tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40483617744895080892024-03-14T18:46:15.853+05:30BRAIN BALONEYWe all feel like crap sometimes.Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-41372659045302416692011-02-09T16:06:00.000+05:302011-02-09T16:06:51.514+05:30Hang on, please<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">He is Sam. He is fourteen. I think he's very cool. He plays excellent football, and has a very good haircut. He wears his jeans too low, but it comes off as adorable to me. He's also very funny.<br />
When he first moved here, all the little girls could not stop gushing. I think he deserved it.<br />
He is always very sweet to me, apart from those jokes at my expense. He always asks me to play hide and seek. Sometimes, I do. Sometimes, I do not. But I do think he is very nice.<br />
One thing, I do not like. He smokes too much. But what can I do?<br />
His girlfriend is a girl named Angel. I think thats a very funny name, but what can I do?<br />
<br />
This is the strange nature of a blog post; there's always a 'but'.<br />
<br />
You know how they say, '<i>trouble comes on an idle Tuesday afternoon, when you least expect it.</i>' And then it did, it finally did.<br />
<br />
He fell off the terrace yesterday. He lay there shaking for fifteen minutes, until somebody found him. I did not have the guts to go and see his spattered blood, but my friends did. Its very, very serious and they're saying there's a very dim chance. Its mostly head injury, and with that, you can never say. I cannot imagine.<br />
T'was very, very sad yesterday, it seemed like the whole world had come out to find out whats happening. I think he will like to know, that so many people care. I do too, very much.<br />
His parents are not even in town; nobody can even begin to imagine what they'd be going through.<br />
<br />
I prayed for him yesterday, and I hope he makes it.<br />
<br />
We discussed Tuesdays With Morrie in school yesterday, our teacher had told us to read it. We had a fantastic time, talking about what we liked about Morrie, and what we didn't. He was a funny character, this Morrie. That book is all about death and nothing else has gone through my mind for the past few days. Yesterday was also Tuesday.<br />
Morrie too is also very wise, no. He tells us all these great things about death, that if you learn to die, you learn to live. I liked his ideas about emotions and family more, the Theory of Detachment. A very good scene, part of the ocean, which we enacted out in class yesterday.<br />
Death, death, death. It just won't end. Live like you're dying, my teacher had said.<br />
<br />
Its quite funny the way Morrie absolutely dismissed everything he didn't believe in. The young are not wise, they have very little understanding, he says. He says we will always remain deficient if we keep getting manipulated by people who tell us to buy this perfume, and you'll look pretty, and buy that jeans, and you'll look sexy. This will never complete your spiritual development.<br />
<br />
But here, I think, Morrie is wrong. He fails to understand that these things may be a part of somebody's spiritual development. Does that sound odd? I will feel very, <i>very </i>good if I buy a jeans that makes me look sexy. Better than if I, say, donate that money to a charity or something, however shallow that may sound.<br />
I will feel absolutely ecstatic, if I buy a good perfume. Maybe its Morrie's age. I don't know. But he's not understanding, that deriving pleasure out of simple things in life IS development. Fine, the other love and devotion is important too, but what is so wrong with buying good stuff for yourself? Why shouldn't people buy the next great car if they can afford it and will be on a high for the whole following year, thanks to that car. Don't chase materialistic things, he says. I don't find anything wrong in getting pleasure out of materialistic things.<br />
What is wrong with being number two, Morrie also says. Lets be number two. But from where will we get the incentive to grow, if we're happy being number two? Sure, don't beat yourself for being number two. But at least try for number one next time, try to see what your faults were. Try to improve. I'm nowhere NEAR number one or two, see, but I like to rant.<br />
<br />
But there are many things Morrie says that I agree with.<br />
