Mr. Amithab Bachchan, the man himself and my Blog idol and Blogbaba - as I fondly call him replied to my comments to his 506th post, two of them actually, that I posted on the same date - comments to his 506th post on september 9th 09.
laxmi addanki says:
September 9, 2009 at 10:02 pm
Blogbaba -
Been waiting for this since your last post
Much love
L addanki.
ab says:
September 10, 2009 at 5:22 pm
waiting for what .. another post well here it is …
laxmi addanki says:
September 9, 2009 at 10:08 pm
Don’t fret about the Urban Legend history of stanford Blogbaba - Sometimes the underlying message is more important than whether it is a fact or a fiction. Our elders tell us lots of stories - we get the message but dont really bother to check whether thier anecdotes are facts or fiction. Sometimes we derive more pleasure in finding other’s mistakes than our own. LOL. When you call us your family, the need to explain your genuine mistakes ceases.
Your messages are always precious. I cant get enough of them.
Luv
L addanki.
ab says:
September 10, 2009 at 5:30 pm
thank you yes .. it is good to read the good even if there is error
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Priceless.
These daily cares
Newspapers and junk mail
Cluttering the crevices of the house
Piles of dirty dishes
Deshelved toys and craft supplies
Needing to be picked hour after hour
Meals to be cooked
Beds to be made
Heaps of clothes filling the hampers
Calls to be answered
Mails to be replied to
Barthday parties, weddings, baby showers
Countdown for weekends
Planned trips
Strolls in the parks
Playing the first teacher to kids
Cleaning the countertops
while hating the grout
Scrubbing the toilet bowls
Vaccuming the carpets
Not even mentioning
The dusting, the mopping, the shopping and chopping.
Who says a home maker doesn't work?
She just doesn't get paid for it!!
Newspapers and junk mail
Cluttering the crevices of the house
Piles of dirty dishes
Deshelved toys and craft supplies
Needing to be picked hour after hour
Meals to be cooked
Beds to be made
Heaps of clothes filling the hampers
Calls to be answered
Mails to be replied to
Barthday parties, weddings, baby showers
Countdown for weekends
Planned trips
Strolls in the parks
Playing the first teacher to kids
Cleaning the countertops
while hating the grout
Scrubbing the toilet bowls
Vaccuming the carpets
Not even mentioning
The dusting, the mopping, the shopping and chopping.
Who says a home maker doesn't work?
She just doesn't get paid for it!!
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Seventeen Dresses
Red and yellow
On a creme background
Definitely a frock
Perhaps a butterfly print
Young enough not to remember in detail
Just old enough to remember.
I thought I had this in
Till a moment ago,
Now my grey cells need some boost.
May be I shall come back
Once the memory does.
A chocolate brown skirt
with tiny flowers
Really tiny.
A creme shirt
With a collar??
Navy blue satin
Piped with off white
Cut into an umbrella pattern.
White shirt with pin stipes
Birthdays were a perpetual countdown
and loads of fun!
This one's a traditional number
Aquamarine garden silk
With self brocade
in endless frills
the perfect long skirt
with a monochromatic blouse.
Dress again - in a pale olive print
with a black contrast yoke
and pin tuck detail.
A very unusual lavender
with blue orchid kind of flowers
A mock over coat
and a crisscross thread across the chest.
This one blanks out too..
Just blanks out.
Shall come back once it unblanks:-)
The most glamorous one of all
and may be the costliest
a jeans skirt with suspenders
and a cherry red blouse
I remember being called
Princess Diana!
Fuchsia skirt
With a black and Fuchsia top.
Mandarin collar
cute as a button.
Navy blue again,
this time a kurta and salwar
15th it was
proud and tall.
Sweet sixteen
in an over flowing hot pink number
traditional, modern
utterly 90s.
Geeky, gaudy
Hopefully pretty!
purple Georgette
The color of cadbury's dairy milk
Painstakingly smocked
one of a kind
Made me feel as delicious
as the chocolate itself.
Eighteen - coming of age
well almost
In a yellow silk saree
with a hot pink detail
And gold border.
light as a feather
Proud as a lion
young, alive
and full of promise.
Nineteen in an understated
Khadi cotton salwar kameez
with kutch work detail
black on whitish grey
The taste, the personality
and the person evolving.
Twenty came with a
tobacco hued outfit.
tone on tone
as sophisticate as it could get
expensive and utterly delightful
and that should sum up the seventeen dresses.
On a creme background
Definitely a frock
Perhaps a butterfly print
Young enough not to remember in detail
Just old enough to remember.
I thought I had this in
Till a moment ago,
Now my grey cells need some boost.
May be I shall come back
Once the memory does.
A chocolate brown skirt
with tiny flowers
Really tiny.
A creme shirt
With a collar??
Navy blue satin
Piped with off white
Cut into an umbrella pattern.
White shirt with pin stipes
Birthdays were a perpetual countdown
and loads of fun!
This one's a traditional number
Aquamarine garden silk
With self brocade
in endless frills
the perfect long skirt
with a monochromatic blouse.
Dress again - in a pale olive print
with a black contrast yoke
and pin tuck detail.
A very unusual lavender
with blue orchid kind of flowers
A mock over coat
and a crisscross thread across the chest.
This one blanks out too..
Just blanks out.
Shall come back once it unblanks:-)
The most glamorous one of all
and may be the costliest
a jeans skirt with suspenders
and a cherry red blouse
I remember being called
Princess Diana!
Fuchsia skirt
With a black and Fuchsia top.
Mandarin collar
cute as a button.
Navy blue again,
this time a kurta and salwar
15th it was
proud and tall.
Sweet sixteen
in an over flowing hot pink number
traditional, modern
utterly 90s.
Geeky, gaudy
Hopefully pretty!
purple Georgette
The color of cadbury's dairy milk
Painstakingly smocked
one of a kind
Made me feel as delicious
as the chocolate itself.
