tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4788291328639960522024-03-21T08:47:03.511-07:00Khushi!!!Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-68060396730186537262020-04-24T20:28:00.000-07:002020-04-24T20:31:20.537-07:00Mediocrity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He had always been a
mediocre child. Allan Burns, the youngest of the lot. His parents were doctors
and taught medicine in A class university. His three elder brothers were
achievers. Andrew the oldest was an athlete and</span> played competitive hockey. Arthur had taken after his parents and was studying to get into the top
medical school there was. Adam was an A grader and wanted to be a space
scientist. But Allan was a mediocre. He had no ambitions, was an average
student, played poor baseball, and lived a mediocre life. He was happy. </div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As time went by and
his siblings left one after the other to pursue their dreams, Allan stayed.
Someone needed to look after his aging parents he would reason. It made sense
because renting elsewhere was expensive. When the time came Allan took up a job
because that was what everyone did. It was a mediocre job and paid decent. It
was enough to pay his bills and save some. Allan loved his life. He neither
felt the urge to achieve something extra ordinary nor felt the pressure because
his siblings were going places. He called it contentment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Soon his hormones raged,
and Allan felt the need to have a partner to share his life with. A charming
boy like him deserved a nice girl. A girl who could live a mediocre life with
ease. It was odd to find someone though. Girls looked for go-getters and Allan was
not chasing anything. He was happy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
love is a funny thing. It certainly is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Allan met Rhonda at a
bar. She fell for his charm and he fell for her confidence. It was instant.
They were spotted together often, and Allan loved her company. She made him
laugh and he was always happy around her. Rhonda was pretty, intelligent, had a
great career, and she loved with passion. But she was different too. Rhonda was
a go-getter and she wanted Allan to make something of his life too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Allan was motivated to
dream big, to have an ambition. Taking Rhonda’s advice, Allan signed up for a certificate
course in computers. He decided to take a break from his job and focus on his schoolwork.
Software industry was growing, and a certificate would have given him that
perfect start to a thriving career. He worked hard each day. Mornings became
nights and fall turned into winter. Three months had passed. Rhonda was by Allan’s
side supporting him. His family cheered for him. But something was strange. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Allan was not happy.
Project work, coding, grades did not make him happy. He was suffocated. Trapped
in a maze. He missed his old life. He missed his routine. He dropped out of the
course and went back to his old job for an even lesser pay. He broke up with
Rhonda because she did not make him happy anymore. His old ways made him happy
and Rhonda did not fit in the puzzle anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Breaking up did not
hurt him and he moved on with ease. He met Madge his new co-worker. She seemed
to love the mediocre job that he loved so much. She enjoyed the routine as much
as he did. She had never been an achiever much herself. She was content as was
he. She liked Allan and fell for his charm. They married. She fit the puzzle, perfectly.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Allan knew he did not
love her, but he loved mediocrity. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfK-upqluWawlSN8TQO741dtDzyIGxvysbkLmYPJXJw38VsZ9UcqtldFLpcJq2Tt5cSgVKzTb3uAHF31kian91Ia1tw3YmXl6NIiL78kFte-5hXuR0vs7Ip0DMw2zLxFYyyOXCOgsdcNg/s1600/WhatsApp+Image+2020-04-24+at+11.29.46+PM+%25281%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfK-upqluWawlSN8TQO741dtDzyIGxvysbkLmYPJXJw38VsZ9UcqtldFLpcJq2Tt5cSgVKzTb3uAHF31kian91Ia1tw3YmXl6NIiL78kFte-5hXuR0vs7Ip0DMw2zLxFYyyOXCOgsdcNg/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2020-04-24+at+11.29.46+PM+%25281%2529.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PC - Rakesh Rana</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-55614272604967873092020-04-12T18:23:00.000-07:002020-04-12T18:31:46.300-07:00Saree Challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Few weeks ago, I woke
up to a few tags on Facebook inviting me to accept a challenge for a saree post.
The challenge was to post one photo of myself dressed in a saree and tag other
women and challenge them to do the same. I was reluctant. I have not participated
in FB challenges ever. But I decided to accept it anyway because I was tagged
by two wonderful women I absolutely admire. I followed the instructions and
soon my FB page was filled with beautiful women draped in the most beautiful
sarees I had ever seen. Happiness - that is what I felt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">For
once my news feed was not filled with hate posts. It was not filled with
xenophobic, racist, and intolerant posts and comments. I was not waking up to
see fake news from people shooting them from the comfort of their homes. I was
evading fanatics who believed that the other was bringing the country down. And
for once I was relieved to not see Facebook politicians shooting suggestions to
the government without thought and logic. Instead all I saw was women draped in
traditional, chic, modern, and / or ethnic sarees. Some like me dug up old
pictures from their wedding albums and posted them. It was a
relief. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">But with everything positive there
are bound to be critics. Soon there were memes (some were hilarious though)
showing how Indian women were more concerned about their sarees. There were
sarcastic posts mocking women who participated in it. And some took it to
another level by trolling women. Like several others I was trolled too. I
laughed at these memes, and the people who threw it out there. That is the most
they deserve. I wondered to myself where do these people hide when hate is
spooned out on FB? I have never seen them shutting down racists or homophobics.
They crawl back to their caves then (I am guessing). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"><u1:p></u1:p>I also had friends
who chose to not participate and politely asked me untag their names. I
immediately did. To participate or not is a personal choice and we are
absolutely free to choose. As long as the world does not judge / harm the other
we can all chose to do or not do things that suit/don't suit us. But to be
cruel and mock someone is unfair and needs to be called out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">The saree challenge was meant to
divert our attention from all the negativity that surrounded us with the
current climate. The war that is being fought out there. It was meant to make
us smile. It was meant to bring our attention to the little joys of life while
keeping our spirits high. And that it did. The fact that trolls and critics
took notice of the challenge meant that it was a success. It made anger and
hate filled individuals take cognizance that sarees had taken over Facebook and
that they had little to no space for their hateful and divisive living room
politics. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">Each post shut down avenues for
negativity. It made FB a pleasant place instead. And it opened doors for more
such happy challenges throwing hatemongers completely out of business. The
pictures I saw had stories to them. Some filled with love and some with warm
memories of loved ones. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">To everyone out there who
participated and has been participating in any of those fun challenges - more
power to you. Thank you for making this virtual world a happy place. This
virtual world is what is keeping us sane in such desperate times. And if this
is filled with negative posts and comments it makes a desperate situation much
worse. Don't let trolls shame you. For each troll bring up a new happy
challenge. Spread the cheer and be merry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">In case you are curious about the
saree challenge, it painted the town red, purple, yellow, and in all colors of
joy and hope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LhwBV-q4AI8VDmQhYt-5H346FCQNcbHaVWlJ5osrAgBH0dDA5IkGhSaoN1BpWjqOzG1zkQVG-0PLpOkUDUMAA9xOQmCWRK0WBDJOFS9T1HPRlHupTf1iGILJ16ZIdLv2P1vGMm0yGmk/s1600/Saree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LhwBV-q4AI8VDmQhYt-5H346FCQNcbHaVWlJ5osrAgBH0dDA5IkGhSaoN1BpWjqOzG1zkQVG-0PLpOkUDUMAA9xOQmCWRK0WBDJOFS9T1HPRlHupTf1iGILJ16ZIdLv2P1vGMm0yGmk/s320/Saree.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I had to dig out a decade old picture for the challenge. This is from a wedding ritual in 2008. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-17189599549636237322020-04-12T17:12:00.001-07:002020-04-12T17:12:45.915-07:00Review - Panchayat Season 1 (Web Series)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="text-align: left;">As the world is locked
down, many of us are privileged enough to have some time for ourselves,
finally. Like millions of others my husband and I are surviving by pursuing our
hobbies and doing things we otherwise found little time to do. It is during
this time that I was recommended to watch a new web series by TVF (The Viral
Fever) team called – Panchayat. It is now streaming on Amazon Prime Video and available
to watch. I have been an ardent fan of good content and TVF has never
disappointed me. My husband and I completed the series in one go and are
charmed by this novel content, brilliant acting, and the simplicity of the set
up. Hence, I decided that a series as wonderful deserves a review.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b>Cast: Neena Gupta,
Raghuvir Yadav, Jitendra Kumar, Chandan Roy, and Faisal Malik. <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b>Directed By: Deepak
Kumar Mishra<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b>Screenplay – Chandan Kumar<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b>Verdict: 4.5 stars</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Review:</b> The plot opens
with Abhishek Tripathi (Jitendra Kumar) whining about not being able to grab a well-paying
job like his friend in a city. Instead he has a job as a Panchayat secretary in
a remote village of Uttar Pradesh with a humble salary of INR 20,000. Suggested
by his friend to take it up as a Swades challennge, Abhishek Tripathi pulls up his socks and starts on
his adventure. What follows is a series of rib-tickling thought-provoking encounters
that change Abhishek Tripathi in more ways than one. It lets him taste both success and failures with equal sweetness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Each episode picks up
a theme and does it a great deal of justice. The backdrop is a typical village
of India including greener fields, paint peeled government offices, muddy roads,
small shanty shops, a hand pump, and palm greasing attitude. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The plot is neither preachy nor does it try
hard to impress. The characters grow organically and cleverly convey the message.
Several issues are highlighted albeit subtly and wittingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Several scenes are
brilliantly crafted with an exceptional work of screenplay. Like the scene
where the tantrum throwing, wrapped in dowry groom is shut down by Abhishek
when the latter calls the former an asshole. Eventually Abhishek apologizes and
loses a part of his self-respect. The scene where the Pradhan Pati considers the
secretary a good match for his daughter because both belong to the same caste.
The scene where the Pradhan (Neena Gupta) does not participate in any
administrative responsibility due her lack of interest and education both. She later
tries to learn things and starts by learning the national anthem of India. Hilariously
a villager with 2 elder daughters and one young son is offended because the government’s
slogan for 2 children calls any extra child “bawaseer” – Piles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There is so much more
that Panchayat offers. It offers an outstanding ensemble of actors, quirky
dialogues that linger for long, lighthearted humor, and a story so new.
Panchayat takes you to your own village through the bhootiya (possessed) pedh
(tree), electricity that comes and goes at will, politics over implementation
of government policies, and pethas served with a glass of water. It does this
with ease. It offers hope, inspiration, and a warmth. Every actor has done
justice to their character whether it be Raguvir Yadav as Pardhan Pati or the
lead Jitendra Kumar himself as a frustrated urban boy stuck in a rural setting.
Neena gupta is great as always but I wish she had more screen time. Two characters that stand out amidst these big names
are Chandan Roy as Vikas – helper to the secretary and Faisal Malik as Prahlad –
the Deputy Pradhan. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">All in all, Panchayat
is a fresh breath of air that has opened new avenues for the makers and their audience
alike. It is a must watch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The trailer is shared below. Link courtesy – Youtube.</div>
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-58374588379372165242020-03-28T21:04:00.000-07:002020-03-28T21:38:42.360-07:00(Not) Just Another Saturday!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In a parallel world it
is a Saturday. “S” is here for her weekly cleaning while husband and I are busy
arguing over who will make breakfast today. “S” smiles and tells us her other job is
going well. We talk about her grandson with round cheeks and how he loves
dancing. Husband and I resume our argument. “S” picks up her vacuum cleaner and
starts cleaning. The usual Saturday. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In this world, none of
that happened. “S” won’t see us for the next few weeks because social distancing
and all that. Husband and I did not argue instead we decided to go grocery
shopping early morning to ditch other potential customers who might
arrive later in the day. I was nervous. There was eerie silence on our street.
It was not because it was too early in the morning, it has been like that for
the past few days. We don’t pet our neighbors’ pets anymore. They might not like it.
Instead we do the usual hello from a distance and go about out business. Today
was no different. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I have been mentally
exhausted and heartbroken with the current situation. There has been such sadness and anger with this situation. So much has been lost. So much is at stake. This tunnel seems too
long to end and shows no signs of some light at the end of it. It does not help being away
from family either. Although, our friends here have become our family here. I
get to call my closest friends’ children my nephew and niece (and they are
precious). But with this situation I don’t get to see my friends or extended family. That
is not the issue either. Because I know it is for the greater good of everyone,
of the country, of mankind. When this ends everything will be back to normal. Perhaps,
it is the stress that has been surrounding everyone. High risk parents, financial
insecurity, career uncertainty, and no answer to when all of this might
potentially end. There is anger, anxiety, and a host of other not so pleasant
emotions that I feel so often these days. Crazy! Crazy! Crazy! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">My mother says find
happiness wherever you are. And when the situation is out of your control, take
one step at a time. Do what you can and look at the brighter side. Cliched mom talk. But it helps.
