rather impressive beak, hidden behind the curtains and careful not to make any sudden movements. Our dude, in the meanwhile, took a couple of dips in the bath and flapped away to bully a pigeon.

An unkindness of ravens resides in the trees near my house and is usually found harrowing other birds, and even animals. They go out on these expeditions in ones or twos usually. It is grave trouble when the entire conspiracy goes out together. The sparrows steer clear of these monstrous birds as much as they can, especially when they lay eggs. A few years ago a pair of sparrows had made their nest in the nook of the parapet outside our kitchen. When the eggs were laid, the nasty ravens began circling the little birds and their nest. We would shoo them off whenever we could. In a couple of days, however, the brutes had gorged the poor sparrows' eggs mercilessly. No sparrow has made its nest here again ever since.

The ravens come and harass the pigeons when they feed on grains. They will do all they can to dirty the bath too, making the water rather undrinkable for others. One can almost see the vicious glee when the raven does something of this sort. I have also seen them, on occasions, pecking at the crows. That they fight among themselves just as often should now be obvious given the brief account of their persistent belligerence. The raven has a hoarse caw, worse than a crow's which sounds like it has got something stuck in its throat all the time.

Our resident cat - Leo - finds her instincts suddenly aroused when she spots a bird. It is her favourite pastime to glare at the birds that visit our window and plan out strategies to hunt them. She will sit and intently observe the pigeons and sparrows. The crows irritate her, and her interest in the raven is always from a distance. Since we are peace loving people, we keep the glass panes on the windows shut in order to avoid bloodshed of any sort. One afternoon, Leo's siesta was disturbed by the harsh cawing of a crow. It seemed to have gotten into some sort of argument with one of the ravens and was perhaps taking a time out session at the bird bath. Thoroughly irritated, Leo made her way to the window sill - stretching out regally as she did so - and drew out her claws. She took her stance, the way she does when she is about to charge at something, and aimed at the crow. The angry raven sitting on a tree right in front decided, at that very instant,  that it had had enough of this crow and it was time to set it right. The raven took flight and aimed at the crow. 

The crow at the window spotted Leo advancing towards it and panicked. In a second it turned around only to find a pugnacious raven aiming for its right wing. Stuck between a savage cat and a bellicose raven, the crow had less than a second to save its life. It darted left, took a cut downwards and flew off slyly just in the nick of time. In the meanwhile, Leo had pounced at the window and the raven had charged at the bird bath. To their great disappointment they would realise that they had missed the crow. To their greater shock, they came face to face without any prior anticipation. Leo shrieked wildly at the sight of the raven who had its wings spread out wide and looked dangerous. She reeled back with shock. Simultaneously, the raven was forced to attempt a mid-air halt at the sudden transformation of the crow into a militant cat. It let out a howl and made an emergency water landing. The next instant Leo was back on her bed whereas the raven had scooted off to find another bird to trouble. This was truly one of those occurrences that present a strong case for carrying a camera in shoot mode around all the time. Blown out of their wits, Leo and the raven were not seen near that window for a good amount of time after this incident.

~

Bleeding Love

Closed off from love, I didn't need the pain
Once or twice was enough and it was all in vain
Time starts to pass, before you know it you're frozen

But something happened for the very first time with you
My heart melted to the ground, found something true
And everyone's looking 'round, thinking I'm going crazy

But I don't care what they say, I'm in love with you
They try to pull me away but they don't know the truth
My heart's crippled by the vein that I keep on closing..

You cut me open and I

Keep bleeding, keep, keep bleeding love

I keep bleeding, I keep, keep bleeding love

Keep bleeding, keep, keep bleeding love..
You cut me open

And it's draining all of me
Oh, they find  it hard to believe
I'll be wearing these scars for everyone to see..
:'(

Five Run Away Together by Enid Blyton

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I read Five Run Away Together in when I was 11, I think. This is the only book, till date, that I must have read at least a dozen times. More than a decade later, I would still  go back to it with the same zest. The third book in the Famous Five series by Enid Blyton has a strange pull. It is the story of the Famous Five - Julian, Dick, George (Georgina), Ann and Timothy, the dog - where they are compelled by circumstances to abandon their home and seek refuge on an island while an obnoxious family of three live in their house under the pretext of being caretakers. The preparation for running away, gathering stock of all items necessary for survival in uncivilised surroundings a la Robinson Crusoe, if only he were forewarned, and finally the escape are described with natural flair which was Blyton's forte. What begins as an innocent escape from frustrating household staff unfolds into a thrilling adventure of a rather dangerous nature. Classified as a children's book, an adult would find himself equally engrossed in the book. One of the best out of the 21 in the series.