Eighteen - coming of age
well almost
In a yellow silk saree
with a hot pink detail
And gold border.
light as a feather
Proud as a lion
young, alive
and full of promise.
Nineteen in an understated
Khadi cotton salwar kameez
with kutch work detail
black on whitish grey
The taste, the personality
and the person evolving.
Twenty came with a
tobacco hued outfit.
tone on tone
as sophisticate as it could get
expensive and utterly delightful
and that should sum up the seventeen dresses.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Reformer
When you and I were busy
Counting our monies
Fighting our ego battles
And scheming our ploys
He felt the plight
And the pain
Of a virgin widow -
A little girl yet to celebrate her first decade
That had her head shaved
And covered with a white shroud like muslin veil
Mourning the death of an unknown husband
That could have been her granddad.
He raised his voice
And steered his conviction
To make a difference.
When you and I
Were educating ourselves
To equip our lives with degrees
To feed our little tummies
He thought about us as humans
Surpassing color and creed
And fought our wars
For a world
Where We'd be judged by the content of our character
And not by the color of our skin.
When you and I were fooling around
living our childhoods and adolescence
In flying kites and dreaming about crushes
He stood up for our freedom
With non-violence as a weapon
And bared his chest
To bullets of hatred
And shed his blood
For a free nation.
They lived their lives
Like they were not theirs
But ours.
They fought, they thought beyond themselves.
They come and go in all places and nations
Like guardian angels
Like Knights in shining armours
To make fairy tales out of our selfish lives.
They walk on our earth like beacons of hope
They reform.
You and I rejoice.
Counting our monies
Fighting our ego battles
And scheming our ploys
He felt the plight
And the pain
Of a virgin widow -
A little girl yet to celebrate her first decade
That had her head shaved
And covered with a white shroud like muslin veil
Mourning the death of an unknown husband
That could have been her granddad.
He raised his voice
And steered his conviction
To make a difference.
When you and I
Were educating ourselves
To equip our lives with degrees
To feed our little tummies
He thought about us as humans
Surpassing color and creed
And fought our wars
For a world
Where We'd be judged by the content of our character
And not by the color of our skin.
When you and I were fooling around
living our childhoods and adolescence
In flying kites and dreaming about crushes
He stood up for our freedom
With non-violence as a weapon
And bared his chest
To bullets of hatred
And shed his blood
For a free nation.
They lived their lives
Like they were not theirs
But ours.
They fought, they thought beyond themselves.
They come and go in all places and nations
Like guardian angels
Like Knights in shining armours
To make fairy tales out of our selfish lives.
They walk on our earth like beacons of hope
They reform.
You and I rejoice.
Mystical
I walk on endless expanse of silver sands
That unfold before me like dreams
Creeping into a relaxed being's slumber
Creating and recreating infinite images
Happy, sad, mystical and magical.
The weightless froth embraces my feet
And licks my toes, stinging me
With its electric cold fangs
Much like the pain of a saddened vision
That penetrates into an innocent snooze
In the form of those endless images.
The waves overlap one another
Confusing me with their endlessness
I falter to gather
Which one begins and which one ends.
Thoughts come and go
Like those vicious waves
Dazed, I look around
not knowing where to start - or to stop.
Thoughts - like waves, like their froth
And the sand that surrounds them.
Everlasting,
In an ironical existence
That shall perish.
That unfold before me like dreams
Creeping into a relaxed being's slumber
Creating and recreating infinite images
Happy, sad, mystical and magical.
The weightless froth embraces my feet
And licks my toes, stinging me
With its electric cold fangs
Much like the pain of a saddened vision
That penetrates into an innocent snooze
In the form of those endless images.
The waves overlap one another
Confusing me with their endlessness
I falter to gather
Which one begins and which one ends.
Thoughts come and go
Like those vicious waves
Dazed, I look around
not knowing where to start - or to stop.
Thoughts - like waves, like their froth
And the sand that surrounds them.
Everlasting,
In an ironical existence
That shall perish.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Closing doors.
I visited the website Illuminations.com this afternoon to see what is left of my favourite business after our local store at the plaza was closed. The website said that it was thankful of my interest in their brand but with the recent economic uncertainties, they had to make the difficult decision of closing their doors forever. Strange as it might sound, I felt a weird sadness creep in though it had been a while since I grew out of the Illuminations shopping syndrome.
As a young bride and home owner, Illuminations seemed to be an alter ego to my off beat taste. I found the whole philosophy, product range and great customer service very attractive. I used to follow their sale patterns and buy loads of sconces, candles and other unique knick knacks. Lot of my friends used to ask me about my shopping finds and I'd slowly and surely acquired the status of an interior decorator in my own right. The candlescapes and the accessories the store carried were like none other and they inspired me endlessly to build my own creativity around what the store had to offer. Later on when I shifted focus form being a homeowner to a mom, I weaned off my Illuminations habit, but every time I was in the mall, I used to go to the store and check out their cool interiors and always desire to make my home smell like their shop. In a way, Illuminations helped me find my own voice, expression and aesthetics and spread its fame far and wide when I made it a point to gift their startlingly life like floating candles (often shaped like flowers and leaves) to my mom and aunts. Even to this day, I pride my collection of candles shaped like slices of watermelons and fall leaves. Now that I might not be able to replace them, I am sure I'll cherish them a little more.
As I ponder further I realise that closing doors is more like losing something more than a lucrative business. Just like Illuminations came to represent a lot more than a brick and mortar store, many businesses that find form out of some one's vision and passion, are more like human beings than money churning ideas. When I was a teenager, my family had to take a difficult decision to shut down the local newspaper our family owned. I knew from the day it took form, that it was my dad's way of realising his love for writing, journalism and making a difference in a little way than to make money out of advertisements and subscriptions. True to his passion, he ran the paper more like a charity than a business and at some point, the costs raised and the profits sank and we had to close doors on a very precious and passionate dream. From then on, I kind of mourned every business failure as they came to represent more than loss of dough, they were loss of dreams.