"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">Do the kinds of things that come from the heart. When you do, you won’t be dissatisfied, you won’t be envious, you won’t be longing for somebody else’s things. On the contrary, you’ll be overwhelmed with what comes back"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">"Sometimes you cannot believe what you see, you have to believe what you feel. And if you are ever going to have other people trust you, you must feel that you can trust them, too - even when you’re in the dark. Even when you’re falling."</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal;">Very beautiful lines, all of these. He also says this- Death: the only true emotion felt in an apathetic world.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal;">I don't know what to say. True? At one hand, he's talking about love and all its wonders, and then he says that death is the only true emotion? Is that possible?</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal;">So many questions.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal;">Pray for him though please?</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com59tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-2292104353541872022011-02-02T16:54:00.001+05:302011-02-02T17:07:42.691+05:30But it makes me out of breath when you say..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><img height="400" src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRJgMzI93tFZqnEUDPQuWbaVS8Q3HHyUxHnO7Ii887VMhqCuXIE" width="326" /><br />
<br />
Who doesn't love the magic of a Saturday night out. Could be a date, could be a party, could be a girls night out, the excitement that this prospect triggers is amazing. It all begins with urgent phone calls, where, what, when, with who. How are we going, how are we coming back. And for people like me, "Mum, can I go?"<br />
Its all very, very exciting. And then, once the plan is made, once everything is set, you settle down with a nice book or a movie to calm yourself. You try to forget about the plan, because over thinking it kills it somehow. You try to let it remain untouched, we'll see what we'll see. Don't think about it.<br />
<br />
After immersing yourself in the book, you sneak a look at the clock and decide when to start getting ready. And when the time finally comes, you get up with a smile. The time before or after a party is the best. The anticipation of the whole thing, the imagining what will happen, how the night will end.<br />
<br />
Then you start the hot water and take out the clothes and shoes (pre-decided). You take everything you'll need in the bathroom, the dry towels, the soap, the moisturizer, the dryer, the loofah and whatever else. You take your time and get rid of all the scents of the day. You wash your hair like crazy, determined to get it right. Then you dry them impeccably straight or curly or however. And finally, comes the most awaited part, when you get into the clothes, specially chosen for that occasion, matching perfectly, because on a Saturday Night, dear, they will. Now comes the Routine.<br />
<br />
You put on the cream to even out the texture, then dab the powder to even out the tone. Eyes, you do with careful concentration, because for some reason, they are the most important. Slowly and conscientiously, you have to get them exactly right. Lip gloss, and a little something here and there. Then you walk over to the other side, and a spritz of your favorite perfume. Not too much, not too little. You walk towards the mirror, and give yourself the final once-over, nodding.<br />
<br />
Now you take The Bag and put in all the essentials, which could range from as little as a phone and wallet or to phone, wallet, lip balm, eyeliner, comb, wet tissues, extra jacket and scarf, small snacks (if the food is bad), cards, earphones, a pair of flats and some.<br />
Then you add on the accessory, earrings or a bracelet or a scarf and then finally, you are ready.<br />
<br />
When you walk down the stairs, or take the elevator, and happen to bump into someone, they give you a knowing smile and you smile satisfactorily in return. They know its a Saturday Night Out. You love the sound your shoes make and the echo they generate.<br />
<br />
Its time, oh yes, its time.<br />
<br />
The equally favorite part is the after party time. When you're so exhausted, you have no idea what you are saying any more, but then, you don't care anymore. When even the most absurd things make sense, and those conversations, when recollected later, make you cringe. You're in a daze. But the sweetest, most wonderful part is when you sit down to think about all that had happened that night, all the fun you had, all the nonsense you had said and even that, for some reason, was very appreciated, you just can't stop smiling. Your cheeks ache, but you can't.<br />
<br />
As you are minutes from falling asleep in the night, you close your eyes with absolute contentment, knowing what a good, good night it had been.<br />
<br />
As Parrot M., or rather the cheap video that I finally convinced S. to tell me about says,<br />