It does. Thanks to technology, I get to see my parents regularly. I get to play
charades with my niece on facetime. Our nephew and niece here send us funny
streaks on snapchat (adorable and cute). I am in touch with friends and
extended family on whatsapp, FB, and emails. The weather is getting better and
we wake up to birds chirping in our porch. The grass is turning green and
greener. Spring is here. We still get to go out for quick walks (while socially
distancing from others). Husband has started cooking (this is a big one). Chai
times are a leisure with husband. Husband and I are working from home together. I have plenty of time to read my favorite books. My loved
ones are healthy. I am healthy and alive. And so much more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It does take effort to
remind myself of the many blessings I have been showered with. But I am
grateful for each one of them. I am grateful for friends and family that have
reached out to us to ask if we are doing fine. I am grateful for the I love you’s
and I miss you’s I have said and heard in the past few days. I am grateful for
the love I have felt these past few weeks. And I am grateful that I have so
much. So, I will take each day at a time. For today I am impatient and nervous,
but I am also filled with gratitude for every blessing and for the little joys
of life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlTBa3UwBZ2lzZ4D8_7DXYr5XUjubKpTylo1HJICKlnp4G0_mGXoKfqOg_C1S1E1oDL6aZ14JzGddjhp_WKNoHLJVDsbBbn70iDcCWnC2Rfi6G336r0adPtCDhSnxJXyI-x2jh1oinNE/s1600/WhatsApp+Image+2020-03-28+at+11.52.41+PM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlTBa3UwBZ2lzZ4D8_7DXYr5XUjubKpTylo1HJICKlnp4G0_mGXoKfqOg_C1S1E1oDL6aZ14JzGddjhp_WKNoHLJVDsbBbn70iDcCWnC2Rfi6G336r0adPtCDhSnxJXyI-x2jh1oinNE/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2020-03-28+at+11.52.41+PM.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful spring day in the North Pole</td></tr>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In a parallel world,
its late night on a lazy Saturday. I am happy because tomorrow Mr. Husband will
drive me to our favorite neighborhood café for a delicious breakfast. I will
get to hug “R and K’s” dog. We will promise each other to catch up over a cup
of coffee. The neighborhood cat will be out for a walk. The sky will be clear,
and I will play – “Take me home” by John Denver in my head in a loop. Almost
heaven…!! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGjYbsgCCSZ1Fyhv_xrHs1R25fxnX6eFHzXmcxDOfgDuVv0e6DdM5nh2ueGkLJMYi9doeENbCxjmj8l8nt8wq6oGgKhMxG-eUZ9Vg5xUwOxpsCSyN_ROsqvhUysurFi4D0wk3L1eQGbY/s1600/WhatsApp+Image+2020-03-28+at+11.56.00+PM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGjYbsgCCSZ1Fyhv_xrHs1R25fxnX6eFHzXmcxDOfgDuVv0e6DdM5nh2ueGkLJMYi9doeENbCxjmj8l8nt8wq6oGgKhMxG-eUZ9Vg5xUwOxpsCSyN_ROsqvhUysurFi4D0wk3L1eQGbY/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2020-03-28+at+11.56.00+PM.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of those happy moments - Husband and I</td></tr>
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-28842907794851942712020-01-30T09:21:00.000-08:002020-01-30T09:54:49.210-08:00Happy Birthday - from the future!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">My first post of 2020 is dedicated to my awesome husband. One of the things he wanted as his birthday gift from me was that I get back to writing. I gladly obliged. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This letter is to the 27 year old "R" I first met and fell in love with! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Dear R,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I write this letter to you on your 27th birthday, know that this year your life is going to change,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">and it's going to change for good. I am here with some great news for you and some not so good. But I promise, I am here to give you hope. Hope of a bright and happy future. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This year you will move back to your city, closer to your parents. And you will have a</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">wonderful job too. There is so much you will learn at this new job and there are going to be challenges. But don't give up, you will sail through. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Please continue your love for fitness. Do not give it up. You may not realize it now but you will</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">reap the benefits in the future when you will get busy chasing your dream for programming. It</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">is this love for fitness that will help you deal with the stress that is to come. Keep that self love going, you will need it soon. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Your beloved friend "J" will become your Godmother and she will be your biggest</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">cheerleader and support. Stay in touch with her, respond to that email, and make that phone</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">call. Tell her how much she means to you. Tell her now. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As far as catching up is concerned, don't worry about not being able to catch up to the world right now. Not everyone can be as awesome an introvert as you are. Don't let people's opinion of you rob you of your dreams. Be the wonderful boy you are! The one's judging you now, wont even matter in the future. Instead focus on your dreams and chase them, one dream at a time. Take that test, write that code. One day you will make it big and how! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You will make some wonderful friends around the globe in the future. These friends (some little and some tall) will fill your heart with the joy of their friendship. Learn to let go of what doesn't serve you. This lesson in letting go will help you grow. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Learn to make Tea, it will come handy in the future. If possible, please learn the difference between cumin and fennel seeds. They DO NOT complement each other. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Lastly, that girl from Bombay you just met, is the one for you. When the time comes, tell her how you feel for her. She will say yes, I promise. But please do not crack that awful HR joke to her. You will instantly regret it. Work on your listening skills too, she can talk a lot. :)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Keep smiling and keep up with that weird sense of humor. You might not know, but you do have some fan following there. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">For your birthday today and every birthday in the future, I wish you nothing but love, joy, and good health. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Love, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">your future wife - Khushi</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">P.S. Go get that salon appointment for your hair, this will be a regular in the future. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-57048215808033392292019-12-26T15:37:00.001-08:002019-12-26T19:58:18.206-08:00About Last Night - Christmas 2019<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Last night was about little bits of happiness,</div>
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and large pieces of joy. </div>
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Last night was about mushrooms, and samosas,</div>
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and truffles, and macaroons.</div>
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Last night was about old traditions,</div>
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and learning some new ones.</div>
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Last night was about loud laughs,</div>
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and some silly jokes.</div>
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Last night was about little people,</div>
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and them growing up so fast.</div>
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Last night was about wonderful thoughts,</div>
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and brilliant creative ideas.</div>
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Last night was about playing board games,</div>
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and about giggling over it.</div>
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Last night was about healing,</div>
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and reaffirming faith in good health.</div>
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Last night was about friends,</div>
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and friends who have become family.</div>
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Last night was about loved ones far,</div>
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and loved ones in our hearts.</div>
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Last night was about letters from across the globe,</div>
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and loved wrapped in several envelopes.<br />
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Last night was about effort and courage,<br />
and about applause for it all. </div>
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Last night was about journals,</div>
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and some scribbled notes. </div>
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Last night was about Santa Claus,</div>
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and Rudolph with his shiny nose.</div>
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Last night was about songs and guitars,</div>
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and little budding artists.</div>
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Last night was about revisiting memories,</div>
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and making new ones.</div>
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Last night was about several stories,</div>
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and the heart strings they tugged.</div>
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Last night was about smiling faces,</div>
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and long warm hugs.</div>
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Last night was about meeting family,</div>
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and making room for friends.</div>
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Last night was about the tall Christmas tree,<br />
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and everyone who had gathered around it.<br />
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Last night was about gratitude,<br />
and thanking life for its blessings.</div>
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Last night was about full stomachs,</div>
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and fuller hearts.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_2JfadFt-4dBb5NFDbLaPYIP4yzhUvPqVDdsyVXi4W6wtnETdbovBcRUNnvNypG61DOzuyAlU3273rGRlQFqXUmX7TnVKrTk_FU8IUfDzqUAY9dMvSmCvFBV9jwd9xghXAPu82m7V2k/s1600/WhatsApp+Image+2019-12-26+at+6.35.33+PM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_2JfadFt-4dBb5NFDbLaPYIP4yzhUvPqVDdsyVXi4W6wtnETdbovBcRUNnvNypG61DOzuyAlU3273rGRlQFqXUmX7TnVKrTk_FU8IUfDzqUAY9dMvSmCvFBV9jwd9xghXAPu82m7V2k/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2019-12-26+at+6.35.33+PM.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit - Mr. Husband</td></tr>
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-51351944261129244982019-01-19T15:03:00.004-08:002019-01-19T15:03:43.782-08:00Recipe of Joy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Recipe of Joy<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nostalgia is an emotion that can wrap around you anytime, anywhere. Couple it with homesickness and you have a perfect recipe for a blog on a snowy winter day. That’s how R and I have for the past few weeks. December tested our patience and hope both. R’s dad’s health wasn’t doing the best and we were biting our nails here on the other side of the globe, hoping he recovers soon. But they say Christmas is a magical time of the year and how! My dad in law started recovering soon after Christmas and ever since has been fit and fine. Thank goodness! All’s well that ends well. Anyway, that story for some other day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Let’s get back to “Nostalgia”. Ever since we heard of my dad in laws’ illness both of us have been homesick. Now that he is hale and hearty, we are relieved. One thing leads to the other and homesickness led to home, family, and our favorite childhood food. And when one talks of childhood, matters do get out of hand (in a good way). Childhood takes you back to sibling fights, school, friends, lanes that recognize you, people who love you, and food that you love.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lunch boxes - something every Indian mother is obsessed with. If you have grown up in India in the 90’s you will identify with this. I did not grow up with pizzas and burgers, neither did R. In fact, it only became popular in the last decade or so. Before the advent of cheese pizzas and fries, parathas ruled many kitchens in India along with their counterparts like dosas and idlis and the likes of it. My mother’s simple recipe of “meetha paratha” did the trick for me every time (Indian sweet bread stuffed with either sugar or jaggery). Childhood was easy. Bad grades, meetha paratha. Sibling torture, meetha paratha. Maths homework – meetha paratha. On days when my lunch box had meetha paratha, I felt hungry much before the recess bell rang. R and I got talking about it and we discovered that his childhood revolved around meethi roti (another name for the same paratha that I devoured while growing up). As if that was his answer to life’s problems back then. Hilarious, I thought to myself. We are so alike.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This time around too we decided to cope with homesickness with meetha paratha/meethi roti (or whatever name you would like to call it). Nostalgia took over my house with every bite of it. We laughed at things that once seemed so important. We talked about the pranks we played, the trees we climbed, the friends we made, and the subjects we loved or hated with equal passion. The innocent yet embarrassing questions we threw at our elders. We laughed harder on their (our elders) coping mechanisms to situations when they had no answer to our silly questions. Giggles! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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During one of my calls to my mother I told her how her recipe saved us. She laughed and said it was the easiest thing she could do to make me happy. "Sigh! I knew my sweet tooth has always been my weakness," I joked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As the day ended and the sweetness of our childhood lingered on our tongue, we wondered how this recipe of joy was lost and forgotten. "It indeed is a recipe of bliss and deserves a special place in the family recipe book for future generations," I winked. R acknowledged it with a grin as we glided in to slumber. Funny, after so many years this unusual recipe was once again our way to trick life’s uncanny snags. Nostalgia is not a bad thing after all.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4c6znhXMytcG1jSvtT_aIEaLDj2Ouk8_XQHqXHYPKxJ3mgXXtg-QZDXkmo2pTUgOwt9sGwau_WTOjXj_0BqEVYnL34YB-1-cTLg5tdaGloImdJG_fF8qjGdcIALS56MrhAMaK8Bmlx9k/s1600/WhatsApp+Image+2019-01-18+at+11.48.21.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4c6znhXMytcG1jSvtT_aIEaLDj2Ouk8_XQHqXHYPKxJ3mgXXtg-QZDXkmo2pTUgOwt9sGwau_WTOjXj_0BqEVYnL34YB-1-cTLg5tdaGloImdJG_fF8qjGdcIALS56MrhAMaK8Bmlx9k/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2019-01-18+at+11.48.21.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit - Mr. Husband</td></tr>
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-35305467971705108472017-08-31T15:41:00.000-07:002017-09-01T17:14:11.476-07:00Dear Nandita<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Dear Nandita,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">When you first told me I should update my blog little did I
know that soon I’d be writing about you. Today our conversations are playing
in my head, in a loop. We’ve spent such a good time together in such little
time. Funny, isn’t it? But then you left suddenly. You did not give me any
warning. Or maybe you did. May be I thought your “I-won’t-ever-give-up”
spirit will win again. But one day I woke up and realized that you are not
around anymore. I woke up to the harsh reality that I don’t have the luxury of calling you and asking you to
meet for a cup of tea. That now when the fire alarm beeps I can no longer find
refuge in your house with you. That I can no longer discuss my office worries with you.
That I can no longer tell you anything. That I can no longer go on those little
picnics at Glendora with you. That I won’t see you anymore. And that my friend
has broken my heart in to a million pieces. Your sudden departure has left a
void in my heart. Your leaving us has wounded our souls and we will all take a
long time to heal. You left us too soon, too soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But today I won’t write about all of this. Today I will write
about the wonderful person that you were. I will write about how beautifully
you celebrated life! I will write about the wonderful time we spent celebrating
our little friendship. Today as I take stock of my life I understand that our
friendship blossomed over cups of tea (your masala chai will always be my
favorite), over random rumblings, over books, over spiritual journeys of
people we have known, and sometimes giggling at our childish husbands too. </span><span style="font-family: "segoe ui emoji" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">😊</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> We were
not best friends, or childhood friends, or long times buddies. We were just
friends. Friends who were always happy to see each other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">We laughed at stupid things like crazy. Reminds me of the
time when these boys brought the huge flask for my “single” cup of tea. They
convinced me that they are visionaries and that I must make tea for them
henceforth to award them for their “intelligence”. I am still laughing at it
Nandita and I know some where you are laughing too. You remember how we smiled
when Rakesh cracked horrible PJ’s? I wonder why we never told me how terrible his jokes
were! You remember how we laughed like crazy when Harsh imitated that Chinese
man drooling over women. Uff!! It was hilarious. You remember how Harsh was
sitting like a round laddoo until he convinced us to go to Wonderland with him? Do
you remember those funny looking glasses that Harsh and Rakesh picked up? I
still have them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNiEIJh567SLQYj_rPwuvKUImINs-uaMooeD1oOPx-Pzw1Jl28JTyYCqrHlFgaKjJ-RmZMlt2dd5LBvhc4fUMWFWb4Jjn9RiCct7-INoubJ4_EAX54LwPWAGUw7OQrj2B005uRWnBt9P0/s1600/Nandita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNiEIJh567SLQYj_rPwuvKUImINs-uaMooeD1oOPx-Pzw1Jl28JTyYCqrHlFgaKjJ-RmZMlt2dd5LBvhc4fUMWFWb4Jjn9RiCct7-INoubJ4_EAX54LwPWAGUw7OQrj2B005uRWnBt9P0/s320/Nandita.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is my favourite photo of ours.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">In the little time that we had together you taught me so
much, Nandita. Your attitude of never giving up is so much to learn from. You’ve
taught me to remain positive in the most difficult situations. You’ve taught me
to forgive and let go. You’ve taught me to live in the now, in today. You’ve
taught me to face difficulties head on. You are the bravest person I have ever
known, Nandita. You braved such a disease with your smile. You never complained
or whined. You never questioned the pain you went through. And that is how I will always remember you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">You’ve taught me to be grateful, Nandita. So, today I am
grateful that we met. Although for very little time our paths crossed and we
made memories. Ones that will stay with me for a long time. Our trip to Port
Hope will always be my favorite. We had planned so much more but we couldn’t
do everything. There is so much more that I need to tell you. There is so much
more to do. I have been told that one day we all meet our loved ones on the
other side. That gives me hope. I have been told that you are in a much better
place and that you were meant for a higher purpose. Shreya told us today that
now you have everything you need. I believe her. My dear friend you have
embarked on a new journey and I am sure this will be one of peace and love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The next time I go to Tim Horton’s I will look for you,
Nandita. Hoping to see you in that corner sitting on the couch waving at me and
telling me how they never have your favorite bagel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">You’ve brightened every life you touched. Saying goodbye to you was the hardest thing I ever did. Be happy wherever
you are!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Until we meet again on the other side, I’ll miss you my Hero.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Love,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Khushboo<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">P.S. Today I wore the stole you gifted me on my birthday. I was
hoping you will see it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-10982151126860860662015-10-02T22:58:00.002-07:002015-10-02T22:59:51.891-07:00 The Last Night Supper<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Somethings just
happen to you and you are so overwhelmed by the effect of it that you don’t know
if you should react or just remain poised and silently and subtly enjoy every
bit of it. Moreover, sometimes these things that happen to you are so small for
the world outside that you are left wondering whether or not you should even
talk about it. But I have left those inhibitions far and behind. So here I am
to talk to you about something as small as a supper but something that has had
a far reaching effect on me. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So if you know me you know that I have immigrated to a new
country about 3 weeks ago. They say that the experience of moving from one
country to the other is overwhelming. However, for someone like me who has never
travelled abroad being overwhelmed is an understatement. There is not one thing
that I am not overwhelmed about. Leaving behind the place you called home,
planning to set up a new base, saying a teary good bye to your family, and
telling your little niece that now she will have to make a long journey if she
decides to spend her vacations with you. The last part is the toughest. But
what bothered me the most was the thought which revolved around me accepting
this new place as my new home and people in this new place accepting me as one
of their own.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">R is well-read and well-travelled. I am just decently read.
Obviously, I was scared. What if the new place doesn’t like me? What if we are
not accepted? No amount of pacifying by R helped. I was excited to immigrate
but I was scared too. But then the last 3 weeks have changed my opinion quite a
lot. I am so glad to have done what we did.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were immigrating to a country which did not have any of
our relatives. So R and I decided to look for a B&B (Bed & Breakfast)
arrangement till we find a decent accommodation for ourselves. This would work
for us, R explained. The logic was that we get access to kitchen where we could
cook our meals and not spend too much money eating outside. B&B works out
to be reasonable on your pocket and meets all your requirements of a safe
temporary accommodation. Little did I know that B&B also provides you with some
fringe benefits. It puts you in touch with some of the most amazing and kind
people. People who make you feel so warm inside that no amount of temperature
outside can rob you off that warmth.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before I tell you about my experience let me give you a
glimpse in to this B&B business. B&B if seen from the surface is
actually a commercial thing to do. Your host is not required to cater to your
whims and fancies. You pay them for the room and both of you could go about
minding your own business. Once the tenure is over you pack your bags and
leave. Matter over. Most of the times guest and hosts don’t see each other for
days. Even if they do they hardly talk. They know so little about each other.
They just share a roof in most cases and it ends there.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I guess with nice people it doesn’t work that way. They walk
that extra mile, break all the barriers of a host-guest relationship and set a
benchmark. They share gentle smiles and warm hugs. They share delicious meals
and the rarest of the rare wines. They share stories of their woods and towns.
They share experiences and ambitions. They share trust and affection. Most of
all they share a piece of their heart with each other. A piece that would just
stay as a cherished memory with us for ever. From complete strangers they
become these treasured friends who you would love to cherish for a lifetime.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So it all began when we met this gorgeous couple – M&T. We
met them when we moved in to their B&B as guests for few days. Before I
tell you further about my experience with them let me introduce these beautiful
people to you. M has the most beautiful smile and an equally beautiful heart. (You will drool over the food she makes). T
is a gentleman - gentle with his words and even gentler at his heart. We had
never met both these lovely people ever. A quick interaction on a website and
boom we landed luggage and bags at their door. Skeptical in our heads about
whether this would work out or not we made our quick journey to their beautiful
abode. And before we could even blink our eyes M was already helping us with
the luggage and making sure that we settle down in this new place. And then M
welcomed us to a tasty supper. Who doesn’t like tasty warm food served on a
cold day especially when you are tired and worn out?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It may sound silly. I mean what is so big about sharing a
supper, isn’t it? But sometimes small things have a profound influence. It does
for us. M&T had a long day at work. Both of them were as tried as I was.