Just recently, a cozy little restaurant that served authentic north Indian food closed its doors owing to some lease issues. We went there frequently and four months after the doors are closed, I still miss Jeet's fluffly naans and yummy vegetable sides as much as I miss my mom's food.
Be it large corporations or little cottage industries, closing doors have a lot more to them than making a difficult decision in tiring economic times. They leave back the same void and pain a person would leave back when they exit the stage of this world. So Illuminations that advocated the idea of 'living by candle light' would always represent to me a light source that bought me joys of simple beauty and accomplishments. And just as with every closed door, I hope another window of hope is opened to illuminate the darkness to its Founders and employees and all forcefully and tearfully closed doors across the globe.
As a young bride and home owner, Illuminations seemed to be an alter ego to my off beat taste. I found the whole philosophy, product range and great customer service very attractive. I used to follow their sale patterns and buy loads of sconces, candles and other unique knick knacks. Lot of my friends used to ask me about my shopping finds and I'd slowly and surely acquired the status of an interior decorator in my own right. The candlescapes and the accessories the store carried were like none other and they inspired me endlessly to build my own creativity around what the store had to offer. Later on when I shifted focus form being a homeowner to a mom, I weaned off my Illuminations habit, but every time I was in the mall, I used to go to the store and check out their cool interiors and always desire to make my home smell like their shop. In a way, Illuminations helped me find my own voice, expression and aesthetics and spread its fame far and wide when I made it a point to gift their startlingly life like floating candles (often shaped like flowers and leaves) to my mom and aunts. Even to this day, I pride my collection of candles shaped like slices of watermelons and fall leaves. Now that I might not be able to replace them, I am sure I'll cherish them a little more.
As I ponder further I realise that closing doors is more like losing something more than a lucrative business. Just like Illuminations came to represent a lot more than a brick and mortar store, many businesses that find form out of some one's vision and passion, are more like human beings than money churning ideas. When I was a teenager, my family had to take a difficult decision to shut down the local newspaper our family owned. I knew from the day it took form, that it was my dad's way of realising his love for writing, journalism and making a difference in a little way than to make money out of advertisements and subscriptions. True to his passion, he ran the paper more like a charity than a business and at some point, the costs raised and the profits sank and we had to close doors on a very precious and passionate dream. From then on, I kind of mourned every business failure as they came to represent more than loss of dough, they were loss of dreams.
Just recently, a cozy little restaurant that served authentic north Indian food closed its doors owing to some lease issues. We went there frequently and four months after the doors are closed, I still miss Jeet's fluffly naans and yummy vegetable sides as much as I miss my mom's food.
Be it large corporations or little cottage industries, closing doors have a lot more to them than making a difficult decision in tiring economic times. They leave back the same void and pain a person would leave back when they exit the stage of this world. So Illuminations that advocated the idea of 'living by candle light' would always represent to me a light source that bought me joys of simple beauty and accomplishments. And just as with every closed door, I hope another window of hope is opened to illuminate the darkness to its Founders and employees and all forcefully and tearfully closed doors across the globe.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
High Spirits
Being a teetotaler, I always wonder what the hoopla surrounding getting drunk is. As a kid I watched the Telugu classic Devdas and could not for the life of me figure out why Devdas resorts to drinking in a self destructive attempt to forget Paro nor as a grown up could I understand why tons of liquors of all sorts get sold out in all kinds of brick & mortar and virtual stores surrounding me. Just the other day I was watching a realty 'event management' competition being aired on HGtv and noted with awe how Kim Kardashian's party that was being managed by an aspiring group of wannabe event managers was mainly focused on alcohol. The host actually went to the extent of saying that the hallmark of a well organised party is abundant spirits - the spirits that come in bottles and intoxicate us by the way.
I always proclaim about my addictive tendencies. The moment I read a book, I usually read a dozen in a month and the moment I gobble up an M&M it is usually a fist full following suit - so though I belong in the ultra-modern and progressive immigrant category, I never ventured into enhancing my spirits with the aid of spirits. Call it principle or being past prime (isn't entering 30s being past the official youth?)
but I remain a alcohol virgin if you discount the couple of times I swallowed the few drops of wine like it were some kind of acid, in an attempt to belong in the group of friends that I'd accompanied to the winery tours.
Growing up, liquor was pretty vile to me. We used to come back home from school by a three wheeled carriage called rickshaw that was pulled by a guy named Doctor. Yeah, Doctor. So Doctor was this typical labourer, riding a bunch of school kids back and forth from the school. Consuming arrack was characteristic to labourers. I always used to look for tell tale signs of intoxication when he used to come to pick us up though he was a really nice and always a sober person. Watching educative dramas on DD 8 was probably an influence but I used to freeze the moment our rickshaw passed through the arrack shop on the way back to home form school. Usually, I would find a guy eagerly consuming the evil potion and with my overactive imagination, spin a story about how he'd go home and beat his wife and kids up in the state of intoxication. Liquor -the bad, horrible liquor was the epitome of evil for a 10 year old back then - a couple of decades later, I see that the way I look at alcohol donned a humorous twist to itself, but the impact and the evil it comes with remains the same. When I first came to the United States, my hubby took me to a cruise party that was commemorative of a successful project at work. I met a young woman who'd talked to me for a good half hour - she looked normal to me - normally loud and enthusiastic. But it took me time to realise that this is a woman under the influence of alcohol and in realty, my husband filled me in, this woman is a reserved and quiet person. Just the other day while on a camping trip to Mendocino, when our group was awake past normal hours and creating slight noise, the camp patrol guys came up and reminded us that we need to keep our voices low as a courtesy to other campers. We apologised and obliged. When the guys told the same to a louder group that was camping opposite to us, a lady took offence and started hauling abuses at the poor guys. It was F@%(, after F*#( after - you get the idea, and unfortunately enough, the lady was drunk. Cops, apologies, cries and drama later, the group was allowed to stay in the camp site. Had she not been drunk, she'd have considered the request with dignity and abide by the rules of the land but it is sad how taking ourselves into a so called high can actually plummet us into a real bad low.