YAY. Its party time. :)</div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-353746360608804692011-01-09T16:16:00.000+05:302011-01-09T16:16:46.922+05:30The Girl from another World<img src="http://www.indiantelevision.com/images4/slbb1.jpg" /><br />
<br />
When I was a kid, okay, I loved to watch this show called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shaka_Laka_Boom_Boom">Shaka Laka Boom Boom</a>. It was about a kid, Sanju, who had a magic pencil, and whatever he drew from that pencil, came to life. Quite a dangerous concept, but he was a good kid, you know, pretty self-righteous, and he would never draw anything bad from it. So much did I believe in his goodness and his fun loving nature that well, I had the hugest crush on him. Plus the fact that he was outoftheworld cute. I mean, which little girl wouldn't have a crush on him, he was the epitome of everything good and fun in the world. Until I grew up and realized that all guys are jerks, but thats another story.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>So I was in fourth or something, when I went to Mumbai for a trip and I don't know how, but by some twist of fate, some fluke of luck, my father somehow got his phone number for me. I was ecstatic. Absolutely, I don't think I had ever jumped so much in my life. Sanju. Sanju. His name kept ringing in my head. But my job is done, my father said. Its your turn now. So after rehearsing a million times what I was going to say to him and my thumbs under my fingers, I dialed, and miraculously, that number was not fake, it worked. It ringed, once, twice, three times and a woman picked up. I asked her timidly if I could speak to Kinshuk (his real name) and she told me he was at shoot or something. And she said he would call back once he got free and how did I get that number, which made me realize that it must be a pretty inside number. </div><div><br />
</div><div>That said and done, he never called back and I didn't expect him to, with him being a big star and all. But even at that age, I was a persistent, little bugger so I called and called and called until his mom got sick of me and put him on the phone (thank God there wasn't the Reject Call application in those days). Anyway, all that I had rehearsed, I forgot right away and mumbled incoherent nonsense. My dad took pity and convinced him to meet me In McDonald's. OH YES. LIKE A DATE? MAYBE.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Just with parents and stuff, cuz I was nine. And he was twelve, I add slyly, whenever narrating this story to my friends. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The day finally arrived and I remember I had bought a Mickey Mouse photo frame from Pantaloons to gift him. He didn't get anything. Typical. I remember every single detail of that day, even the color of his jacket, because I've recalled that moment so many times. </div><div>The point I'm trying to make is, meeting him was like meeting the ultimate star at that time. I used to worship Sanju and his friends, they were like people from another world. And even when I met him, although tangible, he was still a person from a different world, a completely different world. </div><div><br />
</div><div>As time passed, I still had his number but I never called again, although you would expect an obsessed fan to call again and again until the person being stalked changed his number. But for some reason, I never did. Years passed, and I narrated this incident to shrieks of laughter(guys) and lots of 'awwws'(girls). And two days ago, I found him on Facebook. But please, who isn't on Facebook, so that bit wasn't a surprise.</div><div>And neither was it a surprise that he was hot now. That was to be expected. </div><div>The surprising part was, how, normal he was. As normal as, well, me. He is in college, currently not acting to focus on studies. But the rest was, all, very normal, like just another teenager. And then I found this other girl too, who played Ritu in the show, one of the main people in the cast, and she has a blog too which I read and was absolutely SHOCKED to read how normal her rambles were! I don't know what I was expecting, stories of starry tantrums maybe, or anecdotes of the 90210 life. But it was as normal as my life, or maybe even less!</div><div><br />
</div><div>I don't know how to put across the enormity of my realization, that these people, who I thought belonged to another world, a world filled with magic and fun and dancing in the rain and rescuing people, were just like me. And not only in the essential sense, no, in every possible sense right down to how we spend our evenings! </div><div>Even this second, the thought seems so surreal, that these people are just like me! Its very strange.</div><div>A moment of awakening? I don't know.</div><div>Most people I know would say, Srishti, of course magic doesn't exist, you've got to be absolutely stupid to be still thinking that these people are different.</div><div>But its not the magic part, it isn't. Its something else, something different.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I just hope I'm able to digest this bit of information before something equally unnerving is hurtled my way again! </div><div><br />