Yet, R&I were treated to a sumptuous meal and conversation that will stay
with me for a lifetime. We (all four of us) spent about 2 hours on the dinner
table talking about random things. Things about this and that part of the
world. Things about food and wine. Things about kids and adults. Things about
our cultures and how different yet similar they are. Things about inventions
and discoveries. Of course I did most of the blabbering and the others put up
with it with bravery and courage. All this while both M&T had a long tiring
day at work yet they wanted to spend some time with us. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a new place with no known face around one looks out for a
smile to latch on to. Immigrating isn’t easy. In such a situation when you meet
someone who makes you feel welcome it makes a difference. It does. M&T
accepted us in to their house with open arms. We were treated like family and
we truly felt like one. R&I are genuinely touched by this gesture. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We belong to different countries and cultures. We have
different skin and texture. We speak different languages. We may also have different
opinions on many things. But beneath this skin we are all the same. The smile
and the hug are the same. The heart and the emotions it feels are just the same
as well. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The supper last night was such a beautiful gesture that even
in this unkind chilly weather R&I felt warm inside.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
</div>
Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-87278651059304620602015-06-15T10:20:00.000-07:002015-06-17T00:25:50.144-07:00Let's get drenched!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
This post has been published by me as a part of <b>Blog-a-Ton 55</b>; the fifty-fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Rashmi-Kumar/311383238048" target="_blank">Rashmi Kumar</a>, the author of <a href="http://bit.ly/HLSRashmiKumar" target="_blank">Hooked, Lined and Single</a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/jy0tiar0ra" target="_blank">Jyoti Arora</a>, the author of <a href="http://bit.ly/LemonGirlJyotiAroraFK" target="_blank">Lemon Girl</a>. . </blockquote>
</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">1993:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What are you looking at K?”, Papa
asked me as I stared at the rains with tear-filled eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I want to go play in the rain.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Then go play, beta. Who is stopping
you?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“But Maa will scold me.” I pointed
at Maa who was angrily looking at me from the other end of the dining table.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“But she can’t scold me. Come, let’s
get drenched.” I squealed with delight, while Papa and I ran downstairs and
played in the rain like crazy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After this episode, Life intervened.
Papa continued working too hard to provide for us and we got busy growing up.
We got so busy with Life that we never got a chance to play in the rain again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">2013:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“K, Papa has been talking endlessly
and randomly.” Mom worriedly informed me one morning on the phone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Randomly?” I asked</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes. He has been like this for the
past few days. He has been telling me things that are about 3 decades old. Last
night he was talking about A's childhood suddenly. Before that he had abruptly
gone quiet for about a week talking only a few sentences in between.” Mom
informed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I think when you are away from your
parents, you become closer to them. I sensed the panic in Mom's voice and left
for Mumbai immediately. For the first time in 5 years (after my marriage) I
wasn’t welcomed home with open arms and smiling faces. Instead, an
indescribable situation unfolded itself brutally. When Maa opened the door, I
was welcomed by a frail man with a sunken face. I looked at him, hoping for a
smile. Instead, my father kept staring at me with an uncomprehending gaze. With
a sharp pang, I realized that he did not even recognize me and moreover, he
looked visibly upset that someone strange was in his house. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Papa? How are you?” I asked as
tears rolled down my cheeks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The frame of my father simply walked
away and sat on the bed quietly. I followed him and grabbed his hand. He lifted
his head and looked at me, trying hard to recognize me. It strained his mind.
But soon a pale smile spread across his face. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“K, is that you?” He whispered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes, Papa, it is me. What took you
so long?” I asked with a lump in my throat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I don’t know. Something is
happening to me. I am unable to tell you.” Helplessness choked my father's
tongue.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Don’t worry. I am here now. You
will be fine.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Deep within my heart I knew that something
was wrong, terribly wrong. I called up my siblings and spoke to them. Both of them
were away and all we could do was to try our best to do what we can in our
individual capacities. We arrived at a conclusion that may be meeting a
neurologist could help Papa. I felt a throbbing pain in my chest. The man I had
always seen strong and healthy had suddenly reduced to a piece of bone with
little understanding of what was happening to him. His appetite had reduced,
which was quite visible in his health. His memory had turned dizzy to such an
extent that he had forgotten that a tablet is swallowed and not chewed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The appointment with the neurologist
was just another blow to our deteriorating situation. Never in my wildest dream
did I ever think that I will be told something so horrible, so bluntly. The
neurologist – Dr. Bharucha - was a well-<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>known doctor in
his late 70s. He had a reputation of being grounded and empathetic. He studied Papa’s
case for a few minutes. Soon after, he wanted to have a conversation with me, <b><i>alone</i></b>.
You know that something is not right when the doctor says, "Aapse akele
mein baat karni hai". After Maa and Papa left the room, Dr. Bharucha's
face turned pensive. He leaned forward from his chair and looked straight at
me. I can still recall his gaze, his eyes, and his husky voice. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You must see a psychiatrist.” He
said. All hell broke loose. The world around me came shattering down to pieces.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Psychiatrist? What do you mean?” I
revolted as I tried to gather myself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“It is a case of depression, K.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Depression? Do you even know who he
is?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is a retired scientist with
patents to his name. Do you even know what you are talking about?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes. I know. And now as you tell me
that he is a retired scientist, I can connect the dots. You must see a
psychiatrist as early as possible. People with analytical bent of mind often
encounter this.”<br />
"No. That cannot be true".<br />
"K, as a daughter I understand that it is difficult for you to see your
father like this. But denial will lead you nowhere. He needs help and you must
do as I say". </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was annoyed and abruptly walked
out of Dr. Bharucha’s plush cabin, my head doing all kinds of hoops. There are
a few occasions in life that makes you pity doctors. It must be so difficult
for them to deal with people and situations like me. I am sure that a part of
Dr. Bharucha ached when he disclosed Papa’s condition to me. As I reached home,
I could not contain it any longer. I broke down in front of my mother. I cried,
like I had never cried before. My mother hugged me tight and tried comforting
me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“We will see a psychiatrist, K. What
is wrong in it? Why do you have that inhibition?” Mom told me while wiping my
tears. “If that is what it is going to take to bring back your father to us, we
must do it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I wondered if Maa had some super
powers. How could she not break down? We siblings were broken and frightened. I
am sure that deep inside, she felt shaken too. Yet, as always, there she was,
standing strong in the face of this adversity that stormed into our lives
without any warning. She was our strength, she had always been, I realized.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Finding a psychiatrist in no joke in
India. With so much taboo surrounding mental illness, finding a psychiatrist is
like finding God. Nonetheless, a psychiatrist was referred by a close relative
in Mumbai. Though I was unsure of him, I had very little choice. We had been
told that he will be able to help us and that he has cured several patients in
the past. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We arrived on time for our
appointment. Papa sat next to me, frightened. It reminded me of my childhood.
As a kid, I hated going to the doctor and whenever I was taken, I would sit
quietly like a timid child. How time had changed and turned upon us!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The clinic was filled with gloomy
faces eagerly waiting to break free from the illness that caged them. If I had
seen those people in a crowd, I wouldn't have ever known that each one of
them was fighting a battle within themselves, I reflected. On the outside, you
are a healthy person, and given a chance, the world will try to hurt you. I
could relate to each one of them sitting there. They say difficulties make you
compassionate. I realized it to be true.<br />
<br />
The doctor finally arrived. I must take time to describe this doctor. Not much
about his physique or his suffocating clinic room, but more about the cloud of
arrogance that surrounded him. We had waited patiently for about an hour for
him. Then the receptionist gestured to us that we could go see him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We entered his cabin, took our seat,
and I explained everything to him. He did not even bother to ask any questions.
After listening to my description about the change in Papa, he announced that
my Papa’s case was a lost one, that there was no hope for him, that such
patients lead a very miserable life and that very little could be done for them.
He wrote about 4 tablets and suggested that we start him on them immediately.
He didn’t bother to explain anything. Seeing the long queue of patients
impatiently waiting for him, I took my dad and walked out of the room. Unsure
if I was doing the right thing, I started dad’s medicine. Of course, I did not
trust this doctor much and decided against following him blindly. To no
surprise, after just two doses of his medicines, dad started sleeping
continuously for hours together. He lost his ability to speak clearly and
blabbered in sleep. Instead of improving his condition, it had worsened due to
the tablets.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Losing all hope, I called up my
husband who was anchoring me emotionally through all this. R calmed me down and
suggested that we speak to our family doctor in Bangalore. Sometimes God speaks
through your loved ones. R's advice worked. To my disbelief, I was informed
that the long list of medicines that were prescribed for Papa were nothing but
sedatives, rather, different forms of sleeping pills.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Sleeping pills? What?” I asked in
disbelief.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes, these are sleeping pills to
sedate him and make him lethargic and sleepy. Many doctors do this and the
patient’s family thinks that the patient is feeling relaxed, hence the sleep” Said
my doctor from the other end of the line.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was furious. My blood boiled. I
felt cheated. But in a situation where my father on one end was sedated and my
mother was putting up a brave front, I had no choice but to attend to them. I
immediately informed R about the cruelty that was served to my father. R
suggested that I get my father to Bangalore so that we could consult a better
doctor. I knew he was right and that my father also needed a change of place.
We left for Bangalore in two days. Every minute of those 2 days of my life were
spent praying. I prayed while I slept, while I ate, and while I did all I could
to keep Papa happy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As soon as I reached Bangalore, I
booked an appointment with Dr. Srinivas – a well known psychiatrist. The way
things had shaped up, I wasn’t hopeful. But Maa kept on telling me that it was
just a phase. That God was just testing us, our patience, and our love for each
other. Maa was perhaps right. Meeting Dr. Srinivas turned out to be the best
decision of our lives. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
Dr. Srinivas is a compassionate doctor and is sensitive towards his patients.
He doesn't quite believe in medicines as much as he does in care and affection.
He spoke to papa and made an effort to understand his history with me. He was
both patient and considerate.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Hmmmm!!! Nothing to worry. This is
a borderline case of depression. I am glad you discovered it soon. He will be
fine. All he needs is a loving environment, and some work to keep him
occupied.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Was I hearing things? Isn’t dad the
classic lost and hopeless case?” my head scramed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Are you sure, doctor?” I blurted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Of course!” He insisted.” Just take
this one tablet I have prescribed and see me after two weeks. I am certain by
then he will be fine. Be around him. He is feeling lost without his kids.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Kids?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes. You siblings have all settled
in your lives and your father now finds himself lost, away from you all. That’s
all. My father had a similar case, K. He just needs at least one of you around.
He needs to do something to be busy.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I nodded and walked out of the room.
Dad held my hand and I held his hand tighter because, I, his child, was scared
too. We walked towards our car and as we walked Dr. Srinivas’s words echoed in
my ears - Papa was missing us, his kids!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For the next two weeks Papa improved
significantly. In fact, within a week the change was visible. Slowly yet
steadily he started talking like he did before his illness. His diet improved
and so did his health. He started reading again. And we started our debates on
environment, politics, war, religion etc, again. Our consultation with
Dr.Srinivas also continued albeit less frequently because Dr.Srinivas insisted
that my father didn’t need a doctor anymore. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">During our last visit he congratulated
my father on his fitness and amazing will power. Papa actually didn’t need any
medicine or any doctor anymore. He was fine.<br />
<br />
"Mr. Singh, I like saying this to my patients. Please don't see me
again." Dr. Srinivas laughed.<br />
Papa beamed and wished the doctor well. As papa left the room after the
consultation, Dr. Srinivas gestured me to stay back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Your father is fine, fit, and super
fine. He just needs loads of love and care. Give him that. Your father once
told me that you look like his mother.” Dr. Srinivas giggled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I laughed through my tears. “Yes, he
often tells me the same.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Then it’s time to be just that,
strict and gentle like his mother. Let him do all that he likes doing. Get him
more books. Keep his mind occupied and spend time with him” Dr. Reddy smiled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Thank you, doctor. I will forever
be indebted to you.” The lump in my throat appeared again but my emotions were
conveyed through my eyes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I walked out of the room beaming
with joy and saw my papa smiling at me. He looked so lovely, so handsome. His
dimpled cheek shone with all its might. He was standing right in front of my
eyes, hale and hearty and not to forget, happy too. This time, I held his hand
and he held it tighter, aware of my emotions. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That evening it poured in Bangalore.
The aroma of pakoras filled the room as mom served them hot. Everything was
finally getting normal. A battle was won. My hero had come out
victorious. I stood gazing outside the balcony, overwhelmed with the
series of events that had unfolded in the past few months. The daughter in me
felt like her world had finally come together, again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What are you looking at K?” Papa
asked me as I stared at the rain with tear filled eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I want to go play in the rain,
today.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Then go play beta. Who is stopping
you?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“But Maa?” I pointed at Maa who was
watching me with tear-filled eyes from the other end of the dining table. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I told you she can never scold me.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Papa!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Come, LET”S GET..... DRENCHED!!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
It rained heavily that evening and a father and his darling daughter let all
their pain wash away through their eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Happy Father’s Day to
all of you! Go splash some water and play in the rain with your Papa, Appa,
Paa, Daddy, Abbu, or whatever you call him. That is all he wants. :D</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Love,</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Strong Daddy’s strong
girl,</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">K</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ZmT_Qgeo9_aCXPsrTOANKvDfFBOSGR2J_pln8CjoOiL2m8oiOfkLJXt2NNXMGDwdc7992FkwVWjW8-VPUhOPz1b9oywuICH3j_1AhY04DNYd8qkZh1Td-XfsRBwpDfnqVxvb86r643U/s1600/papa+and+Maa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ZmT_Qgeo9_aCXPsrTOANKvDfFBOSGR2J_pln8CjoOiL2m8oiOfkLJXt2NNXMGDwdc7992FkwVWjW8-VPUhOPz1b9oywuICH3j_1AhY04DNYd8qkZh1Td-XfsRBwpDfnqVxvb86r643U/s320/papa+and+Maa.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We celebrated Dad's recovery in Coorg and he was his usual naughty self</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<blockquote>
The <b>fellow Blog-a-Tonics</b> who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective <b>posts</b> can be checked <a href="http://www.blogaton.in/2015/06/blogaton55.html"><b>here</b></a>. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following <b><a href="http://blogaton.in/">Blog-a-Ton</a></b>. Participation Count: 05. Image Credits: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Monsoon.jpg" target="_blank">Monsoon</a> by Yann (Wikimedia Commons). Shared with GNU Free Documentation License CC Attribution-Share Alike.</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-60874419912244661722015-03-26T09:21:00.003-07:002015-03-26T09:25:15.735-07:00English – Vinglish<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spell-bound, awe-struck, enthralled, mesmerized, and a tad
bit emotional, that is how I felt today when I stood in front of 27 little
kids. My eyes were stuck on them as they wrote their tests. I felt my stomach
churning. It was as if I was writing the test. Indeed, I was. They were writing what was taught to them by us. After the test we (volunteers and students) waited
patiently to know the results while tiny butterflies kept fluttering in our
stomachs. They looked at me anxiously and I smiled back signaling no matter
what the results have to say, they were champions for us – for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Few months ago, rather 7 months ago when we began our
journey with the students of Parangipalya Government School in HSR - Bangalore,
it looked like a Herculean task to teach them basic English. Most of them couldn’t
identify English alphabets; some of them who were a tad better than their
classmates could at the maximum read few English words. But none of them could explain
the meanings of these words. The kids struggled to communicate in English and
to make matters worse came from families that had either never been to schools
or had a bare minimum education. Thus, it was evident that the exposure that
these little gems received was skimpy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, there was one thing which was remarkable
in each of these kids; they had the hunger to learn. They hadn’t given up, yet.
All they needed was a hand to guide them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fortunately, my employer had partnered with Step Up for
India, a nonprofit organization that enables volunteers to teach English, Math,
Computers, & Drama to children in government schools in urban India. They
have an excellent program which is well structured, and designed by qualified
professionals who have yearning to contribute towards the society. The team at
SUFI is enthusiastic and dedicated. They lose no opportunity to rub their
enthusiasm on to the volunteers. Their dedication is highly infectious. If you
want to know more about them, please visit their FB page <a href="https://www.facebook.com/stepupforindia?fref=ts" target="_blank">her<span id="goog_11273375"></span><span id="goog_11273376"></span>e</a>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, after my employer partnered with SUFI, volunteers were
invited to join the program to teach English to class IV students of the
government school at HSR. Of course! We (the volunteers) grabbed the
opportunity with both hands and how. The classes began and step by step with
every session we moved only forward. From the phonic sounds to actions words,
chirpy poems to sound songs, clap games to dictations, we only inched closer to
our goal of improving the levels of verbal and written English. We laughed
together, clapped together, danced together, sang together, and learnt
- together. In the process a relationship was built, a rather beautiful one. I was their Akka and they
were my little naughty stars. And before we could even realize, we were
standing at the end of the term, biting our nails, anxiously. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A+, most of them have scored an A+”, Sangna announced as she
finished conducting the ASER test. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And the others?” I asked anxiously still biting my nails. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ah! They are an A and few of them B. They can now read
well. They know the meaning of most of the words and have been able to
construct sentences with it, easily. They are brilliant.” She smiled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Really??? Manoj (my colleague and my partner in the SUFI
program) and I looked at each other. We couldn’t believe our ears. A smile
spread across our faces starting from left ear gradually till the right ear. I
felt a little tear finding its way through my eyes to my cheeks (okay! I admit
I am wee bit emotional. Okay! Okay! super emotional <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span>). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I immediately composed
myself. "Khushboo Akka shouldn’t cry in front of the students", I told myself. So,
we proudly stood there while the students received their certificates. They were
beaming with joy and so were we. The core team of SUFI spoke to the students
and told them that they must continue with their English lessons even during
vacations. Later we clicked pictures, made promises to meet again in June, wished
each other good luck and then clapped. Soon the classroom was filled with
happy sounds. Sounds that can go for long making you feel joyful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Each of us from the volunteer group will agree that these kids have been great teachers to us. Personally, I have learnt so much from them. I have understood that if we
really put our heart on something, and work hard towards it, then we are bound
to achieve it. The ASER test results today just proved it. I have
also been taught to dream without any inhibitions and that no dream is silly or small. The silliest of the dream
could mean make a humongous difference in our lives. Just like Hanumanthi, who
once told me that she wants to dance with me on an English song (she wants to
sing the song on her own. Obviously, I will share the
picture with you when Hanumanthi and I will dance like crazy) or like Ganesh who aims to score 100/100 in English in
his class X exams. I am certain, one day these dreams will blossom in to a beautiful reality. <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I began as a volunteer for SUFI, someone asked me, “What
will you get out of it?” I couldn’t answer it well, then. However, I think I
have the answer now. I have got something which is priceless. I have received
abundant love from these students. They have showered their affection on me
wholeheartedly. I cannot express it in words. It can be only felt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am on cloud 9 today. Super Happy! Right now as I type
this, I am already doing the happy dance. I am eagerly waiting for the school to
re-open so that I get to see my kids again and they would once again wish me in
their singy songy style, “Goood Moorrninggg Akkkkkka” <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told you, PRICELESS!!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Below is the picture of certificate we received today as the 1<sup>st</sup>
session concluded. After which is a picture of the kids attentively listening to their teacher in the awesome company of their most favourite Manoj Anna ( the one in specs and gray shirt). They are adorable, aren't they?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Elated,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
K</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.S: if you want to know more about the Step Up for India
Program, please write to me on <a href="mailto:waves.khushboo@gmail.com">waves.khushboo@gmail.com</a>.