Spirits usually come in a package deal I observed. You buy one and you get being 'out of control', 'destructive', 'evil', 'out of better judgement' and "ill health" as gifts with purchase. I'd personally known of a common friend who lost his life to a drunken driver and heard stories about people who abused family and dwindled their earnings and savings in pursuit of high spirits. I don't give a spit in the toilet if it is social drinking or obsessive compulsive drinking - Alcohol in all forms and potency is evil spelt in another way. Don't we see the occasional celebrity mug shots in the DUI cases? How could you ever come to respect someone who can drink and drive and potentially jeopardize lives around them??
I don't know what it is about alcohol or any other substance abuse, but I do know that it is as bad as wars and weapons.
I always proclaim about my addictive tendencies. The moment I read a book, I usually read a dozen in a month and the moment I gobble up an M&M it is usually a fist full following suit - so though I belong in the ultra-modern and progressive immigrant category, I never ventured into enhancing my spirits with the aid of spirits. Call it principle or being past prime (isn't entering 30s being past the official youth?)
but I remain a alcohol virgin if you discount the couple of times I swallowed the few drops of wine like it were some kind of acid, in an attempt to belong in the group of friends that I'd accompanied to the winery tours.
Growing up, liquor was pretty vile to me. We used to come back home from school by a three wheeled carriage called rickshaw that was pulled by a guy named Doctor. Yeah, Doctor. So Doctor was this typical labourer, riding a bunch of school kids back and forth from the school. Consuming arrack was characteristic to labourers. I always used to look for tell tale signs of intoxication when he used to come to pick us up though he was a really nice and always a sober person. Watching educative dramas on DD 8 was probably an influence but I used to freeze the moment our rickshaw passed through the arrack shop on the way back to home form school. Usually, I would find a guy eagerly consuming the evil potion and with my overactive imagination, spin a story about how he'd go home and beat his wife and kids up in the state of intoxication. Liquor -the bad, horrible liquor was the epitome of evil for a 10 year old back then - a couple of decades later, I see that the way I look at alcohol donned a humorous twist to itself, but the impact and the evil it comes with remains the same. When I first came to the United States, my hubby took me to a cruise party that was commemorative of a successful project at work. I met a young woman who'd talked to me for a good half hour - she looked normal to me - normally loud and enthusiastic. But it took me time to realise that this is a woman under the influence of alcohol and in realty, my husband filled me in, this woman is a reserved and quiet person. Just the other day while on a camping trip to Mendocino, when our group was awake past normal hours and creating slight noise, the camp patrol guys came up and reminded us that we need to keep our voices low as a courtesy to other campers. We apologised and obliged. When the guys told the same to a louder group that was camping opposite to us, a lady took offence and started hauling abuses at the poor guys. It was F@%(, after F*#( after - you get the idea, and unfortunately enough, the lady was drunk. Cops, apologies, cries and drama later, the group was allowed to stay in the camp site. Had she not been drunk, she'd have considered the request with dignity and abide by the rules of the land but it is sad how taking ourselves into a so called high can actually plummet us into a real bad low.
Spirits usually come in a package deal I observed. You buy one and you get being 'out of control', 'destructive', 'evil', 'out of better judgement' and "ill health" as gifts with purchase. I'd personally known of a common friend who lost his life to a drunken driver and heard stories about people who abused family and dwindled their earnings and savings in pursuit of high spirits. I don't give a spit in the toilet if it is social drinking or obsessive compulsive drinking - Alcohol in all forms and potency is evil spelt in another way. Don't we see the occasional celebrity mug shots in the DUI cases? How could you ever come to respect someone who can drink and drive and potentially jeopardize lives around them??
I don't know what it is about alcohol or any other substance abuse, but I do know that it is as bad as wars and weapons.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Fruits
Saturday morning was a classic weekend one. All of us - my husband, my little girl, my little brother and I - assembled in the family room adjacent to the kitchen and started talking about things in general. Our focus shifted to the fruit trees in the backyard since the door leading to the backyard was kept open to welcome the crisp morning breeze and the sounds of nature inside. I went and picked up a pear and walked in promptly to slice it and have my breakfast while we caught up on why Aarti wanted to go to the park last evening.
"She thinks she can find babies there" I said. to which my brother replied "what??"" in a perplexed tone. I proceeded to explain why. The other day when Aarti and I were in the park, she spotted some toys in the sand. "Whose are these?" she asked. "could be some kid's!" I answered. "Why did they leave them here?" the interrogation continued. "May be they forgot".
"Why??".
"May be they don't like them or they got bored or they just forgot" I gasped for air answering. She didn't ask any further questions. Relieved, I walked back home with her. It took some time my 'florescent light' brain to understand why she wanted to look for abandoned or forgotten babies in the park. The kiddo thinks that if a ride to the hospital cannot get us babies - as I tried to explain to her - a walk to the park might - since she is utterly optimistic about some mother getting forgetful, bored or having a sudden and strong dislike to her baby that she might decide to leave it wailing in the park. I was kind of charmed by her thought process but couldn't explain yet again that babies are not toys and they don't get abandoned.
The baby conversation with my brother took new paths. "It doesn't happen here - finding babies in parks" I continued. "Oh wait - every time I am visiting India I find at least a couple of stories about babies abandoned in trash, public transport or even in molehills like it happened in our small town the last time I was visiting. Apparently some moron of a mom abandoned her brand new little boy in the bushes on a mole hill where he gave up on his battle to survive. I remember how I lost my appetite the whole day and wondered how countless couples across the globe would kill for that stork to visit their household. "Isn't it ironic?" I though aloud with a tinge of philosophy creeping into my tone when my hubby entered in holding an apple that had fallen off from the tree. "Some people back home cannot afford fruits" He announced. Look at the pile that goes into the compost bin here - he pointed out. It was an easy smiley. Perfect fruit, Bron by robust and fertile trees, intended to give us the nourishment and pleasure of their form and taste - much like babies that come into our lives and nourish our souls and make our houses delightfully messy and our routines hopelessly hopeful.Both the varieties, the ones borne on trees and the ones that take form in tummies are blessings - day to day things that we take for granted as they occur around us in abundance. But the day they dwindle, we realise how one should be lucky to have them around and to enjoy them.