</div><div>Yes, go on laugh, yes you. I'll be doing the same when this moment comes to you.<br />
<br />
School holidays extended till 17th!! Now, THIS is the life.<br />
<br />
Whatte feeel :)</div><div><br />
</div><div></div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-3523480344342131122010-12-20T17:15:00.002+05:302010-12-20T17:17:50.166+05:30For lack of a better postIts been very, very long since I have blogged and I deserve a slap, totally.<br />
<br />
And I deserve an even tighter slap for what comes next-<br />
<br />
Witness this conversation,<br />
<br />
<b>Me </b>(watching someone opening the their lunch box): You're having your food now? Its eleven-thirty, my food is finished at eight in the morning!<br />
<b>Girl #1</b>: I know, I'm really hungry, I haven't had anything since morning.<br />
<b>Girl #2</b>: Me too, except Jili's cheese toast.<br />
<b>Girl #3</b>: I usually eat early in the morning, but today I didn't.<br />
<b>Me</b>: Yes, because I asked for a statement from everyone in the class.<br />
<br />
Which, sadly, is what you get when there are only six guys, and the rest all girls, in your class.<br />
<br />
Now this,<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Random Girl</b>: You know, in a village in India, there's a tradition in which new borns, little babies are made to bathe in boiling, hot milk.<br />
<b>Me</b> (horrified, more so because I had just read Six Graves to Munich, and its SCARY): How sad! Think of all the poor babies.<br />
<b>Ess</b>: How sad! Think of all the milk wasted.<br />
<br />
Now this is one guy who I <i>would</i> like, to be in my class.<br />
<br />
<br />
See the difference?Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-83555494671184464752010-11-02T13:58:00.000+05:302010-11-02T13:58:43.722+05:30Ohh, everything's okay!Fifteen days ago, we met at the airport. Oh no, I'm not about to narrate a romantic encounter; my French Exchange partner! Raphaelle looked like a little, shriveled up creature when we first met at the airport because first they had taken a train from Grenoble to Lyon, then from Lyon to Paris where they spent the night at the airport and then they took the plane to India; so everyone was very, very tired. And so it began.<br />
<br />
There are so many, so many, things I could say about the past fifteen days, its not even funny. When Raphaelle came to live with me for two weeks, she was an absolute stranger to me. Our virtual conversation had been limited and we didn't know each other at all. And of course at that time, I didn't know that language was gonna give us so much trouble. And to spend all hours of two weeks with a person to whom you have never spoken in your life is a scary thought; especially if you don't share a common language.<br />
<br />
The French pronunciation is so different that even if you know the word they are saying, you're not able to understand. One time in the car, Farah and Raphaelle asked me, "Can we 'ave zose, circle, circle, sweet zsingz, uhhh, orange and sweet?"<br />
"Jalebi?" I asked.<br />
"Yeah, yeah!" they said. "Can we 'ave zose with onioney?"<br />
What I could make out of that peculiar word was...onions.<br />
"You want to have jalebi with onions?" I asked, weirded out.<br />
Everyone burst out laughing; jalebi with oninons would be the strangest thing ever.<br />
"You know, zat, 'onee? 'Oneen?"<br />
"Honey!" Jili offered! That makes much more sense.<br />
<br />
There were so many hilarious situations like these, when we couldn't understand what they were saying and interpreted something else entirely. In the beginning, I felt like banging my head on the wall out of frustration but as the days passed, we understood each other better and by the time they were about to leave, I could complete Raph's sentences easily. If were standing in a place, Raph would say, "What we wait?" which meant, what are we waiting for. If she wanted to know how much time was left till we reached a place, she would say,<br />
"How many times, we uhhhh, we....uhh..."<br />
"-reach?" I would say, and she would nod. Every time they understood something we would say, there would be an expression of great realization on their faces and they would say, "OH! Oh yeahhh!"<br />
<br />