Piccadilly Jim by P.G. Wodehouse

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The master of wit and humour churns out a typical yet unique - I do not know how he does it - plot, yet again. From the beginning to the climax Piccadilly Jim will keep you engrossed, at times even make you bite your fingernails with its on the edge twists and turns. Wodehouse presents a farrago of characters crafted with such detail that while you're at it you may just reach out and touch them. It would be criminal to give out even the slightest hint of the story, but this one's a must read. Delight for Wodehouse fans, and a definite conversion into Wodehouse fans for those who haven't yet made acquaintance with the genius. Happy reading!

Aicha

When I first heard Aicha, I thought it was Arabic. On probing further (read listening on loop) I realised it was French. It's an Algerian song written by a Frenchman and sung (this version) by an Algerian *raï singer. Enjoy listening to this enchanting track!

Another slightly different, and translated, rendition of the same track by Outlandish. The one by Khaled, however, remains my favourite of the two.

* Raï is a form of folk music that originated in Algeria some 8 decades ago. It is a mix of Spanish, French, Arabic and African forms of music.

~

Hello English

A few random pointers for the human race regarding the holy institution of language and its usage. 

• Adding an apostrophe ( ' ) after a word does not indicate its plurality. An apostrophe denotes possession. So it's DOs and Don'ts, not Do's and Don't's.
• No matter to how many you may be referring to, it is always etiquette. There is no word called etiquettes.
• Using unofficial short forms of words while chatting or communicating on social media may be acceptable and/or logical when it actually saves your time. However, Kewl, 5yne, Maah, 9ice, frenzzz etc. only denote your pigheadedness. (Yes, that's a word!)
• Correct pronunciation is important. Correct spellings are important. Grammar is bloody important.
• All of you are, but none of you is. Both of you all  is bullshit, as is all of you all.
• Criteria is the plural of criterion. Nobody has any idea what 'criterias' means folks.
• Sponsors sponsor events. Sponsoror is not a word.
• Reading Sidney Sheldon does not make you avid reader or even cool for that matter, neither does Mills & Boons. Let's not even get started about Chetan Bhagat's 'literature'.
• Wanton usage of 'like' and 'stuff' does not make up for your inadequate vocabulary.
• Using the F-word excessively certainly does not make up for your inadequate vocabulary.
• You have hair, not hairs. In fact your entire family, put together, has hair and not hairs.
• Usage of '-ing' words is incorrect 9/10 times. I am feeling good today should actually be I feel good today, for instance.
• An examiner gives an exam. An examinee takes an exam. So next time you should know better than to say, "I am going to give my exam."
• Kindly do not introduce yourself as "Myself, Honey Singh!". This is just not English.
• When one reads out Roman numerals, well here's how it goes: I is first, II is second, XI is eleventh and not one, two and eleven. This applies to all the numbers written thus. So now you know what it means, rather does not, when you write Ist, IInd, IIIrd and so forth.
• Don't translate blindly. For starters, there is no such thing as your good name or anybody's good name for that matter.  आपका 'शुभ' नाम केवल हिन्दी में होता है । 

~

Remembering Sir Wodehouse

There is only one cure for gray hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.
~
P. G. Wodehouse 

St. Valentine's Day may mean whatever it does to people all over the world. 14th of February, however, is a significant date for me because it is the death anniversary of my favourite author, Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse. On this day in the year 1975 Sir Wodehouse breathed his last at the ripe age of 94. Had I had it my way, no age would be ripe enough for him to leave the world. If I am fortunate to meet the man's soul at the place where the departed rest in my after life I will definitely have a paean or two to sing for him. But I am not sure if I'd have the words to thank him for giving me the joy that he has, through his words. 

I was fifteen when I had my first encounter with Wodehouse. I remember, slowly grasping his unique style of narration and in no time getting hooked on to it. It is an affair that I am proud to have, and will continue to have for as long as I can read. And after that I will pester my grand children to read to me for as long as I can hear. I have sat in corridors and laughed all by myself till my sides threatened to split open clutching a Wodehouse book in my hand. In addition to his exemplary writing style, his exceptional sense of humour, the ingenious use of language, the intricate and shrewd plots and the sheer brilliance in execution is what makes Wodehouse par excellence. I have been swept off my feet umpteen times by the wondrous world that Wodehouse creates in his stories, as I believe is the case with his other readers too. Every book that he's written is a haven that one can fall back on to restore one's spirits. He played with his words as an artist would with his paint. As fate would have it, Wodehouse ascended to heaven - there can be no two thoughts about him going to heaven - on a day when the world celebrates love and happiness. Just what he gave to his readers throughout his life, and what his immortal words will continue to give to readers for generations to come.