Saturday was a perfect start - for a ponder, for and a realisation of how blessed I am for the fruit I enjoy. Here's hoping that we all feel blessed and lucky for the little ones we have in our lives and here's also hoping that we realise new life of all sorts in as divine as God's presence. Here's hoping further that there would be no childhoods wasted in toil and abuse, no parenthoods wasted in 'taking for granted' and no morsels wasted without being enjoyed.
God bless everyone with Fruits of love.
"She thinks she can find babies there" I said. to which my brother replied "what??"" in a perplexed tone. I proceeded to explain why. The other day when Aarti and I were in the park, she spotted some toys in the sand. "Whose are these?" she asked. "could be some kid's!" I answered. "Why did they leave them here?" the interrogation continued. "May be they forgot".
"Why??".
"May be they don't like them or they got bored or they just forgot" I gasped for air answering. She didn't ask any further questions. Relieved, I walked back home with her. It took some time my 'florescent light' brain to understand why she wanted to look for abandoned or forgotten babies in the park. The kiddo thinks that if a ride to the hospital cannot get us babies - as I tried to explain to her - a walk to the park might - since she is utterly optimistic about some mother getting forgetful, bored or having a sudden and strong dislike to her baby that she might decide to leave it wailing in the park. I was kind of charmed by her thought process but couldn't explain yet again that babies are not toys and they don't get abandoned.
The baby conversation with my brother took new paths. "It doesn't happen here - finding babies in parks" I continued. "Oh wait - every time I am visiting India I find at least a couple of stories about babies abandoned in trash, public transport or even in molehills like it happened in our small town the last time I was visiting. Apparently some moron of a mom abandoned her brand new little boy in the bushes on a mole hill where he gave up on his battle to survive. I remember how I lost my appetite the whole day and wondered how countless couples across the globe would kill for that stork to visit their household. "Isn't it ironic?" I though aloud with a tinge of philosophy creeping into my tone when my hubby entered in holding an apple that had fallen off from the tree. "Some people back home cannot afford fruits" He announced. Look at the pile that goes into the compost bin here - he pointed out. It was an easy smiley. Perfect fruit, Bron by robust and fertile trees, intended to give us the nourishment and pleasure of their form and taste - much like babies that come into our lives and nourish our souls and make our houses delightfully messy and our routines hopelessly hopeful.Both the varieties, the ones borne on trees and the ones that take form in tummies are blessings - day to day things that we take for granted as they occur around us in abundance. But the day they dwindle, we realise how one should be lucky to have them around and to enjoy them.
Saturday was a perfect start - for a ponder, for and a realisation of how blessed I am for the fruit I enjoy. Here's hoping that we all feel blessed and lucky for the little ones we have in our lives and here's also hoping that we realise new life of all sorts in as divine as God's presence. Here's hoping further that there would be no childhoods wasted in toil and abuse, no parenthoods wasted in 'taking for granted' and no morsels wasted without being enjoyed.
God bless everyone with Fruits of love.
Monday, August 03, 2009
Reading
Call it logic or lack of things to lament about - but writing about reading seems to be the perfect sequel, especially in this 'lack of' situation.
Lahari the Internet friend who seems to have so much in common with me that I'd have married her if she'd proposed, tagged me on a chain mail of sorts in face book. Now the networking site in question is more of a faceless book for me since I cannot for the life of me make out heads or tails of it and everything everyone said and did in my friends group is promptly reported on my profile page.
"Minnie is friends with Mickey" it would read - right under my name
and add "Minnie commented about Mickey's photo"
and "Minne is upset about it being Sunday afternoon already"
Minnie - "Don't call me on my cell - I left it at the office"
Minnie - " I think I have my ....okay, I'll edit that since it is my imagination - and no - I am a teetotaler, on the verge of being a vegan and I am not on dope - read caffeine since it is what I think it is - dope!
Okay, now I feel like I am stalking the 44 friends and have known them inside out in the few months of being on FB (- more than I could ever imaging knowing my significant other into years of marriage,) just by being on that goddamn site and I for one thing, cannot understand why I still stick my butt around there. Now that makes me the mystery, kept in a riddle, wrapped inside an enigma I claim to be - and makes face book my elder sister - assuming she's a she, since women have more complexities than men do, mostly! Ahem!! LOL and they seem to be directly proportional to age.
Anyway, the chain mail asked the bunch of friends it got tagged to to list 15 books that would stick with them for ever - which kind of gingerly gets us to what I have assembled here to preach about - reading!
I had to answer. It was about reading!
I effortlessly remembered 15 books I read and that might not necessarily stick with me - but they did definitely influence me in a small or big way. Lahari came back saying the she knew I read a lot. Now, this is where the mystery comes into play.
Actually I don't read a lot. My cousin Nalini will perhaps walk away with that accolade , since she is easily the one that reads. A lot. I kind of read in between lines a lot. That probably makes me feel and look like I read a lot and that explains all this blah blah. LOL.
Jokes apart, I think reading is a great way of being able to think and feel and evolve - and just like the many genres of writing, there are many forms of the good ol reading as well. Reading maps, minds, lips, messages, hearts, codes, abstract arts, life and of course the more straightforward ones like magazines, letters, books, texts etcetera. And just like every where else, the quality reigns over the quantity. How would I ever have imagined knowing how to tell polarized sunglasses apart form their non-polo counterparts and known more about Bernard Shaw to Ben Affleck if I'd not read about them somewhere? I think even reading correspondence helps. I think I'd learnt a lot of new vocab form this kid who's apparently slogging to clear CAT, though he declines it - since he sounds more like a young man mugging a word list than a young man.