I shall connect you to them and you/your organization could partner with them
and make a difference. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-37065409549840461572015-01-05T04:40:00.001-08:002015-01-05T04:57:59.266-08:00The Epic Tale of - “Vow of Silence”<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A daily ritual of calling up my mother on my way to work is
an essential part of my life. I have been religiously following it since the
time wedding bells rang and I moved out from home to make a nest of my own.
(For my ranting on how terrible this transition has been for me, please read my
blog <a href="http://khushizdiary.blogspot.in/2014/10/home-sweet-home.html" target="_blank">here</a>). However, off late my ritual has been interrupted by a new ritual
that Mom has initiated. I am not allowed to call up Mom on Mondays. Of course
you may ask me why? It is because Mom observes “Maun Vrat” or “Vow of Silence” on
Mondays. Too difficult to accept? I can empathize, considering that Mom and I
have been known in our family for our nonstop chit chats and conversations. She
has been doing it for about a year now and quite successfully too. Steadily she
has been subtly pushing me to do it as well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>Conversation few days ago:</u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
K: I cannot do it on Mondays, Maa? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maa: Then do it on a weekend.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
K: But then who will instruct my cook? Who will ask my
domestic help to clean that cobweb housing my home for months? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maa: Then it on a Sunday when your domestic help is not
around. Works?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
K: Alright. Does it help?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maa: Immensely. It helps you calm down. Try it once and see
for yourself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
K: ok (reluctantly).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So this weekend I announced to hubby darling that I shall be
observing a Maun Vrat on Sunday and that he has to support me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What a drama queen you are, K!” R commented while watching
a movie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I scowled and he finally agreed to it though reluctantly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunday arrived and thus began the “Epic Tale of Maun Vrat”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>Breakfast:</u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gestured asking R
what he wants for breakfast. He gestured back. He first drew a plate in the air
and then started making several circles while holding an imaginary spoon in
hand. After which he took an imaginary bite from the circle and licked his
finger. The look on his face was priceless.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course it took me about 30 seconds to compose myself
because I was observing Maun Vrat, he wasn’t. He could SPEAK. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled sheepishly. I wrote D.O.S.A. in the air and he
replied with thumbs up. Obviously it was Sunday and he wanted to eat “Dosa”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got in to the kitchen and the preparations began. Dosa was
ready and was served piping hot to Mr. Husband. He gestured me to sit next to
him and we relished hot yummeh dosas. Just as I was about to clear the table
Mr. R gestured again. This time he drew two glasses in the air and took an
imaginary sip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frustrated but masking it with a smile, I wrote again in the
air, “C.H.A.I.? He obviously responded with another thumbs up again and a
naughty smile spread across his otherwise childlike face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The breakfast was over and the customary book reading
session commenced, albeit silently. I took my kindle and found myself curled up
comfortably on the sofa. R took to the dewan with his book. Few seconds later I
felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up and saw Mr. R standing with his book
looking at me with his typical smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R: Pushing himself next to me on the sofa.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: perplexed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R: writing on a piece of paper – It is 11:00 am, can we be
done with this Maun Vrat, now?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: writing - We?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R: writing - Yeah, it is pretty boring. Making a sad face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: writing - Why are you writing? You can talk. You are not fasting,
are you?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R: Writing again. Oh! I forgot. Tee Hee Hee</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: writing - Okay R. Speak up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R: Writing again – what are we having for lunch?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: writing - For God’s sake, speak up. I can barely
understand your handwriting and your gestures. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R: Writing again - Oh! But you understood that I wanted to have
Dosa, right? And this writing convo is also going well. (Smiling again with
twinkling eyes)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: writing - I am not talking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R: writing - Shall I cook, today?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: writing - Please… go ahead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R: writing - Okay </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R left me alone with Jodi Picoult and walked in the kitchen.
I felt a sense of relief and buried myself in the book again. Few seconds later
I saw from the rim of the kindle that R was frantically looking for something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Clapping to get his attention.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R: walking towards me and gesturing. He started drawing tiny
little circles in the air. The circles were so tiny that I had to shrink my
eyes to comprehend their size. He drew at least 20 of them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: I couldn’t fathom anything. I looked at him puzzled and
anxious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R: Erasing the imaginary circles in the air. He then drew a
cylindrical shaped object on one side and plate like object on the other side.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the end of this drawing session my patience had given up,
finally.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What do you want, R? I asked composing myself and throwing
my “Vow of Silence” in the imaginary bin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R: Haaah! I wanted to hear your voice. Seeee, how it
resonates in the house. Thank you. (Hugging me like a cuddly teddy bear)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: smiling. You are insane. By the way what were you
drawing? What were those tiny circles?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R: Oh! You couldn’t understand it? It was Dal(lentils), K,
he winked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I reacted exactly the way you are reacting now while
reading this. And apparently the cylindrical object that was being drawn was
the “Pressure Cooker”. No, no don’t even ask me the logic. R has defied logic and the
laws of physics long ago.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All said and done, I have come to realize that observing silence for a few minutes or a day may help people calm down; however, for me it only pulled my blood
pressure up North. :)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mom doesn’t know about it yet. It is Monday today and I haven’t
spoken to her, though I am dying to tell her this “Epic Tale of my Vow of Silence”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These are the little joys that make life worth living.
Aren’t they?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am still smiling as I write this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Have you ever been able to successfully complete a "Vow of Silence" aka Maun Vrat? Tell me, I am listening.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-9318060066193335042015-01-03T10:40:00.000-08:002015-01-12T02:49:15.051-08:00Closure.....!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
This post has been published by me as a part of the <b>Blog-a-Ton 50</b>; the fiftieth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with <a href="http://bit.ly/SoulMatesVinitBansal" target="_blank">Soulmates: Love without ownership</a> by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/vinitbansalauthor" target="_blank">Vinit K Bansal</a>. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following <a href="http://blogaton.in/"><b>Blog-a-Ton</b></a>.
</blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>This post won the Gold Batom at Blog-a-ton 50 </b></div>
</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5eknHH7CHVTMHl_LmrBg95ZEIMBlGZuVMw-3n8Z0zT-gCIgvZ8Rw4-k8EG06JyyQZ_1Toeioh4w6XXH64ViOuyxtqR6ZjpTIsKOovH630FMqG4ZVY_aPRsFYxjs0JF0RahpOEVqMbkZQ/s1600/batom_award_1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5eknHH7CHVTMHl_LmrBg95ZEIMBlGZuVMw-3n8Z0zT-gCIgvZ8Rw4-k8EG06JyyQZ_1Toeioh4w6XXH64ViOuyxtqR6ZjpTIsKOovH630FMqG4ZVY_aPRsFYxjs0JF0RahpOEVqMbkZQ/s1600/batom_award_1.png" height="267" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b> "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you" </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>- Maya Angelou</b></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The day of reunion had dawned. He hadn’t seen her for ages. The longing for the warmth of her body hurt his soul. His lips parched for her gentle kiss. His heart raced like a million horses. <br /><br />“We are Soul mates, love”, he had once told her while stroking her long locks.<br /><br />She had responded by planting a passionate kiss on his lips. He was so drunk in her love that he couldn't stop himself from revelling in the moment.<br /><br />He shuffled hurriedly towards the Temple of his love, where he had left her, waiting, forever! <br /><br />His chest felt heavy. He was guilty. He had walked away silently. Without even looking back. <br /><br />He hadn’t even given her a reason for breaking her heart. He had broken his promise to her, the promise of gifting her a bed of roses. Instead, he had rewarded her undying love with a bed of thorns. Nevertheless, today, he had broken free. He had finally mustered the courage to go against one and all. He had decided to wipe out the painful times of yore and rewrite their story into a beautiful one, He knew that their meeting was going to be thorny. He anticipated her wrath. Hell, yes, he deserved it too. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>"All my life, my heart has yearned for a thing I cannot name"</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b> - Andre Breton</b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />He reached and saw that she was standing there, exactly where he had left her, at the crossroads of life, though she looked aberrant. Once, she had strikingly beautiful eyes, cherry colored lips, an innocent face, lustrous locks, soft arms, and a smooth skin. All that was gone now. But, it was still her. Oh yes!<br /><br />She saw him walking towards her. Blood slowly rolled down her cheeks. He knew her heart was weeping. He knelt down beside her and silently begged for forgiveness. She stood still, <br />unmoved. <br /><br />“I am guilty’, he said, his eyes staring at the mud below her bare feet. ‘I was compelled to do <br />what I did. I was helpless. I became a coward. I gave you up, for the happiness of everyone else”, he explained. She was still unmoved.He slowly opened his heart to her. There were scars on it. She saw that his words were true, so, her heart forgave him. The scars in her heart disappeared. <br /><br />He smiled. But, she didn’t.<br /><br />She started rubbing her hands over her vulnerable body and started shedding off her skin. She was enduring excruciating pain, but still she didn’t stop. <br /><br />He could not fathom her actions. Clueless, he asked,“What are you doing?” “I am shedding off the warmth of your hug. It has wrapped my body for too long”, she replied in a hollow voice.<br /><br />After shedding her skin, she started pouring sullied stream all over her naked body. He looked at her confused. “The alluring smell of your body refuses to leave mine”, she answered, reading his eyes. <br /><br />She then turned to the tree behind her and plucked the leaves from it. She carefully folded the pungent leaves and chewed them, relishing its taste. The bitterness of the leaves filled and rocked her being.He gazed at her helplessly. “The sweet taste of your kiss has stayed on my tongue too long”, she whispered. <br /><br />She then wrenched out traces of his love from her soul and strung them bit by bit on the tree. “My soul has long been a prisoner of your love and I am setting it free now"she announced. <br /><br />And then, finally, she grabbed a piece of her broken heart and buried it in the ground. “It died a painful death after you left”, she explained, looking at him emptily. And then, her tears stopped rolling. She was now ready, ready to leave. <br /><br />As she emptied herself, he started feeling the emptiness creeping up into his soul. All the love, her love, that had once filled his existence slowly vanished. <br /><br />To stop the Goddess of his Temple from leaving, he desperately started unbuttoning his coat. She stopped him with a flick of her hand. 'Do not remove the coat. That coat is my prayer for you. Wear it. It will protect you’, she said and started to leave. <br /><br />“Are you really going?” he asked frantically, but his voice was unheard by her. <br /><br />“We are soul mates, aren’t we?” He begged .<br /><br />“The string of my soul has long been wrecked by your treacherous love”, her voice was unfeeling but her eyes mocked his cowardice.<br /><br />“Then why did you wait for me for this long?” He screamed, fresh blood flowing through his <br />eyes now. <br /><br />“Because.... because I wanted answers…a Closure”, she answered while turning away.<br /><br />As soon as she turned away, he took off his coat. His body was no more the temple of her love! <br /><br />He wanted to perish. As soon as the coat fell off his body, her prayer left his soul and he was <br />burnt to ashes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>“If music be the food of love, play on,<br />Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,<br />The appetite may sicken, and so die.” </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>- </b></span><b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> </i> </span></b></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote>
The <b>fellow Blog-a-Tonics</b> who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective <b>posts</b> can be checked <a href="http://www.blogaton.in/2015/01/blogaton50.html"><b>here</b></a>. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following <b><a href="http://blogaton.in/">Blog-a-Ton</a></b>. Participation Count: 04</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-3746565065679449392014-12-28T09:57:00.000-08:002014-12-28T22:25:06.371-08:00Weekend Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Love and Forgiveness - Part II<br />
<br />
<b>The link to Part I of this story is <a href="http://khushizdiary.blogspot.in/2014/12/weekend-stories-love-and-forgiveness.html" target="_blank">here</a></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat besides Amma the entire night reading her a book called "The Map of Heaven". I thought it will make Amma's final journey an easier one. Amma had a fetish for books and she had rubbed it on Sam who in turn rubbed it on me. I held her little finger throughout and my mind raced back to the good old days when Sam and Amma formed the centre of my existence.<br />
<br />
Few months after Amma had taken over my upbringing she politely informed my parents that I could speak well. Obviously they didn’t
believe her. So she had to prove it by talking to me in front of them. Assuming that my parents will be pleased our conversation went for about 5 minutes at a stretch. But my
parents yelled at her because I spoke Malayalam instead of Hindi or English.
She could never muster the courage to answer them back. I could speak Malayalam well
because Amma was the only one who bothered to speak to me. The others only
pretended. They never really had the patience to deal with a child who according to the norms of the world was "delayed and stupid". It was Amma who first noticed that I liked books and that I wasn’t half
as bad as my teachers projected me to be. She encouraged my parents to send me
to a normal school with normal children. Sometimes your own parents don’t understand
you but an outsider does. My schooling began in a convent school and that is where I encountered my love for Physics and its laws.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sam was Amma’s only child but after I had walked in to her life she often
mentioned that she was blessed to have two lovely sons. I now understand her tragedy. Sam was a
paraplegic and chair bound whereas I was autistic and mostly home bound. When Sam died Amma didn't cry much. She had become numb, somewhat like me. I was just 14 and couldn’t really understand the depth of death. I couldn’t even
understand pain or love or longing. But Sam’s death was particularly tragic and for few days I felt a part of my chair bound. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was my 14<sup>th</sup> birthday and as always there was
no celebration. I was not very social and kids hated me including my younger sibling,
Mahesh. To top it all, that year was special. I had ashamed my parents in front of the other
relatives during a family gathering. A cousin of mine had placed a dead lizard in my pants. I was so angry that I had beaten
him up. Immediately I was locked in my room and discussions of sending me to “special
place” began under the carpet. Hence, it was only normal for my parents to
forget my birthday. But Amma had taken the trouble to request my parents to get
a cake for me. I hated cakes but Sam loved them. Hence, every year on my birthday a cake was ordered for me to cut it and for Sam to relish them to his heart's content. As soon as the cake arrived Amma finished her
customary prayer, kissed my forehead and Sam's too. She then held my hand as I cut the cake neatly in small pieces. She
then took a piece and turned towards Sam however I had already shoved a piece in Sam's mouth. Sam licked the chocolate and gulped it down. He looked delighted. Then suddenly something happened. Before he could take a second bite he turned blue. He fell from his chair and
started gasping for breath. Within seconds he was motionless. Amma screamed for help and Sam was rushed to the hospital.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry, he is dead. The poison spread too fast”, the
doctor with fat glasses and a big belly whispered to Amma and my parents. It happened so fast that I could barely comprehend the series of events.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mahesh later told me that I killed my best friend. I could never explain to him that I didn’t.