~

One of those days when this song is all it is.

~

"The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education. "

~

Albert Einstein


(Please click on the picture to view a larger image.)

 #StoryOfMyLife!

~

MS

Well it's been a year, it doesn't surprise me!

This one goes out to commemorate the day I resumed writing after an inexplicable sabbatical of a period so long that I am not at all proud to admit. It was a strange concoction of a sudden rush of emotions and months of pent up feelings that led to the restoration of something that best defines me. I had created this blog, if I may say so, in the year 2009 because I had felt the need to express myself. The only way I thought I could do it best was by writing. Quite unfortunately I failed to honour my appointments with this blog and did not write a meaningful word for three full years until this day exactly an year ago. 

I drew my inspiration from my pets - Leo and Snow. My comeback posts were dedicated to my babies. It did not take me long to realise what I had given up for so long.  It is true that most of times we do not realise the true worth of something until it is not with us anymore. Unknowingly, I had been stifling my thoughts and impeding the reach of my mind. For the first time I told my parents and sister about this hobby of mine. They were pleasantly surprised, I was glad to note. The icing on the cake was the appreciation that came from my father. I have no words to express what I felt when he said he was proud of me. As it happens, when the heart is full your eyes overflow. So did mine.

Eventually, I shed my inhibitions and began to share my work. I received encouragement from those who read what I wrote. I thank each and every reader for strengthening my passion, and the will to go on. If not for you I would not be able to claim to have been an active blogger for an year now.  The blog is only a means though, it is the ability of penning down thoughts that is the cause of my jubilation.  I may actually never be able to thank my readers enough, but I hope they get the gist of my sentiments. Technically, now is the time for new year wishes here; I don't follow convention, do what my heart says because that's how I like it!

Cheers to the joy of writing!
~

A Prick in the Toe

They loved their days with the flip-flops. Some days the zephyr ran through the toes, the dust settled on them. On others the heat parched their skin, the sun gave them a tan. Each toe was on its own and yet with the foot. Happy, content, aloof. Then there came a day when they all had to slip into a prim formal shoe instead of their usual flip-flops that they were so accustomed to by now. It took them a while to fit in well, but once they did they were all set to walk confidently. 

A little way down the lane they felt it for the first time. It did not seem to be a problem then. Ignoring it, they moved on. But the prick in the toe continued to grow with every passing moment. The foot smarted painfully with every step it took. The day was a long and tiring one. By the end of it, it was a task for them to hold on together without wincing. The first sign of relief came close and they finally crawled out of the shoe. A gush of fresh air lent them some respite, but it was not long lived. For then the realisation dawned upon. The prick was caused by a nail, wildly overgrown. It had dealt a deep puncture on it's neighbouring toe. The days with the tidy shoes were far from gone. They'd come again, and they'd be aplenty. There would be no avoiding those long tiring days. As the injured toe - despondent with pain - trembled helplessly, it was decided that the time had come to trim the nail. Trimmed though it was, the damage was done. The hapless dactyl lived with a cicatrice for as long as it did.

We all have that wild overgrowth in our lives. It is happy-go-lucky in the flip flops but pricks us bad in the formal shoe. It is when we look at the larger picture that we know that the ability of the foot cannot be sacrificed for the whims of a toe. The sooner it is trimmed, the lesser is the agony endured; because much as we'd like, we cannot suit up in flip flops for life.

~

My Pebble & Me

You could be justified in calling it the yearning of a lifetime. Pretty much so. But I'm not sure if you'd understand it fully. It came into my life at a stage when I did not want, but needed it to. I remember our first meeting. We exchanged just a couple of sentences and then it was off, only to return with joy into my life in a little while. It took me some time to realise that I had found a pebble in the midst of sand. But I needed no expert to tell me how precious it was. It was my friend, accomplice, confidante. My little sister away from home. A refuge, and an essential part of my life. I woke up to its sound in the morning, and mine was the last good night it heard before going to bed. We giggled, we gossiped. We cried, we cared. We shared, we loved. Life became so wonderful that it began to seem too good to be true. Maybe it was. For the pebble got washed away with the sands one day. They say times change, people too. Sadly, I saw it happen. I do wonder sometimes, did the pebble roll away willingly? Perhaps it did. Maybe I could have done something about it. Truth was I couldn't have. It was neither captive, nor did I own it. You don't do all this to someone you love. I wish something could turn back the dials of the clock and give me a little more time with it. I often see it nestling with the sands these days, getting washed at the shore, soaking the sun - lying there as if that is where it was meant to be. I feel abandoned, to say the least. It was betrayal at its worst. I miss my pebble nevertheless, and hate the sands. Loathe the waves that took it away from me. But no dials will turn back and bring back that what was. Someday if the pebble looks back, it'll see me right where it left me. In that corridor where we laughed till we wept. Still wiping a tear.
~