Hmm...let's see! Reading a spiritual book puts things in perspective - gives us so much clarity and reading Irving Wallace is a pleasure of a different kind. There is most certainly a whole new world awaiting people who are willing to open their eyes to new signs arranged in perfect perecision.
Like I said, I don't read as much as I want to or have to and I feel that it is a shortcoming that I'll regret for a long time and I also feel that reading literature in several languages makes us that much more evolved - sorry for the over use of this word! I never understood why they had three different languages in school while growing up. the first, the second and the third. Now as I become a traveller and drop my jaw and let it touch the floor when I see so many different languages that are so much more different than the ones I am used to and comfortable speaking, I realise that afterall three languages is not really a good or a right number. I think, ideally, we should get our hands on as many literatures as possible. Like they say - life is too short to be little. So better catch up with all the reading back logs.
For now the Faceless book reports that Minnie - "is kind of peeved - at the lack of a friend's imagination.
and Laxmi Addanki say "that gives me the cue to my next gyaan column"
Laxmi Addanki - "Imagination it is" and "Facebook down, down!"
Why do I get a feeling that you are not interested in reading anymore???
May be it is just a feeling.
Retiring - uninhibited, unedited and un-peeved.
Aarti's mom from the Sunny land of smiles and cynicism (contributed by Moi)
Lahari the Internet friend who seems to have so much in common with me that I'd have married her if she'd proposed, tagged me on a chain mail of sorts in face book. Now the networking site in question is more of a faceless book for me since I cannot for the life of me make out heads or tails of it and everything everyone said and did in my friends group is promptly reported on my profile page.
"Minnie is friends with Mickey" it would read - right under my name
and add "Minnie commented about Mickey's photo"
and "Minne is upset about it being Sunday afternoon already"
Minnie - "Don't call me on my cell - I left it at the office"
Minnie - " I think I have my ....okay, I'll edit that since it is my imagination - and no - I am a teetotaler, on the verge of being a vegan and I am not on dope - read caffeine since it is what I think it is - dope!
Okay, now I feel like I am stalking the 44 friends and have known them inside out in the few months of being on FB (- more than I could ever imaging knowing my significant other into years of marriage,) just by being on that goddamn site and I for one thing, cannot understand why I still stick my butt around there. Now that makes me the mystery, kept in a riddle, wrapped inside an enigma I claim to be - and makes face book my elder sister - assuming she's a she, since women have more complexities than men do, mostly! Ahem!! LOL and they seem to be directly proportional to age.
Anyway, the chain mail asked the bunch of friends it got tagged to to list 15 books that would stick with them for ever - which kind of gingerly gets us to what I have assembled here to preach about - reading!
I had to answer. It was about reading!
I effortlessly remembered 15 books I read and that might not necessarily stick with me - but they did definitely influence me in a small or big way. Lahari came back saying the she knew I read a lot. Now, this is where the mystery comes into play.
Actually I don't read a lot. My cousin Nalini will perhaps walk away with that accolade , since she is easily the one that reads. A lot. I kind of read in between lines a lot. That probably makes me feel and look like I read a lot and that explains all this blah blah. LOL.
Jokes apart, I think reading is a great way of being able to think and feel and evolve - and just like the many genres of writing, there are many forms of the good ol reading as well. Reading maps, minds, lips, messages, hearts, codes, abstract arts, life and of course the more straightforward ones like magazines, letters, books, texts etcetera. And just like every where else, the quality reigns over the quantity. How would I ever have imagined knowing how to tell polarized sunglasses apart form their non-polo counterparts and known more about Bernard Shaw to Ben Affleck if I'd not read about them somewhere? I think even reading correspondence helps. I think I'd learnt a lot of new vocab form this kid who's apparently slogging to clear CAT, though he declines it - since he sounds more like a young man mugging a word list than a young man.
Hmm...let's see! Reading a spiritual book puts things in perspective - gives us so much clarity and reading Irving Wallace is a pleasure of a different kind. There is most certainly a whole new world awaiting people who are willing to open their eyes to new signs arranged in perfect perecision.
Like I said, I don't read as much as I want to or have to and I feel that it is a shortcoming that I'll regret for a long time and I also feel that reading literature in several languages makes us that much more evolved - sorry for the over use of this word! I never understood why they had three different languages in school while growing up. the first, the second and the third. Now as I become a traveller and drop my jaw and let it touch the floor when I see so many different languages that are so much more different than the ones I am used to and comfortable speaking, I realise that afterall three languages is not really a good or a right number. I think, ideally, we should get our hands on as many literatures as possible. Like they say - life is too short to be little. So better catch up with all the reading back logs.
For now the Faceless book reports that Minnie - "is kind of peeved - at the lack of a friend's imagination.
and Laxmi Addanki say "that gives me the cue to my next gyaan column"
Laxmi Addanki - "Imagination it is" and "Facebook down, down!"
Why do I get a feeling that you are not interested in reading anymore???
May be it is just a feeling.
Retiring - uninhibited, unedited and un-peeved.
Aarti's mom from the Sunny land of smiles and cynicism (contributed by Moi)
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Writing.
There is something magnetically attractive about writers or writing - or anything that has to do with writing, like copy writing, journalism, songwriting, blogging or any of the other forms. That probably explains why the protagonists of most of the Hollywood chick flicks do something on the lines of writing for their living. Take Matthew McConnohey (spelt phonetically - sorry too lazy to double check) from "How to lose a guy', Richard Gere to from "runaway bride" to the hero and heroine in "Confessions of a shopaholic all are craftsmen of words, genre no bar. It just made me wonder why and how we are so charmed with people who create dreams and whole new worlds out of words. I am sure Shakespeare will stay here long after all of us are gone, courtesy his craft and so will the folks form the new pack like J K Rowling or Javed Akhtar.