I just shared my cake. I felt pain for the first time at Sam’s funeral. When
I placed the books next to him in the coffin, I felt he was talking to me, as if revealing a secret. I
wanted to say sorry but I was pulled away. The coffin was then taken away. Amma
held my hand throughout Sam’s last journey. I thought she was angry with me but
she didn’t say a word. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Amma why did Sam die?" I asked Amma.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Because God wanted him to be free from his pain." Amma
answered, her eyes wet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A week later Amma
was fired from her job which she anticipated anyway. I still don’t know why? A
new nanny was hired. She was huge and looked like a snob. It didn’t matter to me because I had grown up by then and didn’t
need anyone.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Write letters to me and I will write you back", Amma told me as she packed her bag. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Okay. But will you respond?" I asked</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Yes, I will. Always." She assured</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"What if you don’t?" I asked sensing that soon I will be
alone, again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Then you must understand that I am dying." She smiled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Okay, then I will come and meet you. Wait till I come. Don’t
die before that. I will place you in your coffin." I expressed my desire.</div>
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"Sure. After all a son has to do it for his mother", she said and I felt tears
fall on my hands as she kissed them, the last time.</div>
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<br /></div>
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
"Her heart beats have stopped", the nurse exclaimed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Oh! That means she is dead. Don’t worry she was waiting for
me." I explained.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She ran and called the doctor who made me sign some
papers mechanically. They see death and dead bodies so often that it becomes a routine for them. I brought Amma back to her humble home in Kerala. The funeral was a
simple one. Not many people had gathered. A shrunken Amma had been placed in
the coffin and buried. Father Agnes completed the prayer and after few minutes
people left. I stayed there longing for her. Perhaps longing and pain felt the
same. Except that pain was felt on the right side of the chest and longing on
the left side.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stayed there till night. I was wondering if Amma had
forgiven me for what I did to Sam. I didn’t get a chance to beg for her forgiveness. Whenever I wrote about it in the letter she responded with a verse
from bible. I tried recalling all the verses and if any of them hinted towards my
question but I couldn’t. I stood up and walked to the nearby church. My eyes
turned wet. I had never cried before. That could be because I never felt what a loss
felt like. It pained and hurt. So I cried that night in the church and
requested Amma’s God to take care of her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day when Father Agnes came home where I was expected
to finish some rituals and leave, he handed me a paper. It is a letter for you. God
bless you. You must learn to forgive and let go. His pearls of wisdom were too much for my little brain to comprehend. I kept the letter safe in the pocket of my shirt. As the rituals
concluded and people spoke kind words for Amma I felt the pain getting stronger. I was missing Sam as well. The fact that I had been a part of his death sometimes drove me nuts. I
packed my bag and decided to leave immediately. The house was handed over to
Father Agnes who planned to start an old age home there. It was Amma’s wish after all. I
was happy for her and Sam.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The train for Bombay was on time. I preferred trains.
Flights were just too fast and I didn’t want to reach Mumbai so soon, anyway. I boarded the
train and found my seat amidst smell of coconut oil and a sea of human sweat. I looked outside as the train took speed. The trees, green hill tops, all washed off from my eyes by a strong breeze within seconds. That is when I
remembered the letter and decided to read it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Rajat,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time you read this I must have begun my journey to
meet God. As I write this my hands tremble and my heart pounds. This is perhaps
my last letter to you. Cancer has claimed all of my energy. It has spread too fast
though I feel it’s good in a way. I will die and meet Sam. At least I will be closer to
one of my sons. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All throughout the past decade your your letters you have asked me if I forgave
you for Sam’s death. No I didn’t and it is because it wasn’t needed. You didn’t
kill Sam. He died because I wanted him to die. I
had seen him suffer in pain and I wanted his suffering to end. I had to do it Kanna. I am glad Sam died next to his best friend. I don't know if what I did was right or wrong. I just know that Sam deserved some peace. I hope you will
forgive me and if you can’t I will understand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I first met you I was told that you don’t understand Love
and other emotions. But if you are reading this then you have understood all of
it, better than anyone else. After all who comes to see a dying Nanny?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have loved you my child and when I meet God I will ask him
to bless you abundantly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Place your hand on my heart, do you feel my love? Thank you for being my son. I am dying peacefully.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
God Bless!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amma.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I held the letter in my hand and felt a wave of emotions run through me. Anger, vengeance, pity, hatred, love. All of it at once. For the first time in my life I found myself
standing on the crossroads. I had to choose between - Love and Forgiveness.</div>
</div>
Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-1463352967521056722014-12-27T11:34:00.000-08:002014-12-28T22:02:59.384-08:00Weekend Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Love and Forgiveness - Part I</div>
<br />
A usual Saturday morning for me would mean staying at home
and doing my laundry, completing projects, loitering around the city with
Sanjeevani. Universities in US have holidays on Saturdays and Sundays which gives students enough time to cater to their personal needs. My
parents felt a sense of pride that I was doing my PhD or perhaps that I was finally doing something meaningful. They often boast about it to their relatives. In all the letters that my mother writes to me she mentions how she has been missing me. But I don't miss my family at all. I felt happy away
from home – happiness? you feel when an electric current runs in your body and
takes a pause at your lips. Then your lips stretch themselves and you end up smiling. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life
in US is different and peaceful. You do everything on your own including
cursing yourself. But it is different here in India. You outsource everything to
domestic help including attending to the emotional needs of your child.
Nonetheless, sometimes domestic helps can be a boon especially when your child
is Autistic and it is too much of a hassle to deal with him. In my case it was.
Amma had been kind to me in spite of the fact that I was nuts. So here I was in
a small town of Kerala to meet Amma, to pay off her debts, to fulfill my
promise, and above all to beg for her forgiveness. I had last seen her when I was 14. Today after a decade I was to meet
her again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ironically I had first met her in a hospital. I was just 7 then. They
said I had hit my head against a wall and that I was hurt. Hence, I was admitted to the hospital.
But that was a blatant lie. My nanny who would often vent out her frustration on me had hit me with a stick so hard that my skull almosy broke open. I was stubborn I think or mad as my nanny called me. So first aid was
administered and may parents were advised to be kind and nice to me till my wounds healed. I couldn’t speak clearly then hence nobody could know that my nanny was the culprit. And by the time my parents could understand what I was saying my
nanny had managed to escape the cruel clutches of my parents. That is when my father’s uncle referred Shirley Amma
to take care of me. She came to meet my parents in the hospital itself. I think the
emergency was on both sides. Amma wanted a job desperately and my parents
wanted some respite. It was then that my journey with Amma began.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"St.Philomena’s Hospital" the board read with a cross sign
next to it. I instantly recognized the cross. Amma wore a similar cross around her
neck. Her God was crucified on it, she often told me. Strange how the cross was always next to the
names of all the hospitals we have ever seen. Amma thought it was because God's presence was required in hospitals to help patients and their families. But Sam had a different take on it. He whispered in my ears that it is because all
doctors crucify little children on this cross with their injections. Of course
he chuckled every time he cracked that joke. Sam was my best friend, rather my only friend.
He was the only boy who never called me “Mad”, or “Crazy”, or “idiot”. But he taught me a word called “Rascal”. According to him it meant, “Good boy”. So he was the only rascal I met in my life. The other
boys were bad. They would pinch me, pull my pants down, and sometimes even
locked me in the toilet. But Sam was different. He laughed loudly, always and read books. Sam wasn’t
particularly healthy. He was lean, his eyes were buried in little sockets, he
hardly walked, most of the times Amma carried him or he was on his wheel chair. But he had a particular liking
for reading. When he was placed in his coffin which was on the whole small, I
neatly placed two of his favorite books next to him. I had promised to buy
these books for him but before I could even gift it to him that rascal died. He
was in a hurry to go to Jesus I think. He didn’t even wait for me to say sorry.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I entered the hospital building which appeared to be very depressing. The building stood still with the
same numb look. Perhaps the hospital buildings are also autistic. They never
show any enthusiasm. The dull green and off white paint, jaded curtains and creamiest
spartac tiles only added to its misery. Just like the doctors across
have a protocol to scowl; hospitals have a protocol to look uninteresting. The odor
of the antiseptic was so strong that my nose was filled with it. I think they
do it deliberately to make the atmosphere gloomy. Have they not seen those deodorants
ads? They can just spray it across the corridor and people will instantly cheer
up. Perhaps they don’t want people to cheer up. The whole idea of hospitals will
be diluted if people felt happy at hospitals. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lift seemed full and the queue outside looked disappointing.
I decided to take the stairs instead. I walked past the Childrens ward, NICU, then the general
ward and I finally reached
the private ward.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Amma? Shirley Amma?" I asked the older nurse sitting at the
counter on the 2<sup>nd</sup> floor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked at me and spoke in heavy accented English. "Room
No. 202. Take a left from the end of the corridor, the second room. Visiting hours end at 7. Just one hour, wokay?" She lacked expression on her face and that made her look more
autistic than me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Okay", I took the pink slip and walked towards 202. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I peeped inside and found a nurse attending to Amma. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"May I?" I asked</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Yes please." She answered</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked inside the room. Amma lay on the bed, motionless. Once
upon a time a plump woman, now she had reduced to a narrow frame of with a
single layer of flesh covering the bare bones. Her ears particularly looked
large. Her eyes now looked just like Sam’s, buried in the socket yet full of
life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Can she hear me?" I asked the nurse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She responded in positive and stood cleaning the table. I
think she was curious to see who has come to meet the almost orphaned Shirley
Amma.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Amma, I am here. Nurse told me that you are listening. I am
fine. I didn’t get your letter so I realized that you must be dying. I am glad
you didn’t die. I wanted to place you in the coffin. I had promised you, remember? Now if this life is painful then you may die,
please. I will hold you through death just like I held Sam. It is only when you
die that I will let go. I have also got a letter for Sam. Please give it to
him. I wanted to ask for forgiveness but he left before I could even say sorry." I spoke almost breathless.<br />
<br />
"I couldn't even say sorry to you. Have you forgiven me Amma? You know it wasn't my mistake, right?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw a clear line of tears oozing from Amma’s shrunken eyes. She couldn’t speak. She just cried.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Don’t cry Amma. I am better now. I have a girlfriend too.
She is nice. Only that she is plump like you. And she speaks Malayalam too." I wiped Amma’s tears with cotton balls kept next to her bed.</div>
<br />
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The nurse looked rather stunned at my
words. She thought I was insane. Who in a sane mind would ask people to die? From the look on her face I could read that she
could not appreciate the depth of my words. Normal people could never
understand that Amma and I were different. That what we nurtured within our
hearts was an emotion which is not understood by many. It is called Love – Love? you feel
it when you place your hand on your heart.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; padding: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b>The link to Part II of this story is <a href="http://khushizdiary.blogspot.in/2014/12/weekend-stories.html" target="_blank">here</a></b></div>
</div>
</div>
Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-60061503527204323722014-11-13T07:27:00.000-08:002014-11-13T07:34:38.772-08:00We failed each other<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t really like
writing about depressing things. I try to keep away from it as much as possible
to keep my sanity, intact. But then sometimes certain things create a stir of
emotions inside you and you just can’t let these crazy set of emotions wreak
havoc inside you. So, here I am to write about something that has hit me hard
on my face and punched me on my chest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is how it all started. Today, few hours ago I shared a post on
FB about how we women have the right to be ourselves, how important it is for
men to understand that we women are just human as men, and etc etc. Below the post that I
had shared, I noticed men had written disrespectful comments, and opinions against
women. This was nothing new to my eyes. But what surprised me or rather shocked
me was that women had also written equally insolent remarks against women. That’s
when I realized that what we notice today is just a tip of the ice-berg. The
problem that we are fighting against finds its roots deeply stretched across
the X chromosome. Of course we are dealing with a patriarchal society or a male dominated one as one likes to call it. And it will take some time for us to transform the society we currently survive in. But my problem right now is not the “Y” chromosome at all. I have a bigger worry.Well, let me explain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When a girl in a
short skirt, dark lipstick, or a loud makeup enters a room, who is first one to assassinate her character and label her "A Slut"? Think about it. Haven’t we heard Girl A calling Girl B a
loose character, just because Girl B has a dressing sense which doesn't comply with the standards
set by Girl A? Don’t we know of aunties who term a girl characterless in their
apartment because she talks to boys? Have you never seen or heard of a mother
in law setting her daughter in law ablaze because the daughter in law failed to
fulfill the dowry requirements? When a girl gets raped, women are the first
ones to say, “Oh! She should have refrained from stepping out of the house
so late.” And how can I miss the classic one liners by Mothers themselves, “Roti nahin
banayegi to shaadi kaun karega?”(if you don’t learn to roll roti’s, no one will
marry you.”)There is no exhaustive list; I can go on and on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now you see where am
I coming from? It’s like we didn’t have enough problems already that we women
have waged a war against each other. And after being so discourteous to each
other we say we are not being heard. In many parts of our country women
themselves feel that it is only after they give birth to a boy that they will
be complete as a mother. I agree that it is the societal pressure which leads
to this deteriorated thought process. But doesn’t the society also comprise of
women? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I recall when I was in
Delhi few years ago to see a cousin of mine; she mentioned how worried she is
about her old age. She is blessed with two lovely daughters but she told me
that she feels inferior to other women who have been “lucky enough to give
birth to a son”. I felt disgusted and tried my best to explain her that she
must take care of her daughters well and that her daughters have the potential
to make it big. But I don’t think I was able to convince her. However, my cousins’
mother in law (who is a very gentle woman) could convince her and my cousin
realized that given an opportunity even girls can achieve greater heights.
Finally, some sanity prevailed. To tell you, this cousin of mine is a post
graduate and was always a very studious girl. On the contrary her mother in law
is not a very educated lady. Now, do I even need to tell you which woman in the
above case qualifies as “modern or advanced”? That’s when I realized it is not education
alone that can help our situation. We require a deeper understanding and
empathy for each other. The roots lie in the upbringing that a mother provides
to her growing daughter and the legacy that is passed on from one generation to
the other.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Think about it, we
fight with men in buses because they don’t offer seats to pregnant women. But there
is another question that stands upright in front of us, how many women stand up
to offer a seat when they see a pregnant lady standing helplessly? The answer
lies within each one of us. We women are Shakti and if we decide to stand up
for something, no man in this whole wide world can stop us. That is exactly why
we have been blessed with the right to create a new life, we are the creators.
Men are able to easily exploit us because we have arrogantly refused to stand
up for our own gender. We have decided to be judgmental of each other. We have
unanimously decided to let go of the divine power of empathy and affection that
we are blessed with. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am in no way
defending the mean actions of men or the violence that many women are subjected
too by the opposite sex. What they have done to us or have been doing to us is unpardonable. All I am trying to say is that somewhere it is our fault
too. We as mothers have so many times made our own daughters feel inferior. We as
sisters have been unreasonably kind to our brothers. Haven’t we seen how
mothers come running to rescue their rapist son? I know we have truly modern
women too. However, the number of such women is so small that in most cases
they fall under the minority category and are labeled as “feminists”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fact is, before
we stage dharnas and shout slogans to change to the mindset of the male
population in our society, there is a lot of homework that you and I have to do
to change our mindset first. Accept it or not, we have also aggressively
participated with men in creating this garbage in our civilization, the stench
of which has now polluted our souls. Time has come to wage a war against our ailing
attitude too. We need to go back to our basics, again. We need to extend a helping
hand to each other. We need to accept each other as women. Because ladies, the
bitter truth is that more than this male dominated society, we have failed each
other. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not completely
broken. I am hopeful that someday we will see through the opaque lenses of our
eyes. We will shun denial and take responsibility. We will become better
friends, mothers, mother –in-laws, etc. And that is when we will be able to
transform the men in our society. That is exactly when we will win this war.
Nonetheless, today I am sad and hurt. And as I write this, I feel sorry for you
and me because as women, we have failed each other, miserably.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heartbroken,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
K<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-49279222504526458972014-11-09T05:22:00.002-08:002014-11-09T05:53:31.158-08:00Super SIX<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>
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</div>
“So, do you like reading, R?” I typed anticipating a YES</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“YES, I do.” Came a prompt reply</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh! Wow! Me too… I love fiction, love stories. How about
you?” I typed again</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I like sci-fi and books that give us a glimpse of the
universe, our galaxy, and the many stars.” He typed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stars, really? He is such a nerd, I thought to myself. I
imagined him wearing big glasses with a square shaped frame. His hair oiled
till the end of every follicle and neatly combed. I also imagined him with
braces on his teeth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So you like all this aliens and spaceship stuff, huh?” I
wrote again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, Yes K. I have loved reading about it since my childhood.