And the French, or maybe Europeans in general, have amazing manners. Too much of them, if you ask me. After every second sentence, Raph said thank you. No kidding. When she asked me if she could take a shower and I would say, yes, of course, even then, she would get a big smile on her face and say thank you. It's very French to say thank you, she told me. And every morning and night, she would wish everyone in home good morning and good night. " At my 'ome, " she told me, " we wish each ozerr all ze time. My muzerr make me, uhh, kiss 'er goodnight everyday."<br />
I can't remember the last time I kissed my mother, let alone kiss her goodnight. It makes me wonder if I'm a little ungrateful to the people I know.<br />
<br />
Their food habits are equally proper. And strange, if you ask me. She eats no spices at all. She can eat anything at all, if there's no spice in it. And I mean no spice AT ALL. I don't understand how they swallow all that bland, plain food. I find food pretty much tasteless without spices.<br />
"Izn't it....odd," she looked at me to confirm if the word she used was right or not. I nodded. "Zat in France, it eez so cold but we do not eat spice, but in India it eez so 'ot and you eat so many spice. It eez....laugh, laughing?" she asked me.<br />
"Ironic," I tell her.<br />
"Ironic," she says.<br />
But I guess its okay, because the French are more fond of eating sweet stuff rather than salty. Her every meal is incomplete without deserts. There would be a nagging voice in their head if they did not eat deserts. And in the breakfast, they have never taken salt. Never! Once I made her try idli-sambar for breakfast and she ate one idli with such a disgusting face that my mother took pity on her and gave her her beloved bread and confiture(jam).<br />
And they eat so little! They hardly take breakfast and don't even snack in between meals. I live on snacks! Partially, because no matter however much I eat, I don't gain an ounce but I think everyone here is quite fond of little snacks. Hence the snacks before dinner tradition in Indian parties. "We will starve when we got to France yaa, " Navya said to me. " I'm gonna take lots of biscuits and Haldiram packets to France, in case they expect us to wait for mealtime or something."<br />
"But my brozerr eat so much," Raph told me. "I don't know 'ow can 'ee eat so much. 'Eee do a lot of sport. I'm sure, if 'ee do not do sports, 'ee become a very, very fat man."<br />
<br />
This one time, Raph and I were waiting outside a restaurant for the others.<br />
"Srishtee, " she says in her French accent. "In France, on zuh roads I see so many, so many people kissing and 'olding 'ands, walking togezzurr, but 'ere, I see nobody!" she held up her hands in surprise. "In our school too, zere are so many, so many coouples and zey are always kissing, but 'ere, nobody!"<br />
It was quite funny.<br />
<br />
And they loved traveling by auto-rickshaw. 'Tuk-tuk', they called them. Lets go by tuk-tuk.<br />
<br />
But not everything was hunky-dory. My partner, and I'm not talking about the French in general, mostly didn't like Indian things. All she bought was 4 scarves and box, although she had carried a lot of money for shopping. She didn't like Janpath, hated Dilli Haat, couldn't stand Red Fort and didn't buy any souvenirs. She preferred going to the mall and the amusement park and parties and drinking rather than going to any historical monument or seeing anything ethnic. Which was a little disappointing, but it was okay because I tried my best and if they didn't take interest, it was their loss. I'm all ready to soak up everything French. :D<br />
<br />
In the beginning, a lot of us couldn't establish a rapport with their partners. We were all so sick of them and their English. "These French people, " I said, "are like a bug you can't get rid of. And the worst part is, you paid for that bug. " We were all very glad when they were all taken to Jaipur without us for two days. Because staying with them all the time meant taking care of them every second of the day, and that is not easy. I will never take my parents for granted now. Even when we Indians talked, we talked about these French as if they were our kids; we discussed about their habits, their likes, dislikes, and all. So aunty-ish, I tell you.<br />
And that when the French were so unconcerned and unaffected by all did we did for them. As soon as they saw their friends, they jabbered away in rapid French and forgot everything else. But I guess thats everywhere. Our teacher told us that we'll do the same when we go there, its natural.<br />
French people were also quite flaky. Sometimes, their mood, <i>humeur, </i>was so good they couldn't stop gushing, how nice Indians were. And sometimes they were very curt and short. "I can't wait to go to France to create a fuss and watch them take care of us."<br />