In my free time, which is getting endangered these days, I hop from one blog to another on the Internet. Shail, the babe who celebrated her half century recently seems to be more appealing to me than the twenty somethings that lift lyrics of off famous songs, books or movies to describe themselves in their social network profiles. Why is it that we find expressive people to be more attractive? Is that a new sex appeal or was it always that way and no one cared to ponder??? - A few questions cross this small, restless mind!
Or wait, it is probably, perhaps - totally me! It is my take on attractiveness arguably. But anyway, since this is my blog and I am free to write what I want and edit what I don't (in comments..He he!) I shall go ahead anyway!
When I said I like Amithab Bachchan's dad more than him, I earnestly meant it. It was not in a bit to sound like I look down upon big B and his all-consuming stardom. I personally feel that expression in the form of words in say, as divine as expression in the form of creation - as in the beauty of nature and seasons around us. So the parellel here between writers and our heavenly father is intended. Not that I feel I fall into that category (someone said I am too humble for my own good - and that someone is absolutely wrong!) but don't words do that to you?? If you are this far into this blog - I know you are nodding right now!!
So writing - what was the purpose of all those descriptive and imaginative essays we'd written as children? Was it just meant as an academic exercise or was it a way of unleashing us to us in a subtle way? May be, writing in a way is like raising the curtains to our inner selves and souls! May be it is a way of making us aware of who we are and what we want. Expression - no matter the form - is probably what makes us distinct form other living beings on this planet. And writing, not just the type that tops the New york Times best seller list or ends up in the groovy tunes a musician generates, is a slice of divinity. Consider a small stickem note you'd write to your significant other or an email to a good old friend or even a journal you'd maintain to remember your cousin's birthday - they are all tit bits of joy. Writing is a soul bearing activity and it should be practiced and encouraged.
Writers - not just the ones that are rich or famous but the ones like you and me and Aarti - are all beacons of light to a better world filled with better expressions. Keep at it and look for it. Blog, jot down in a journal or may be graffiti??? No, not graffiti! Just kidding!
Long live the alphabet - the universal one!
In my free time, which is getting endangered these days, I hop from one blog to another on the Internet. Shail, the babe who celebrated her half century recently seems to be more appealing to me than the twenty somethings that lift lyrics of off famous songs, books or movies to describe themselves in their social network profiles. Why is it that we find expressive people to be more attractive? Is that a new sex appeal or was it always that way and no one cared to ponder??? - A few questions cross this small, restless mind!
Or wait, it is probably, perhaps - totally me! It is my take on attractiveness arguably. But anyway, since this is my blog and I am free to write what I want and edit what I don't (in comments..He he!) I shall go ahead anyway!
When I said I like Amithab Bachchan's dad more than him, I earnestly meant it. It was not in a bit to sound like I look down upon big B and his all-consuming stardom. I personally feel that expression in the form of words in say, as divine as expression in the form of creation - as in the beauty of nature and seasons around us. So the parellel here between writers and our heavenly father is intended. Not that I feel I fall into that category (someone said I am too humble for my own good - and that someone is absolutely wrong!) but don't words do that to you?? If you are this far into this blog - I know you are nodding right now!!
So writing - what was the purpose of all those descriptive and imaginative essays we'd written as children? Was it just meant as an academic exercise or was it a way of unleashing us to us in a subtle way? May be, writing in a way is like raising the curtains to our inner selves and souls! May be it is a way of making us aware of who we are and what we want. Expression - no matter the form - is probably what makes us distinct form other living beings on this planet. And writing, not just the type that tops the New york Times best seller list or ends up in the groovy tunes a musician generates, is a slice of divinity. Consider a small stickem note you'd write to your significant other or an email to a good old friend or even a journal you'd maintain to remember your cousin's birthday - they are all tit bits of joy. Writing is a soul bearing activity and it should be practiced and encouraged.
Writers - not just the ones that are rich or famous but the ones like you and me and Aarti - are all beacons of light to a better world filled with better expressions. Keep at it and look for it. Blog, jot down in a journal or may be graffiti??? No, not graffiti! Just kidding!
Long live the alphabet - the universal one!
Saturday, July 25, 2009
London Love
People who know me well know my belief about being connected to the English land and language in my previous life. It is this exact belief that led me into believing that there is no way I would hate London - the first stop of our Europe Travel. Years ago, I read a poem in our Gulmohar graded English text named "Upon the Westminster Bridge"
Wordsworth opined that the Earth had nothing else better than the view from the Westminster Bridge to show. So as an eleven year old, I was determined to see the fairest view of all, in a way heart fully agreeing with Mr. Wordsworth and believing in what he said though I didn't see an opportunity to see beyond the outskirts of our little town, let alone the continent. But years later, I actually migrated to another continent, albiet a different one than I aspired to see and called it my home. Anyway, it comes to us naturally - and we erase boundaries, overcome territories and make a mark of our own without ever worrying if where we are is where we actually belong. And thus, we weave a strong bond with our adopted Nationalities. I met one such woman as I set my foot on the land of "Great Britain" - a stocky middle aged woman dressed in a formal suit a bit too long for her short frame. Her thinning hair was pulled back into a limp ponytail and she wore her face as badly as she wore her dress and attitude. From the side, I could not for the life of me figure out who she was - if she was a man or a woman or a passenger or an airport personnel. As I looked around for a pen to fill my customs papers in the UK port of entry, the woman approached me - talking to me in an almost disconnected way. Her accent was thick and sounded more like a regional Indian tongue than Queen's English. "Yesterday only I put pens in all these places" she mumbled. "Greedy people. They come to this country thinking all is free here" I opened my mouth in an attempt to say something like "nothing is free" but gave up since I quickly realised the futility of agreeing or disagreeing with her. " I work only part time", she went on, "last week a person committed suicide since there are no jobs here - I don't know why people come to our country and take away all the jobs" - By now, I was looking or pretending to look into the customs form. She didn't leave me alone. For some strange reason, she thought I was there to snatch away her job. I tried, rather proudly, to flash my US passport to her. She was probably naive enough not to understand that I call another land of opportunity my own and am not in the least interested in encroaching hers. Irony people - Irony. One brown skinned person to another in a land that belongs to neither - and all the natives walked past me without even caring to give me a dirty look or an appraisal if I am a potential "opportunity snatcher"
So, long story short, my fellow Indian had the audacity to indirectly call my tribe (and hers funnily enough) greedy and encroaching. With a broad grin and a mind that mentally jotted down the conversation, I left the place, striding safely away form the tortured old woman.