Do you like such stuff?” He asked this time sensing my discomfort with this
genre.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ah! Not really, but you never know, I may like it, if I
ever read it!” I tried to be as polite as possible.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was one of the initial chats I had with him. Soon after
this the duration of our chats increased exponentially. But the image of him
being a nerd stayed in my head for some time till our first meeting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On a bright sunny day of July, I saw a tall, dusky man, with
long locks, dimpled cheeks, a beautiful smile, broad shoulders, a very sturdy frame, big
bright eyes, and arms that could wrap a tiny being like me with utmost ease. His
branded Tee, Jeans, and boots added to his charismatic personality. He was the
exact opposite to the nerd who lived in my head. The stereotype in my head was
shattered in to pieces. He walked towards me and swept me off my feet, well,
literally.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is the day I realized that the rest of my life will be
spent shuttling between the Milky Way, the gym, and the branded showrooms. And that’s
how it has been. Crazy indeed!</div>
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<b></b><br />
<b></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>Wrong Dates - 2009<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>R: Happy birthday K,
dhan tan dhan… your favourite black forest cake.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K: whose birthday is
it today? (sarcasm)<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>R: Hun, you forgot
your own birthday? I thought you were good with dates. You even remember the
date when we first met.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K: Hun, you see my
birthday was yesterday. You missed it by a day….anger and tears making their
way out.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>R: stunned, confused,
and almost froze where he stood. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>We celebrated the birthday
on 10<sup>th</sup> instead of 9<sup>th </sup>after a certain amount of
emotional atyachaar. </b><b><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span>And since then R has
saved all the important dates in his phone including the one when we first met.
He has never missed a date since then.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>Gifts – 2010<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K: Happy Anniversary,
R. Thank God you told me you wanted a phone. Its so difficult to choose a
gadget.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>R: Thanks K. It’s a
wonderful one and Happy Anniversary to you too. Here’s your surprise gift.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K: what is it?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>R: well, open and
see. You will love it.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K:Really? Unwrapping
the gift and then shocked. It’s a PEN DRIVE, R.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>R: Nice, na? 8 GB….!!!!
<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K: what am I going to
do with it?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>R: well, I agree. No
worries, I can use it. Thanks K.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K: grumpy face.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>After that I have
been gifted a 16 GB pen drive, a DSLR camera, and many such gadgets. Smart man
that he is!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b></b><br />
<b></b></div>
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<b>The Gentleman – 2011<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>Kaku: R, I am very impressed. You open the car door for your wife. What
a gentleman you are.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>K: blushing and cheeks turning pink. R loves me so much Kaku. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>R: Well, Kaku, she is lovely. But you see she bangs the car door every time
she gets in and gets out of the car. Hence, to save the doors from getting
slammed and broken this is my small attempt.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>K: cheeks turning red in anger.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>R still opens the door and closes it when I get in to our car for that
matter any one’s car. Sigh!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> A fair chance -2012<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>K: (on the phone) You know what happened today, R? blah blah blah..bleh
bleh bleh.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>R: Okay….<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>K: and then blah blah blah, bleh bleh bleh<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>R: Hmmm…<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>K: R I am talking nonstop and all you are saying is Okay and Hmmm….<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>R: K, before I can even complete, you start from the other end, already. You have to give me a fair chance, babes.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>K: Oooops!!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>Since then I have started taking a 30 second pause after my paragraph
ends to give R a fair chance to speak. </b><b><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b></b><br />
<b></b></div>
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<b>Ek Cup Chai - 2013<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>R: come home early na,
K. I will make chai for you.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K: Okay let me see.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me getting home early
to enjoy the evening chai with R.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K: You enjoy having
chai with me don’t you?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>R: Well, certainly K.
It is your company that keeps me going. But honestly I love the constant entertainment
of your nonstop blabbering during our chai times. Laughing loudly.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K: a little grumpy, a
little happy.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Our chai times are
still very entertaining.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>The Scary Revenge – 2014<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K: You said it is
going to be a romantic movie. It was an action movie. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>R: Didn’t you see,
there was a love angle to it?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K: keeping quiet.
After a few days… the scene was reversed.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>R: It was not a
horror movie, K. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K: Of course it was
R. In fact the name itself was “Bhoothnath Returns” </b><b><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Since then we have
arrived on a compromise. No surprise movie tickets, please! <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So as we complete 6 years of insanity, madness, fun, and
togetherness, I still feel it’s a dream. I pinch myself every time and realize,
No, it’s not. It is the most beautiful reality of my life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today we saw Interstellar and the movie very subtly sent out
a message that love knows no dimensions. It is beyond any physical dimensions. It is a bond
that exists beyond the physical dimensions of our lives.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Wedding Anniversary R… Life is worth living only
because you are a part of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love and lots of love (beyond physical dimensions),</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
K<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-22721695590896533692014-10-31T02:23:00.000-07:002014-10-31T03:28:10.725-07:00The Business of Sorts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>
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Just like the American Dream, we Indians have a desi version
of it – The Great Indian Dream. It starts from our childhood when the pressure of studies is invariably thrus upon us. Study well (read score only 90 and above), get
a job in an MNC only with a good package and if possible an onsite opportunity
too. Then of course <b>MARRIAGE and KIDS</b> happen, and then etc etc. The point that
one must note here is that the thought that a job provides safety and security
is drilled deep into our heads. The prospect of doing a business drives our
parents crazy. Thus, most of us regretfully fall in the “service class” except
for the few adventurous ones who explore Bizness. Nonetheless, we are all
business men/business women. In fact, I feel we Indians are attuned to business right from the
time we are little racing sperms. Of course the source of our training begins
at home just like Charity. Most of the times our elders don’t even realize that
it is through them that we are aping and shaping our business skills. And thus we all get inducted in to this business of National Interest or The National Business. This business skill is not taught in
any management school. No, No, I am not even talking about the dread MLM- Multi
Level Marketing either. This business is like energy, constant and consistent
in our genes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This business is called “Poking One's Nose in Someone Else’s
Life”. To ease its pronunciation, I have abbreviated it to PONSEL. I quite like
the name. There are separate names to it too, like, “doosron ke phate mein taang
adana, chuadhary ban na etc etc. I am unsure what is it called in different Indian
languages. In case you know, please enlighten me. The phrases like, <b>“none of your business”</b> had been
developed to counter this business and its propagators (whom I call PONSEL’s). Sometimes,
the F word is also accommodated in the sentence. Certain harsh phrases in Hindi
like <b>“tere baap ka kya jaata hai”</b>
(loosely translated – what goes off your father) had also been developed to
counter this concept. PONSEL's are often addressed as "Morons", "Idiots" and in recent times "A-holes" has been topping the charts. However, this business like a cult has grown by leaps and
bounds and has been passed on as a legacy to future generations. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If history is to be believed, foundation of this business
was laid millions of years ago. No scripture or text though reveals about the major
contributors to this concept. I am also unsure if it was initiated by the X
chromosome or its counterpart the Y one. However, the X chromosome has been pretty
active in the expansion of this concept. Ironically, PONSEL binds India
together and has often been synonymous to judging, stereotyping, and gossiping
too. I mean go to any part of India you shall find propagators of PONSEL. People from all walks of life and from all faiths can be found in this business. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember your neighborhood aunty who often told your mother
that her daughter’s skimpy dressing will land her in a problem? Do you recall
the well meaning Sharma uncle who has been the reason why you were pushed in to
engineering though you craved for a Hotel Management degree? How about those
many girls who shunned you because you spoke to “boyis” which meant that you have a loose character? Or how about your well
meaning aunty who wanted you to get married at 25 so that by the time you are
55 your kids are “SETTLED”.The PONSEL's are experts in every subject - religion, career, maternity, relationships, health etc etc. You name it, they know it. Peep in to your own lives and you will find umpteen numbers
of examples to understand my point. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
This business has been thriving for centuries and if experts
are to be believed it will continue to thrive with the same vigor for the next
few centuries too. If stats are to be believed, PONSEL’s have witnessed a tremendous
growth of about 300 % in the last decade thanks to the technology. With the
advent of technology and its fruits like, emails, whats app, viber, LINE,
facebook etc etc, PONSEL’s have been able to reach far off relatives and ex-neighbors
with ease. Facebook though has reported a certain decline off late due to the
Blocking application. However, users of whatsapp and viber have reported a consistent growth.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In one of the weddings that I had been to, my faith in PONSEL’s
of the Y generation (or whats app generation) was restored. The bride and groom
beamed on the stage while they did their customary Namaste and feet touching
act. R has never been an active participant during such gatherings and has
failed miserably in our national business. I think that’s because of his Y chromosome.
But my X chromosomes push me to be actively involved during these times. So I sat
on the red colored sofa which was placed very close to the stage, adored the
bride and the groom and simultaneously kept an eye on their gifts( the
grooms mother thought people may steal it).As I was playing my part of that of
a CBI inspector, I heard a very interesting conversation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>“The bride earns more than the groom, isn’t it?” A girl with
the maroon lipstick whispered.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>“Yeah yeah. She is with such a big company. But see the
groom is better looking than her.” The girl with the brown lipstick responded.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>“It is for the money that he has married her. Else there are
girls dying to marry him.” – Red Lipstick girl</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>“Jaane de na, apne ko kya( leave it ya, how does it matter
to us).” – Brown Lipstick</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact weddings or social gatherings are the place where
PONSEL’s find their prospects. Some prospects are victimized, some replicate
the PONSEL business going further, or some escape it. In almost all the
gatherings that I have attended I was either looked as a prospective bride or a
prospective procreation machine. Thus, off late I started flaunting my mangalsutra
and snake long sindoor to escape aunties and uncles who were eager to know if I
am married. If not they could suggest the alliance of their daughters husbands
aunt’s neighbors sisters son for me. If yes, then it was a different game
altogether. I thought I had out mastered them. But I was so wrong. The focus
shifted from my forehead (that is where the sindoor is visible) to my tummy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>"How long have you been married?" Staring at my tummy.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>"6 years." Me uncomfortable.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>"How many kids?" The stare still unbelievably stuck at my tummy.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>"None." Me getting up to walk away.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>"Huuuuuuuuh!!! Almost in a heart attack mode… jaldi karo."</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>"Sure aunty" and then Running mode.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nonetheless, I had burnt my fingers so often that I learnt
my lesson, well. So when I attended the recent wedding, I confidently faked a baby bump.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4bLsFKnzkzN3aeqBPc2PPrRlV0Kc9MaK5WEl6YvtniRitDoQHWcHVqxIKrvEMhLc-X7RL14QWOZ9xWSJoa-fN8_Nyc5ypM1vRa7IQVhW2CHzw0SlJnjLDwNCRXkXma-SVZ-iIpH6HB5o/s1600/found-your-nose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4bLsFKnzkzN3aeqBPc2PPrRlV0Kc9MaK5WEl6YvtniRitDoQHWcHVqxIKrvEMhLc-X7RL14QWOZ9xWSJoa-fN8_Nyc5ypM1vRa7IQVhW2CHzw0SlJnjLDwNCRXkXma-SVZ-iIpH6HB5o/s1600/found-your-nose.jpg" height="160" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo credit:www.slodive.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
K</div>
</div>
Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-79303698318666425362014-10-29T02:24:00.000-07:002014-10-29T02:44:28.568-07:00Home Sweet Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDwHMxpcseW6hx_rAvyoEp3L88zdIzW_kOJuQwR1-8Jo3pXKbyCD5wrJYl-tPq-4F1pp_fBxV9UGqFuNFhAcJkJh9rU_3E2sYIXx_isOlOdECCGUHm6N8TxWGUw734V0Ccpt7UEg58qY/s1600/home-sweet-home-moving-new-house-greeting-card-28592485.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDwHMxpcseW6hx_rAvyoEp3L88zdIzW_kOJuQwR1-8Jo3pXKbyCD5wrJYl-tPq-4F1pp_fBxV9UGqFuNFhAcJkJh9rU_3E2sYIXx_isOlOdECCGUHm6N8TxWGUw734V0Ccpt7UEg58qY/s1600/home-sweet-home-moving-new-house-greeting-card-28592485.jpg" height="247" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit: As mentioned at the bottom of the picture</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the flight took off, I felt a part of me melting. My
hands wanted to reach out for the ground, touch it, again. My heart was racing
against the time that quickly flew by. The flight began reaching for the
heights only moving away from the ground. Soon, all I could see were tiny houses
and men which resembled my nieces’ toys. Nothing was visible clearly except for
lights. Have you ever see Mumbai from the sky at night? It looks breathtakingly
beautiful, like a newlywed bride, ornamented from head to toe, especially
during deepawali where each house glitters with radiant lights of several
colors. It looks like tiny pieces of jewels have been scattered all over the
city and they shine with all their might. Soon, the flight turned and the
lights flickered, slowly disappearing in the past. The fact that I had left it
behind once again pinched me and the throbbing pain that had temporarily
subsided, emerged out of nowhere. I was leaving it behind, a city I call home, a
place where my heart still lives, with my family and friends. I have been through this several times. And each time the pain gets worse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It has been 6 long years but I haven’t been able to accept
the fact that I have moved away from home or as Mom often says I have moved
ahead to build a Home of my own. She has never really accepted my sulking about
the fact that I live away from her. She often tells me how technology has
advanced and how we can now connect with anyone, anywhere, anytime. When she
got married and relocated to Mumbai, all she could do was write a letter to her
parents and wait for several days before she could even hear from them.
Sometimes, the letter got lost in transit and Mom had to write another one and
wait again. But now you click a button and see each other, she exclaims. She is
right but then the daughter in me fails to accept it. This technology doesn’t
wake me up with a kiss on my forehead by my mother. It doesn’t really cook the
most amazing kheer when I crave for it. It doesn’t hug me when I feel lost and
lonely. It never laughs with me hysterically for hours together over a silly
joke. Honestly, it doesn’t really serve me much and I don’t have a rationale to
explain this to you, or to anyone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Please don’t get me wrong. I am happy woman. I am head over
heels for my man. He is my best friend and the most amazing person I have ever
come across. I live a life that several people dream of. My husband means my
world to me. With him, I have found love over and over again. The city that I
moved to has its own impeccable charm, the pleasant weather, the many flowers,
the many chirping birds, the tress, the cleanliness, and the many lovely
people. It is here that R and I discovered each other, created fond memories,
and begun our new life, together. It has to be perfect, isn’t it? But it is
not. I am happy but a part of me is sad, too. That throbbing pain surfaces
often, leaving me in utter dismay. I cannot explain it in words, I cannot deny
it, and I cannot accept it either. So what do I do? Let it torment me forever
or accept it and make peace with it? Easier said than done, huh? What should I
do when all I want is be in Mumbai? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So as the throbbing pain continued to hit my ribs trying to
break through, I slipped in to my shell of denial and refusal. But then I also
introspected for a long time throughout my journey to office, today morning.
Enough is enough. This suffering cannot continue forever. It has to <b>STOP.</b> And it has to <b>STOP NOW</b>. Just then my chauffeur who drives
me to office everyday interrupted my thoughts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How was your vacation, Madam?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ah! It was amazing, Anna.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh wow. Your home is in Mumbai?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, Anna.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Super, you have two homes, one here and one there. Lucky
Madam. He beamed at me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This thought had always been crossing my mind.I am a
part of two homes, two lovely homes. But then I always shooed it away. I always
found it irrational. Honestly, there is no denying that a part of me will
always remain in Mumbai, with my parents. It will breathe through them. Thus, Mumbai
will always remain <b>MY</b> <b>HOME,</b> irrespective of the situations
and circumstances. It is the ultimate truth. But then, there is another truth
too, equally right. I have another <b>HOME</b>.
It is here, with R, where I live with him, celebrating love and companionship. R
now finds his family in me; he calls this city, his <b>HOME. </b>It is here that we celebrate moments together. My world now
revolves around R. We laugh together, fight over silly things, kiss and makeup.
I have found peace in his arms and joy in giggles. This matters to me just as
much as the grin on my parents face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I am still not convinced. I am unhappy. It is a vicious
circle I am stuck in. One moment I understand everything and the next moment I
am still aching to be with my parents, in Mumbai. I know I will find happiness there.