Diana

"... After a 30-minute burial service, the mourners left Diana, alone on the isolated island as she had been alone in life."
~
Sarah Bradford, Diana

Every once in a while there comes along a book that manages to stir your soul. I read one recently that touched my heart. Besides the fact that I towed the book around for months before I could finally finish it, there were a lot more reasons why Diana by Sarah Bradford endeared itself to me.

Sarah Bradford, 8th Viscountess Bangor has done a remarkable job chronicling the short-lived yet awe-inspiring life of Lady Diana. The contents of the biography are well researched and put forth in as disinterested a manner as can be humanly possible by a biographer. The greatest of stories can be ruined if the writer does not execute effectively. In the case of Diana, the life of Di was in safe hands. The author opens with a detailed mapping of Lady Diana's family tree - both maternal and paternal. From a pure genealogical point of view this could well be the most interesting part of the biography. Lady Diana was born with a rare gene pool; her ancestors consisting of children of two kings, a duke and a saint. Her father was the 7th Earl Spencer. Her maternal ties made her related to George Washington, in addition to a few more American relations. Her father's second marriage to Raine Legg made Barbara Cartland (Diana's favourite author) her step-grandmother. At the time of her birth she was the 11th cousin to the heir apparent - Prince Charles.

At the tender age of 19, Lady Diana Spencer got married to the Prince of Wales, and gave birth to the next-in-line to the throne within an year of her marriage. These are mere statistics, however. What Sarah Bradford brings to you with her felicity of words is the true picture behind the canvas of an apparent fairy-tale. Diana's entire life can be summarised as a quest for love, from her family, husband, friends and in-laws. A quest in which she was more often than not unsuccessful.

Having been brought up in a broken home, Diana grew up with a lot of insecurities. She had hoped that marriage would bring some stability in her life but that was not to be. She faced innumerable difficulties in her married life, until she got divorced and even after.

Camilla Parker-Bowles had convinced Prince Charles to marry Diana because it looked like they could manipulate her and have their way around without any protestations. Little did they know that Princess Di would not let them have it all so easily. Diana's individual popularity and appeal became a threat to the royal family and pro-Diana, anti-Diana camps emerged in the households. Charles was, personally, extremely envious of her popularity over his own and drifted away from her instead of helping her cope with her depression and self destructive behaviour. The Queen's stance regarding all the injustice meted out to Diana and to her problems was rather aloof.

Post natal depression, infidelity, bad mouthing, conspiracies, betrayal, condescension, eating disorders, suicidal tendencies - she faced them all. Diana may have been a lost teenager without a mentor when she entered the royal family, and obviously did not know how to cope with the magnitude of her role as the future Queen. However, she had a kind heart and she worked with true zeal and earnest for causes that she believed in - leprosy, AIDS, impoverished destitutes, elimination of land mines, to name a few. What is commendable is the fact that Diana was not just a pretty face in the royal family who could claim to have dispensed with her duties after having given birth to the future king of England. She reached out and became the people's Princess. Her warmth and caring nature struck people as out of the world. Her charm never failed. Despite her personal hardships, she never neglected the causes she was associated with. She was aware of her status and celebrity, and used them to garner attention and funds for these social causes world over. She won hearts wherever she went. She took lessons from her personal suffering and reached out to aide those who were suffering from depression and bulimia.

Diana was an exceptional mother in the royal household, the only one of her kind. She was aware of the stark difference in status of both her sons that would emerge once William became the King and preemptively laid a sound and mature foundation in their upbringing. She wanted her children to grow in a 'real' world and not in a royal silo. She treated her sons in as 'normal' a way as she could. These were the things missing from the upbringing philosophy of her husband. She may have had an untimely demise but she left behind her legacy with her children. 