The Airport looked surprisingly similar and the city, even more. It reminded me of my favourite - amchi Mumbai - not amchi per say, but if London could be amchi to a seemingly new immigrant working in the Airport, Mumbai, a part of my motherland could most certainly be Amchi. So, London and its resemblances to Amchi Mumbai is mind boggling. As our shuttle lumbered through the paths of the royal city, I looked around to spot individual homes just like I'd do in Mumbai - and just like I'd do in Mumbai, I didn't find any of those here as well.
London was pretty ordinary - The roads were cramped and dirty. In the afternoon as we ventured out to find a place to eat, I almost stepped on dog droppings - eeks, I know - but I am not sure if the Amchi London brigade is responsible for the droppings, or the non cleaning of droppings after dogs rather. I was already falling out of love of London. May be the country side will stir my soul - I wondered, not willing to drop the 'previous birth connection' theory with the land of cricket.
I skipped my half day city excursion and cuddled up in the cozy blanket with the Twilight series, courtesy Holiday Inn, and let Wordsworth be a wordsmith, or a confirmed Patriot, or may be, I should give him the benefit of doubt. He is generation "A" and gen X need not necessarily agree with him:-))
Notwithstanding the ordinariness or the eerily familiar layout, London still remains to be the heart of the land of Shakespeare, Sherlock Holmes and J K Rowling, and if nothing else, the way the language sounds form the mouth of a inhabitant is worth the price of admission. Long Live London, Long Live Love and Long Live the London Love.
More random ponders to come:-)
Wordsworth opined that the Earth had nothing else better than the view from the Westminster Bridge to show. So as an eleven year old, I was determined to see the fairest view of all, in a way heart fully agreeing with Mr. Wordsworth and believing in what he said though I didn't see an opportunity to see beyond the outskirts of our little town, let alone the continent. But years later, I actually migrated to another continent, albiet a different one than I aspired to see and called it my home. Anyway, it comes to us naturally - and we erase boundaries, overcome territories and make a mark of our own without ever worrying if where we are is where we actually belong. And thus, we weave a strong bond with our adopted Nationalities. I met one such woman as I set my foot on the land of "Great Britain" - a stocky middle aged woman dressed in a formal suit a bit too long for her short frame. Her thinning hair was pulled back into a limp ponytail and she wore her face as badly as she wore her dress and attitude. From the side, I could not for the life of me figure out who she was - if she was a man or a woman or a passenger or an airport personnel. As I looked around for a pen to fill my customs papers in the UK port of entry, the woman approached me - talking to me in an almost disconnected way. Her accent was thick and sounded more like a regional Indian tongue than Queen's English. "Yesterday only I put pens in all these places" she mumbled. "Greedy people. They come to this country thinking all is free here" I opened my mouth in an attempt to say something like "nothing is free" but gave up since I quickly realised the futility of agreeing or disagreeing with her. " I work only part time", she went on, "last week a person committed suicide since there are no jobs here - I don't know why people come to our country and take away all the jobs" - By now, I was looking or pretending to look into the customs form. She didn't leave me alone. For some strange reason, she thought I was there to snatch away her job. I tried, rather proudly, to flash my US passport to her. She was probably naive enough not to understand that I call another land of opportunity my own and am not in the least interested in encroaching hers. Irony people - Irony. One brown skinned person to another in a land that belongs to neither - and all the natives walked past me without even caring to give me a dirty look or an appraisal if I am a potential "opportunity snatcher"
So, long story short, my fellow Indian had the audacity to indirectly call my tribe (and hers funnily enough) greedy and encroaching. With a broad grin and a mind that mentally jotted down the conversation, I left the place, striding safely away form the tortured old woman.
The Airport looked surprisingly similar and the city, even more. It reminded me of my favourite - amchi Mumbai - not amchi per say, but if London could be amchi to a seemingly new immigrant working in the Airport, Mumbai, a part of my motherland could most certainly be Amchi. So, London and its resemblances to Amchi Mumbai is mind boggling. As our shuttle lumbered through the paths of the royal city, I looked around to spot individual homes just like I'd do in Mumbai - and just like I'd do in Mumbai, I didn't find any of those here as well.
London was pretty ordinary - The roads were cramped and dirty. In the afternoon as we ventured out to find a place to eat, I almost stepped on dog droppings - eeks, I know - but I am not sure if the Amchi London brigade is responsible for the droppings, or the non cleaning of droppings after dogs rather. I was already falling out of love of London. May be the country side will stir my soul - I wondered, not willing to drop the 'previous birth connection' theory with the land of cricket.
I skipped my half day city excursion and cuddled up in the cozy blanket with the Twilight series, courtesy Holiday Inn, and let Wordsworth be a wordsmith, or a confirmed Patriot, or may be, I should give him the benefit of doubt. He is generation "A" and gen X need not necessarily agree with him:-))
Notwithstanding the ordinariness or the eerily familiar layout, London still remains to be the heart of the land of Shakespeare, Sherlock Holmes and J K Rowling, and if nothing else, the way the language sounds form the mouth of a inhabitant is worth the price of admission. Long Live London, Long Live Love and Long Live the London Love.
More random ponders to come:-)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)