I know I need to find a way out. I need to take charge of this situation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother always tells me that happiness is elusive. She
often tells me to find joy in the <b>NOW
moment,</b> in what I already have. She says one can find happiness if one
intends to. Yes, for someone as ignorant as me, this is too much to digest. But
somewhere I know she is right. Life has indeed moved on. Nothing remains
forever. Situations change. I am no more just a spoilt daughter; I am a dear
wife too. So I refuse to let this throbbing pain kill me any further. I accept
this change. I know it is not going to be easy. This acceptance is a daunting
task for me. But I also know that I have everything to be happy about- Loving parents,
a doting husband, and caring family and friends. I shall no more get stuck in
this obnoxious circle of perplexity anymore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
They say,” Home is where the heart is.” Indeed, my Home is
where my Heart is…. And my heart is with the people I love the most. I have two
Homes. Thus, the two pieces of my heart shall henceforth blissfully live within
the boundaries of love and affection in both these places that I now call <b>“Home” – Home Sweet Home.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Love,</b><br />
<b>K</b><br />
<b>(I can almost see a Halo over my head)</b></div>
</div>
Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-85663076919579100052014-10-01T09:32:00.001-07:002014-10-01T10:09:47.173-07:00Insider story the Outsider way<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day I was watching Chak De, yeah yeah the Shahrukh
Khan starrer which introduced us to “Women's Hockey”. It also proved that
Shahrukh Khan can play a better role where he doesn’t have to open his arms in
the air, or dance in sarso ke khet. It was a good watch. I quite enjoyed the
scene when the players are introducing themselves with their names followed by the
names of their respective states, pissing off their new coach, our Hero. He finally makes
them realize how they are representing a country and not a state anymore. Quite bollywood I must say. Nonetheless, the movie was such a break
from some non sense movies that bollywood has been shoving down our throats, off late. Par
real life mein aisa hota hai kya? I doubt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you are an Indian and are living in a state/place/city
away from your hometown (which may also be a place where you originally don’t
belong to) you must have at least come across one of these statements in your
lifetime.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Our city was far far better before “outsiders”
crowded it.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->The city was cleaner before, thanks to the “outsiders”
who make it dirty.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->You “outsiders”, you live in our city, take away
our jobs, and show us attitude.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Oh! God the pollution has increased, thanks to “outsiders”.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And my most favourite, "these outsiders live in our city and
abuse it too." <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span> I
have heard this one umpteen number of times. There is no exhaustive list; it
can go on and on. We Indians, always try to find an easy way out. And the easiest thing to have ever been done
is “Blame”. We blame the govt, the neighbor, the auto driver, the man driving
next to you, the school teacher, the paper wala, doodhwala, the domestic help,
the spouse, the in laws and the kids too, sometimes that inanimate table and
chair too. I have started refraining from Facebook these days because it has
become a strong medium of people to blame each other. And I am guilty too. I am
sure sometime in my career as Facebookian (that’s a new term), I must have also
blamed someone. Sad! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thankfully, I don’t carry the guilt of calling someone an
outsider, directly or indirectly. I have been sane enough to refrain from that. My soul doesnt carry the heavy burden of being a racist. Thank goodness for Maa Baap ke sanskaar or gurujaon ka asshirwaad. ;) (That’s
what one of my aunt says when I do something that she considers right.) <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what is that I am trying to say? Simple, I want to
understand who is an outsider in India and who is an insider? Going by the
current trend and tides, I understand that anyone who is not a local is an
outsider. Insider is the one who speaks the local language, who belongs to a
community that for generations has known to be from that particular city, who
has a particular last name, etc etc. If not then, you better accept that you
are outsider. No debates. No no it doesn’t matter if you share a bond with the
place, or if you love the city more than home, or if you are working your best
to make it a better place, or if you are a law abiding citizen. Told you right,
it just doesn’t matter. You are an outsider and that’s it. Sorry to break your bubble but I just can't help it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first time someone called me an outsider, I cried
buckets, sobbed like someone had snatched my identity. It was like someone
invited me to feast on yummy rasgullas and then all I was served was long,
green, spicy chillies. Okay, bad example but that’s exactly how I felt. The
spice was so strong that I can still feel a tinge on my tongue, sometimes okay
most of the times.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How could they call me an outsider? I growled. I am an
Indian, and I am living in India. This is my right. My constitution gives me
the right to do so. But who was I fighting with? With my own people. They were
mine. Their passports were made in “India”. Their identity to the exterior
world was that of an Indian. They spoke a language that so many other Indians
spoke. They were the same crazy people who thronged the streets when India
grabbed the world cup. They were the same people I walked with silently holding
a candle in my hand when a daughter of my country was violated. They were the
same people who took matters in their hands when the city I live in needed help
to preserve its lakes, its heritage. Yet! I was an outsider. I was slapped with
it on my face or punched hard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And mind you, I am not talking about the “uneducated-ganwaar-anpadh
log”. Here I was with the “elite - literate - class - padhe - likhe - log" who thought
so. In fact very recently someone told me that “they are the most down to earth
and easy people to live with”. No denying that however saying that we are
better than the rest sucks. However, what can you do to correct it? For ages we
have been programmed to believe that we are the best. See, all our states are
divided based on the languages of the masses; our politicians have enforced a
culture which glorifies a particular language and demeans the other. People
kill each other in the name of language, religion, caste, creed, community etc
etc. Sadly, we are still following that. We are refusing to look at the world
with open eyes and an open heart. We have toiled so hard to eradicate casteism
from our country which specifically meant that the so called higher caste
people are better than the ones in the so called lower caste. But then we are
still stuck with our differences. When will we learn to celebrate our
differences? So much for our Prime Minister’s “Ek Bharat, Shreshtha Bharat”
campaign. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also know of people who live in developed cities and make
fun of the no so developed people and the states. Then, how on earth can we
progress as a nation? Then how the hell are we different from these so called
politicians who make use of divisive politics for their ulterior motives? And
then we sulk ki India aisa kyun hai? I don’t want to get preachy; please it is
not my forte ;) All I know is that no individual is known or rather should not be
known by his religion, caste, creed, or community. They don’t choose it. They
are just born there. But this little thing is tough to be accepted by many.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, finally I have gracefully accepted it and silently
snubbed the logical Indian that lived inside me. So if now people call me an
outsider I smile and say THANK YOU. Thank you to make me realize, we still have
a long way to go. Thank you to make me understand that mere education cannot
open the minds of certain individuals. Thank you for opening my eyes to the sad
state of affairs in my own nation…Thank you, now I know that when I bring up my
kids what I shouldn’t teach them. Thank you, so much. I also call some of these
“we are the better community” or “we are better people” <b>Morons</b> in my head
multiple times. This is racism, crystal clear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hey, I was just thinking how does it work in inter caste or
inter community marriages? Perhaps, this insane thinking that “we are the
better breed” kills so much of love in the society. And how would couples in
love from different communities address each other? Something like, “O my wife-
from- the -better community, what’s up for dinner? Or, Oh! My “best- language-in-the-world-speaking –husband” let us go for a movie. Seriously? <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
R and I speak different languages, belong to different
communities. Thankfully we were sane enough to love our differences too. Did I
tell you, my mother in law is a bong and she addresses me as “mei” in Bangla. I know of so so so many Indians who have developed love for a language foreign to them. I know of Indians who love feasting on dishes that are prepared in communities different from theirs. And I know of friendships which have stood the test of time, irrespective of their differences. Such people restore my faith in humanity, in Indians. In fact both my best friends speak languages that I don't know. One is a Bong and the other is a Kannadiga. They have showered so much love on me in spite of the differences in our culture and language. I believe, some love needs to be injected in the society. We
have a lot more to learn from our movies than just the songs, sigh!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This topic is quite stressful; trust me. I suggest, let us breathe
deeeeeeeeply and relax. Time for some good news.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
India's shining star - the unbreakable, Mary Kom has won gold again for India. Ah! Such a proud
moment for India, for her, for her family, and for all of us, isn’t it? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh! By the way does she belong to your state or community or
does she speak your language? ;)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So from an Outsider (I am not from Manipur) to an Insider
(she represented India and not just Manipur) a hearty congratulations to you, Mary! You go girl, go
conquer the world! More power to you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
K<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwE_yfNCVmGDKRdJq1SM5edLAvAVBEvohFs1zUYsPhged02ZqlJu2KGjiFFogglNdcKPXMgmh3iVzFBfLO2EizFWhNysVuK2cBQ8SF0tCvdE9bTk5gf8Ci13_jU6GgavB7RQdY66RoUN8/s1600/Martin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwE_yfNCVmGDKRdJq1SM5edLAvAVBEvohFs1zUYsPhged02ZqlJu2KGjiFFogglNdcKPXMgmh3iVzFBfLO2EizFWhNysVuK2cBQ8SF0tCvdE9bTk5gf8Ci13_jU6GgavB7RQdY66RoUN8/s1600/Martin.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit: www.mylearning.org</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-65119696001365201472014-09-22T03:31:00.001-07:002014-09-22T03:36:40.988-07:00The Agony of Vrindavan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>Dear Ms. Actress<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I always choose to be oblivious to the statements made by
politicians. Moreover it is not uncommon to see politicians suffering from a
serious case of foot in the mouth disease. And going by the current scenario,
the disease looks to be on an epidemic endangering the sanity of the common
Indians, like me. I wanted to write this letter not because something that you
have said has hurt me but for the sheer apathy that you have publicly displayed
towards a weaker part of my society which for ages has been silently victimized.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You recently questioned that, “Why widows from Bihar and
West Bengal crowd Vrindavan?” Honestly, I do not have an answer for this and it
is quite evident that these widows who have been trying to gather pieces of
their shattered life at the feet of their God do not know it, either. However,
one must look at this issue from a different perspective. Long after Sati was proscribed as illegal in
an attempt to save the lives of hundreds of innocent women, the society found a
new means to get rid of the widows. Families decided to abandon them because
after the death of their husbands, they looked more like a burden for them. The society demanded from them that they live
at the mercy of others, give up on all the material needs and desires. They
were compelled to live a life reduced to pleading and borrowing and ultimately
waiting for death to claim it’s right on them. Going by what is available on
the internet today many of these women prefer death over life. It means an end
to their misery and the only light in their otherwise dark lives. However, for
centuries we have chosen to turn a blind eye to their turmoil and continued to
believe that this is what has to happen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today we live in an India that is toiling hard at various
levels to uplift women, to empower them and to make them strong. Our PM, Mr.
Narendra Modi has time and again appealed that we stop atrocities against women
and treat them as equals. Then why have you singled out these widows from
Vrindavan or for that matter from any state of India? Isn’t this an atrocity against them? You suggested
that they must live in temples in Bihar and West Bengal and not make Vrindavan
their home. That’s pretty convenient, isn’t it? However, I have a different viewpoint
on this. I believe if they deserve to live only in temples then how does it
matter if the temple is in Bihar or West Bengal, or for that matter in
Vrindavan? None of these Gods or the temples have the power to make the ever
rotting lives of these widows any better. Or did you simply mean that widows from WB and
Bihar must replicate the Vrindavan model in their respective states? I think
that is not a bad idea either. It is simple logic, isn’t it? While we are
striving with one Vrindavan, let us create several vrindavans and further more
add to India’s agony.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These vrindavan widows belong to our country and should be
treated like a part of us. They are a constant reminder that we have been
indifferent to their plight and I am unsure for how long. I am certain you understand
that these widows do not like to be singled out. No one wants to leave the
comfort of their homes and crowd a city/place. May be we need to dig a little
deeper and examine the roots of this problem. There could be a possibility that
they are escaping. May be they are escaping the brutal clutches of the society.
May be they are evading the atrocious intentions of their families. May Be
Vrindavan is where they find refuge and safety. Or May be Vrindavan makes their
end easier.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How I wish we as a society could work towards eradicating
age old traditions. How I wish we could lend a hand to these hapless widows to
help them lead a life of dignity and respect. How I wish we could make them
independent so that no widow could ever crowd a city, a temple, or a country.
How I wish political sector of the society could work towards rebuilding a life
of meaning for these widows, making them an integral part of the society. How I
wish we could be a little more thoughtful and considerate. How I wish we could
ensure that no girl of today becomes one of the vulnerable widows of tomorrow. How I wish we could work on the deeper roots of this problem. Oh! How I wish.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
India has always
been about its states, and languages, and caste, and creed, etc etc. It has always
been about division, and separation. Of course, these widows who have been stripped off their
right to live a life of respect should also be stripped off their right to live where
their bleeding and broken heart wants to. So much for “Ek Bharat, Shreshtha Bharat?" Though I wonder, how this so called <b>“crowding
effect”</b>doesn't apply to actors?” Don't we all know how aspiring actors come from different parts of India to Mumbai to try their luck in Bollywood. Does that mean they are crowding the city? There are film
industries all across India and these aspiring actors should just stick around
to the ones in their states, may be. Oh! But then we are talking about the
suave, cultured, and upper class society here and these rules do not at all apply to
them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I conclude my letter, let me be very clear to you. I am
not complaining neither am I contesting your views. I would never dare to do
so. I am just trying to bravely see through the ugliest aspect of the lives of
my sisters living in Vrindavan. And as I glance through their lives, I feel a
sense of shame and guilt creeping through me, vigorously shaking my very
existence as a woman of India. I feel hollow from within. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As much as we try to run away from it, the fact remains that
you and I are equally responsible for the rotting lives of these widows who
have been reduced to just a piece of carcass left on the streets to fend for
themselves, trying to find refuge in their God who like us has abandoned them,
long ago. It is not they who are crowding our city; it is we who have crowded
their lives with a sham.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nonetheless, the question still looms large, why are these
widows crowding Vrindavan? Do you have an answer?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Regards,</b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>K</b></div>
</div>
Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-67662743149257951642014-07-08T03:47:00.000-07:002014-07-08T03:47:01.532-07:00Of a New Phase and First Love!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Today is a special day for me. Of course, today marks the birth of my first love and I am still smitten by him. But that has for the first time in so many
years become secondary. Today is the last day of my life….. In my twenties.
After today I will never be a 20’s girl ever. Why? Well, tomorrow marks the beginning
of a new era. I am turning 30 tomorrow or rather tonight when the needles of my
wall clock will unite in joy marking the beginning of 9<sup>th</sup> July 2014.
In their unison,20’s will fade away and 30’s will be standing by my bedside
for me to open my eyes and welcome it with a piece of cake. I don’t know why
people make such a fuss about turning 30. And I certainly <b>DO NOT</b> believe in
the "30 is the new 20" fad. In fact turning 30 can have its own rewards. I am
glad no one will walk up to me and give me un-necessary gyaan about procreating
before 30. And you have no clue how relieved it feels to know that. Or maybe
you do. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Am I sad? No way. Am I sacred? Not at all. I am rather excited,
thrilled, and eager to know what my life holds for me, now. I recall clearly how
excited I was on my 20<sup>th</sup> birthday. I was no more a teenager, which by
all means meant that my parents would take me seriously, I would have a say in
many decisions, and so many other civil liberties. But nobody told me that life
will get tougher, that I will falter on many occasions, that I will meet wrong
people, that I will trust cheats, that I will make wrong choices, etc etc. But
then all of this also meant that I will sail through all this, that I will dust
myself and get up, that I will rise to the occasion, that I will learn the
importance of family and true friends, that I will discover the real me, away
from the qualm and quacks of the deceiving world, that ultimately I will meet
the right people, and that ultimately I will learn to differentiate right from
wrong. Last one decade has been eventful. Life changed quite a bit. I
was done with my degrees, started working, welcomed my darling little niece, fell in love and married R, Dad retired from his professional life, and my little
brother completed his masters with flying colors and is now settled in a job, he thoroughly enjoys. I also moved base from Mumbai to another beautiful city, made some deep
friendships, and came closer to God.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">You see, while I was in my early twenties, I made desperate
attempts to get myself accepted. Agree or not, we all do this. I looked around
for approval from people. I felt sad when people did not accept me the way I
was. So I made more attempts and camouflaged myself beneath the unruly opinions
of other. And then came a point when I decided to say “FO” and as I slowly moved
to my late twenties, I became clearer. Today, I know exactly what I want from
life. I am no more deceived by the glitz and glamour of the world Now, I no
longer require someone to approve of my dress, or my choices, or my opinions,
or my looks, or anything for that matter. I wear what I like; I do what I want,
what makes me happy. I certainly seek advice from my loved ones every now and
then and I am so blessed that they are with me to guide and enlighten me,
always. I have started counting my
blessings more often. May be I have become wiser. May be, just may be and this
is exactly why I am not scared of aging. Age brings wisdom. It certainly does.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So as I close a chapter, I am excited about this new one
that I am about to begin. Are you sailing in the same boat as mine? Wish you loads
and loads of luck and love. Let us cheer loudly and say, <b>“Bring it on 30. I am ready for this adventure.” </b>And if anyone makes
a fuss about it, just turn to them and say<b>, I am now an improved and updated version of myself.” </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b><i>Meanwhile, I want to wish a very happy birthday to one of the best Captains, Indian
Cricket Team has ever seen - Sourav Ganguly aka Dada. You were, are, and will always be my most favorite cricketer and my first love.</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Love,</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Khushi</span></div>
</div>
Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-56940515819649216852014-05-10T10:12:00.000-07:002014-05-10T10:47:16.091-07:00My mother is an Actor, an Angel, a Doctor, Super-Woman, and a Wizard too ….!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I was just about 4 years old and hit my forehead somewhere
while playing. It bled like water from a running tap. I was immediately rushed
to a hospital and administered about 3 stitches. The wound was just above my
eyes hence immense care was taken to prevent me from turning blind. I vaguely
remember bawling and howling. Yes, I was in pain but after few minutes most of
the tear that was shed was to get my mother’s attention and sympathy. My mother
stood next to me trying to pacify me and I am certain she understood that most of
sobbing was a drama. So just as I thought my melodrama should be taken to the
next level, something strange happened. My mother started crying standing next
to me. (Back then as a child I didn’t notice but now I recall that she did
not shed even a single tear). I asked her why she was crying and she promptly replied<b> “when baby cries, Mummy cries and when
baby smiles, Mummy smiles”.</b> I immediately wiped my tears and smiled. After
few years I now understand that if I am a drama queen, the genes are certainly inherited
from her. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When I was about 14 and dad was very unwell, we saw another
side of Mom. She was managing Dad’s illness, an 8 year old naughty son and 2
young girls, along with a very demanding job. One must also know that finances
were screwed up because dad’s ill health did not permit him to work hence he
was on a sabbatical. Those 6 months were a nightmare. But then we siblings couldn’t
comprehend that mom was going through so much. Life was portrayed as normal as
possible to us. All we knew was a little about dad’s illness which was often
covered up with something easy. Our fee was paid on time; our recreation was
just as it was before dad’s illness. Birthday was just like any other birthday.