I couldn't agree more. These past two weeks, its like we don't have a life of our own. We take care of them all the time and have no time ofr our freinds, or for our hobbies. There's this constant nagging, worry in our heads if they are feeling fine.<br />
<br />
There are just so many, so many things I've learned these past few days. Raphaelle is one of the most awesome people I've ever met. She travels so, so much and she told me all about her trips to New York and California and Egypt and morocco and Europe. She has great knowledge about every city she has visited and our shared love for movies made it very easy for us to make conversation once we were in the <i>humeur.</i> We have had so many long talks about different cities and places. You know how every city is mostly defined by a typical thing of that city? Like if someone says Paris, I would say fashion. If someone says New York, I would say Times Square or I dunno, maybe a fast paced life. If someone said USA to Raphaelle, she would say crazy people.Absolutely bizarre! And I used to think London is more industrial kinda city, more about jobs, Paris has more artists. But Raph says thats not true anymore. There has been a great mix of culture and you can't really define a city by just one thing typical to it. Its just a great, big, mish-mash now. In this mish-mash, so much mixes together and emerges as something entirely new and different. Like we start with primary colours, Red, Green and Blue but if we keep mixing and mixing, there's no end to the colours we develop.<br />
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We've had deep, insightful talks like these in addition to the extremely stupid situations. When Raphaelle saw my French notebook, she had tears of laughter in her eyes. " Zis eez my life, zuh things I do and you are studying eet! Eetz too funny!" she said, laughing.<br />
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It was quite sad yesterday, when the whole day we talked about her going away. Six months, we kept saying. We see each other after six months. "But you know, " Raphaelle said. "Six months eez nothing. Tell me, what izz six months in life? They'll pass like zis!" she snapped her fingers. "You go to school, you do 'omework, you ski in winter, make snowman, and zen you are 'ere!"<br />
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At the airport, everyone was saying all this cheesy stuff like, "Don't cry that its over; smile that it happened" and all that. But we didn't shed a tear. I mean, I was sad and all but I needed to be on my own for sometime now too!<br />
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As we were coming back after taking her to the airport, I remembered when two weeks ago, I had come to pick her up. When she had gotten in the car, she was sitting at the back and she had strapped her seatbelt on. I've never, ever put on my seatbelt, especially when I'm at the back. So I told her, "You don't need to put your seatbelt on, its okay." Raphaelle had smiled and said, "Ohh, everything's okay!" and kept her seatbelt on.<br />
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Two weeks later, her words seemed true. That yes, everything IS okay. Its how you make of situations that make them okay or not okay. You can get along well with a stranger with whom you don't share a common language or culture and have the time of your life or you can sit and crib and cry about it.<br />
Everything is okay; its what you make of it. There were good times and bad times but, all's well that ends well.<br />
<br />
This was just one small episode in my life; maybe I'll have many, many more like these. If I get to make new friends and learn new things about different cultures, lifestyles and maybe even languages, I'm sure I'll love it.<br />
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You know how everyone and everything, people, things, places, all have separate distinct scent? Raph's scent is still lingering in the room, I sometimes catch a whiff of it. But I know it'll be lost in a day or two.<br />
Until six months later.<br />
<br />
Cuz its not the end; its actually the beginning.Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-75388309408430398172010-10-06T14:30:00.002+05:302010-10-06T14:35:07.927+05:30Don't Rain on my Parade<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“This award is bestowed upon a fellow blogger whose blog’s content or design is, in the giver’s opinion, brilliant.”</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Some rules of the Game:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">a) Show off your honesty (and modesty) by thanking the person who gave you the award and link to their post.</span></span></span></div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">b) List 15 honest things about yourself. Cheating makes you lame, so just play along, all you taggees.