Diana meandered in search for true love, seeking a normal simple married life after being abandoned by her husband. Ms Bradford lays out all her (futile) attempts at seeking love, including the one that she died with, without mincing words. Diana however, even after the divorce, always harboured love for Charles. Quite sadly, she never found long lasting love with any man, her husband or otherwise. She was always battling emotional loneliness, which grew when her sons went to boarding school.

Diana was a self conscious woman, who played with the media, and sometimes into their stratagems, to seek sympathy and build a positive self image. She was cursed with the need for constant approval. She feared rejection, and was highly insecure. As a result she found it hard to trust people, and instances of her extreme reactions on the basis of suspicions were aplenty. She never forgave disloyalty. The reasons for her behaviour were deep rooted in the treatment she received from the people she loved and trusted in the initial phase of her life. She remained isolated at the time of death and even during the funeral. Had it not been for the public uproar, she would not have been given a state funeral. The royal family was taken aback at the profound grief expressed by people all over the world at the demise of their beloved Princess Di and the growing dissent against the royal family for their unfeeling attitude toward her death.

The biography of Lady Diana Spencer is worth a read because it shows us the tenacity and endurance of who was doubtlessly one of the most beautiful women in the 20th century. It takes a brave-heart to turn against the oldest monarchy in the world and stand for what you believe in, to stand for what you are and yet not lose the kindness and warmth in your heart. Sarah Bradford uses her language elegantly and with sophistication. The narration of the life and times of Princess Diana is done in a manner so graceful, forthright, poignant and succinct that it is nearly impossible for you not to be moved. A life that lasted only 39 years and left people with so much to remember and talk about.

~

On a Certain Lady at Court

It is assumed that Alexander Pope wrote the following poem for a certain Catherine Howard, one of Queen Caroline's waiting-women and later the Countess of Suffolk. This is construed as his expression of the lady's numerous qualities and the way she shunned his praises and consequent advances toward her. My own understanding was rather different, and I probably like it better that way. The verses describe the image of a perfect woman, and an embodiment of an ideal human being. Not dissecting it too much. Sharing it because it struck a chord somewhere.

ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT

I know a thing that's most uncommon;

(Envy, be silent and attend!)

I know a reasonable woman,

Handsome and witty, yet a friend.

Not warp'd by passion, aw'd by rumour;

Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly;

An equal mixture of good-humour

And sensible soft melancholy.

'Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?'

Yes, she has one, I must aver:

When all the world conspires to praise her,

The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

~

Alexander Pope

Random It Is

In their constant quest to grab attention, marketers have been known to resort to various tactics. One of them is devising catchy brand names. One day, as I glanced through the aisles of a supermarket (will not name) a series of apparently innovative and seemingly interesting brand names caught my attention. It was the detergent section. After the Henkos, Ariels, Prils and other biggies came a few not so well known ones - these were manufactured by the company that owns the supermarket in question. The eye-catching names were: Mopz - the phenoyl, Scrubz - the utensil detergent gel, Floorz - some floor cleaning agent. Excruciatingly creative.

Bemused at this, I thought about the unrestrained use of the letter 'Z' these days. "Hellozzzz" and the likes. Annoying to the core, but they seem to have caught up with the times, and left me feeling quite uneasy. Nevertheless, my curiosity led me to look up the words that end with the letter Z and are really a part of the English language; eventually I did find a whole bunch of them. In the process I also realised that some brand names really had a meaning. Quite a welcome surprise, should I say! Thank you Mopz and Scrubz and Floorz for enlightening me. So far I could only think of 'zig zag', 'zip-zam-zoom', 'bar-mitzvah' and a little more (being modest here of course) when it came to the utility of the last letter of the English alphabet.

The curious minds reading this can access the list of these holy wordzz here!

~

Somewhere In a Parallel Universe

"Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high."
~
William Goldman, The Princess Bride

Can you spot the lonely soul that moves in the throngs? It is out there for everyone to see, yet for no one to notice. It lives with everybody around, yet does not. If you peer into its eyes you'd know. But it never lets you. It was an involuntary infliction; it is now a vicious circle. The soul was left desolate by someone it loved. Now it wards off everyone who could love it, and more so everyone who it could love back. For once bitten is twice shy and so the lonely soul  keeps away even a little shard that could reach its vulnerability. Its only weapon is the façade it maintains to shield its private world. That façade of unwavering fortitude, the imperturbable sang froid, that stoic visage. It's been so long that it is now adept at concealing that tumultuous whirlpool within. From insomnia to hypersomnia, binge eating to bulimia nervosa, nothing provides it the least quantum of solace. Homeless in its own heart, it continues to seek a haven in a world that, it seems, will never be its own again.

~