Our lunch box was always full and so was our stomach. I don’t remember making any compromise at all.
And mom’s signature smile was pasted across her face throughout that period.
Since dad’s doctor was quite far off the onus of taking him to the doctor was also
on Mom. She managed that too. After every visit she said, <b>“Papa is doing so well and he will be fine in no time.” </b>Her determination
finally saw victory and Dad indeed recovered well and our family bounced back.
It was only after about a decade that we siblings realized that quite a lot of
mom’s gold jewelry was missing. As some one once told me , <b>"Angels are packaged as mothers or vice
versa."</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I suffered from frequent cold and cough all through my
childhood. And it drained me so much that a hyper active child like me turned
in to a sulking chicken within minutes. So my mother would make a kadha with
some handpicked ingredients, which tasted the ugliest in this whole wide world.
Every time she insisted that she has changed the ingredients and the kadha was
tastier now, however it turned out to be uglier. But 2 days of the mission ugly
kadha and I could run 100 miles without gasping for breath. After my wedding
when I wanted to make it for my husband, my mother shared the magic ingredients
with me and said, <b>“Add a tinge of love
to it. The kadha works faster that way.”</b> The little secret of my fast
recovery was finally revealed. Who cares about Medical science, I believe in my
mother’s kadha just as the world believes in a doctor’s prescription.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">There was a time we siblings thought mom had clones or
copies of her or whatever you call it. She never ever missed any of our
important events. Be it my interschool competitions, my brother’s cricket
match, PTA meetings at our school, annual functions, open houses, etc etc in spite
of being a working woman. And I don’t remember she ever sulked about it. I
still wonder how she managed all of it. Added to it was our regular falling
ill, doctor’s visit, our homework, keeping an eye on us so that we grow up as
fine individuals (my brother and I have nicknamed her as ACP Pradyuman because
of her investigating abilities), managing our silly sibling squabbles, our
annoying tantrums, untimely demands for sandwiches and samosas, and dealing
with unreasonable neighbors because we siblings were the naughtiest of all. I have
now come to understand that Super women are clad in simple sarees and they
fight smaller yet incalculable battles every day.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Mom: Are you alright,
K? Mom called me at 6 in the morning.</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>K: Yes Maa. </b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Mom: Stop lying. I am
feeling restless since yesterday. Tell me the truth. </b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>K: I had food
poisoning last night Maa. But I am fine now. Don’t worry.</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Mom: Pause for few
seconds. Take care. Now sleep. I will call you again.</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">After I hung up I looked at my husband suspiciously. <b>“I didn’t tell her anything. I have been
with you all night”,</b> he explained and he wasn’t lying. Later on several occasions
I apprehended that my mother could feel my pain even when she wasn’t told
anything. I don’t know how she does this? My brother and I haven’t been able to
solve this mystery. My sister seems to have reached at some point at least
considering that she is a mother too. <b>“It’s
a power switch that is turned on when you become a mother”</b>, my sister jokingly
said one day. Well, maybe she is right. But whatever it is my mother has this
strange ability of reading my words even when I say nothing. She reads my voice
on the phone even when I try to be as normal as I can. And she can see through
my smile even when I haven’t cried a single tear. I have serious doubts that
she has attended some of those classes at Hogwarts School.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I can write for hours together about Maa. The love that she
has bestowed upon us is precious. I couldn’t have had a better mother than her.
So every time I reincarnate (if I do), I pray that Maa is reincarnated as my
Maa (I am sure she is already fretting at this thought). For whatever we
siblings are today, a larger acclaim for the same goes to this beautiful lady who
silently stood behind us and by us throughout while we were busy growing up.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Happy Mother’s Day Maa. Life is worth living and lively only
because it is filled with your incorrigible optimism, joyous giggle and
selfless love.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">You are our Rock Star.</span></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsUtq4oX8vtYc4sFVGmtJeuCVRe6XPYVRBruzrGmKxnmX9bY5lMOmBdbFU8haAnvNbBAnOiSrWqdAo2YtIPFk1Kq1yBfCIxwhmPQS-wjtqDHtDp_YHcEIdlbblKciv-gHhK229TyAGqfs/s1600/Maa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsUtq4oX8vtYc4sFVGmtJeuCVRe6XPYVRBruzrGmKxnmX9bY5lMOmBdbFU8haAnvNbBAnOiSrWqdAo2YtIPFk1Kq1yBfCIxwhmPQS-wjtqDHtDp_YHcEIdlbblKciv-gHhK229TyAGqfs/s1600/Maa.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Like Mother, Like Daughter</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Love,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">S, K, and A.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">(Badmaash Bacche)</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">P.S. I have a strong belief that every mother in the world is beautiful and wonderful. Happy Mother's Day to your Mother as well. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Also, please ignore the editing issues in this post. There are many but I just didn't have the patience to edit it. I was super excited about posting it because I wanted Maa to read it before she called it a day. </span></span></b></div>
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-91311192417972342032014-03-29T00:11:00.001-07:002014-03-29T00:17:04.966-07:00I have a PROBLEM and I am ANGRY<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I am angry, in fact I am very angry and upset. I have tonnes of things piled up on my head today and I need to complete them at the earliest. But I want to write. I am not the kinds who can keep everything wrapped up inside my heart and fake a smile easily. I have to vent it out to feel better. </div>
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I have always loved kids. To all the smart ones out there who are dying to ask me, then why don’t I have one of my own? You can read my post on this hot topic here (http://khushizdiary.blogspot.in/2014/01/the-curious-case-of-aging-ovaries-and.html). Now back to what I was saying, I love kids. I adore them. And there is a reason behind it. Kids are not manipulative like their adult counterparts. Kids, don’t cheat or stab you on your back. Kids, don’t gossip. Kids are honest and most of the times upfront too. They speak their mind and have no inhibitions. I always believed that kids are a better company until this morning. One call from <b>"A" </b>and this bubble that I lived in for years blasted leaving me clueless and agonized. </div>
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<b>A</b> is a lovely mother of a lovely little 6 year old. She informed me that her daughter has excelled in her academics and scored a brilliant 97%. </div>
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Woohoo!! I jumped and congratulated her. "Your little girl excels in everything", I screamed joyfully on the phone. But the reaction from <b><span lang="en-US">A</span></b> was faint. </div>
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"Khushi, my daughter hasn’t scored well in other things. She has <b>scored only 89% in Confidence, Honesty, Integrity, and Carefulness</b>. <b><span lang="en-US">A </span></b>was certainly worried.</div>
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Was I listening things? The moppet was ranked and judged on these parameters? I was stunned.</div>
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"You must be kidding", I tried faking a giggle.</div>
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"No, no, she has really scored pathetic in these things." <b>A</b> replied sadly.</div>
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"But wasn’t she doing well in her extra curricular activities? And she has won several awards too. So how could she be not good with her confidence and all that." I tried understanding this whole concept.</div>
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"God knows", <b>A</b> sighed and hung up.</div>
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I felt a whirlpool and a hurricane and a tsunami of anger roaring inside my heart and lungs and a strange pain in my rib cage. Are kids as little as 6 getting judged on these parameters? And how do teachers arrive at this score? "Oh, you little boy, you haven’t been able to learn this poem that your forefathers wrote 4 centuries ago. Though the poem holds no significance as such you must still leanr it. Now that you couldn't, you score a 50% on confidence. Now you little girl in the corner, you have not been keeping your books inside the bag as I instructed you too hence you score a 20% on carefulness. And you little girl, laughing and giggling happily, you share your lunch box with everyone and others also share their lunch box with you. Sharing is a bad thing and you have no integrity at all. So you get a 30% in Integrity. But you the silent little lad, you have been learning all that I have been teaching and preaching without asking any question, hence you score a 100 % in honesty. </div>
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Grrrrrrr......I am annoyed.</div>
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Come to think of it. Are we being really fair to our children? Are we not pushing them in to a tunnel where they will be judged, at times humiliated and then made to sit in the corner? Are we not teaching them to silently comply to the non rationale norms of the society? And are we being good parents at all by accepting all that schools have to offer in the name of education? </div>
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Teachers of course need to inform parents about the child’s strength and weaknesses. It helps parents in better parenting. It helps the child to understand the difference between right and wrong and that’s how kids learn. Teachers and schools play such a vital role in guiding and molding kids in to better humans. But we have absolutely no right to judge a child on his honesty or integrity or whatever. I am not against teachers or schools. I am against this mad race that kids are forced to run. </div>
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As a child I looked up to my teachers for guidance and support. I was a very naughty child and my teachers will vouch for it. Throwing ink on others, playing games during history class, looking outside the window whenever I got bored and what not. Yet my mother was never told that her daughter is careless or dishonest or has low confidence. My strengths were channelized in the right direction and my weaknesses were worked upon. I was punished for my mistakes and appreciated for my achievements. <span lang="en-US">I guess I was extremely fortunate to have wonderful teachers who were passionate about their work. My teachers loved us. They were stern yet affectionate. And whatever little I am today, a large part of the credit goes to my teachers. </span></div>
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Times have changed and so has our perception about education and success. Our expectations from our children have also undergone a serious metamorphosis. However why do we fail to understand that a six year 20 years ago and a six year old now has the same expectation? All that a kid wants is love, care, guidance and a place where he/she can be himself/herself without any inhibitions and express freely with out the fear of getting judged or rejected. <span lang="en-US">I am sad, I am very sad. I wish I could change the way our education system is shaping up. Hundreds of so called International Schools have come up but unless we really do something about this madness that has become a part of our education, international schools won't fetch us anything.</span><br />
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Stop judging children. Encourage their curiosity. Support their little ambition. Participate in their seamless imagination. Lend a hand when they fall. Caress their wounds. Help them become better humans tomorrow. Don’t rank them. We are here to nurture tender little wings of our children so that they can fly but all we are doing is mercilessly chopping off their soft feathers.<br />
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I have a problem and I am in agonized.<br />
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Angry, Anxious, and Annoyed,<br />
Khushi<br />
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I am sharing this wonderful video that further explains my agony.<br />
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478829132863996052.post-16596210946671928422014-01-13T08:29:00.001-08:002014-01-13T17:57:03.415-08:00On Daily Soaps and Enlightenment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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These days I am on a research mission, picking up subjects that were earlier left unattended by me. I have picked up a new pair of lenses as well and I can now look at things from a different perspective. Recently, I decided to indulge in some of the daily soaps on our national television and see if my perspective on them could change. I was amazed to find out that these soaps were not at all what I had heard or thought about them. I always detested them and I must admit I am guilty to bits to have neglected these wonderful ladies on screen. 2 days.... just 2 days and I am enlightened. In fact, this morning R accepted that he had finally seen the Halo over my head. In tears I ran towards the mirror, my right leg first and then the left and I talked to myself. If you think I had done this before, then you are wrong. I have learnt it from these soaps. I feel so elated. Not only this, these soaps have also taught me some of the most important lessons of life. I am amazed at how fast and how far our society has grown. I shall not keep these gems with me alone. Hence you are welcome to be enlightened as well.<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;">Five Valuable Lessons for Women:</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;">If you are not married at least 4 times,you are not married at all:</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>Five years of my marriage and I am still with just one husband. Darn! I felt like a failure after I saw that this leading lady was preparing for her 4th wedding with her second husband. Success, really means that you have to be married at least 4 times in one lifetime. Each marriage has to be celebrated with pomp and joy. After all, marriage is just for fun and frolic, is it not? And it is mandatory to hate all four respective husbands because in all probability they will either be your business rivals or they could be friends with your enemies. Also, you have to ensure that all your husbands are happy after the wedding and you have to mandatorily fast for them on Karvachauth. Most of them will love aaloo ka paratha too. I was almost in tears when I saw this. See, this is exactly why men across the globe want Indian women. Because, irrespective of everything, she will still fast for him. Our society has become so advanced yet Indian values are so intact. I am sobbing, already!<br />
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;">You cannot marry the man you love:</span><span lang="en-US" style="font-weight: bold;"> W</span>hat needs to be noted is that you will never ever end up marrying the one you love. The logic is simple. There are 100% chances that however young he is, he will certainly have a past. A past where a woman he loved wore green mascaras, thick black kajal, maroon lipstick, vermilion that started from the Nalasopara of her head and ran through Marine lines on her forehead. She broke his heart and ran away or perhaps died in a car accident. Do not feel relieved that she is dead unless her face is shown when her dead body arrives. Because the dead almost always come back. If the first wife doesn’t resurrect and arrive then chances are quite high that your best friend will suddenly become devilish and marry the man you love. So watch out for your best friends. To tell you, I have two best friends... R is in extreme DANGER!<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;">Talk to yourself so loud that everyone can hear it but you: </span>We have all read that one must sit and spend some time with oneself. This leads to self realization. Based on this concept the women in these soaps talk to themselves. Usually about a plan they plot or about how they feel about their 4 husbands. The key here is that you must compliment your inner words with your expressions. Say, you are planning to save your 4th husband from the clutches of his third wife who is a witch. So you must furrow your eyebrows, shrink your eyes, blink them frequently and gently shake your head first to the left and then to the right. Then lift your head a little up and then a little down. You may also try shedding a few tears but ensure that the kajal remains intact. It isn’t easy at first but then practice makes a man perfect....Oops, sorry a woman too!<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;">The attire and make up matter the most: </span>See it’s very easy. We all believe we are "good women". Hence do not wear heavy make up and heavy jewellery. As far as possible wear cotton suits and sarees. If you are a little modern yet the sati savitri of the house then you can at the most wear a polyester suit with light makeup. Your mascara should be negligible, thin line of kajal, long hair, small vermilion, light pink lipstick. And the most important thing your mangalsutra should be long enough to touch your belly button at least. You may try for one which reaches till your knees as well. But if you are the wicked kind, do not worry. Wear the most expensive jewelery and the most gorgeous make up with snake bindi’s on your forehead. Drape yourself in the most beautiful chiffon sarees with backless blouse. Ensure that your kajal is very thick so that when you talk to yourself like in Point No. 3, your eyes should be able to express every word well. If you belong to the group which is the meanest of all then you can wear tight jeans, short tops and enjoy sips of wine. After all it’s only the mean and wicked women who wear makeups and relish drinks. Other’s just wear a mask and drink “adrak wali chai” which they make for the entire junta in the house!<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;">Babies are made only on rainy days in an isolated place:</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>Just like animals have a mating season, these soaps have taught me that humans too have a mating season<span style="font-weight: bold;">. </span>Irrespective of your status with your current husband, Ding Dong (Read my post on aging ovaries to know in detail about the DING DONG Funda) can only happen on a rainy day when you will certainly be caught in an isolated place outside with him. Such isolated places usually have a place to stay warm, have a comfortable bed and even a kitchen to make coffee. The hormones level will be so high that the next day you will feel morning sickness and you will test positive for pregnancy. The challenge however lies in finding such a place. You may want to try the outskirts of the city or visit a village for some adventure. And do not worry about your future husbands. They are generous enough to accept you with your previous husbands children. Believe me, the kids will love him too. I did not know life was so simply profound. I am touched.<br />
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I am thrilled to have spent so much time on these generous and informative soaps. I know what you are thinking - 2 days and just 5 lessons? However the good news is that I plan to invest and indulge a little more till I am completely submerged from head to toe in these valuable lessons of life.<br />
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Till then, I will order my knee length Mangalsutra and Google about this isolated place where babies are made.... Don’t you know it rains often in Bangalore?<br />
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Love,<br />
Khushi</div>
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Khushihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00885548566979730502noreply@blogger.com1