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">c) Select 7 other bloggers you think deserve this award and pass it on to them.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">d) Notify said bloggers about the award and invite them to be the honest ones next.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Okay, so first: Thanks <a href="http://bluedrain.blogspot.com/2010/07/15-things-about-me-that-i-swear-are.html">TUIB</a>, I think that your blog is absolutely fabulous. I get to read all kinds of stuff there, from beautiful poems to classy book reviews to just simple, childhood experiences, all written straight from the heart. You're awesome! :)</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b><u>15 HONEST THINGS ABOUT ME</u></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">1. I am super-paranoid when alone. I mistrust everyone, which is really stupid because people have better things to do than scheme against me. That doesn't stop me from mentally calculating escape routes, imagining worst case scenarios and planning what I would do in case something goes wrong.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">2. I love shops. I love their colorful displays, their logos and the names written artistically, how there is so much stuff in there, sitting on the shelves, waiting to be bought. One day, I'll have a shop of my own and it will have all kinds of weird, whacky stuff in it which the kids can buy and then take it to school and make their friends jealous.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">3. One of my favorite books ever is..The Princess Diaries. There. I said it. Most of my friends have chucked those for good now, but I feel absolutely no shame in saying that yes, I still read them at night. I know that most sane people dismiss them as crass and it is for giggly, 13-year olds but I love them. I've been reading them since I was 12 and I have gotten so familiar with Mia's ramblings, her references to New York and food and TV and movies, the irritating way she goes on and on about how her life is over, that whenever I'm a little sad or lonely, all I have to do is read an excerpt and I feel satisfied. It feels like home to me. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">4. If I get a chance to play a role in any movie of my choice, I would choose the role of Parminder Nagra in Bend It Like Beckham (Titanic, which is my favorite movie, doesn't count. The movie AFTER your favorite movie) primarily because: a) Jonathan Rhys Meyers would be in love with me. b) Keira Knightley would be my best friend. c) I'd be a terrific football player. d) Its the perfect mix of Indian-ness and western-ness, football and weddings which is something I very much admire as its very hard not to lose yourself out there. e) Gurinder Chadha is an amazing director and the cast and crew looks so much fun, evident in this video:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/uhW-Sk8O1u4?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/uhW-Sk8O1u4?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">5. I'm a compulsive shopper. If I see something that I like, I buy it. If I'm not able to, I fantasize about buying it and what I'd do with it until I buy it.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">6. I love reading maps. Although my sense of direction is hopeless, I can sit and stare at a map for ages, reading the names of all the places there and trying to imagine what the people in those places would be doing right now. Coming back from school, ordering pizza, taking out the laundry....millions of individual lives on that one tiny piece of paper.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">7. I want to work as a Romance Director for some time when I grow up . Its not an official profession, but I once saw on Travel & Living (TLC from 1st of September!) that the really expensive honeymoon resorts, which have every facility you can possible imagine AND MORE, hire a person who thinks up cute things for the honeymoon couple to do, and then lets them take the credit. Like if the husband wants to gift something to his wife and he doesn't know what, the Romance Director gets to know the wife by talking to her, interviewing the husband and all and then thinks up of the perfect gift and the best way to present it, letting the husband take all the credit while the wife goes "aww, I love it, OMG, this is just what i wanted." The Romance Director's laughing, seeing all this and will get an AMAZING load of money for doing this. Hell, I'd do it for free.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">8. I love movies which are set some years back, like in the early 1900's or so. They reflect a beautiful charm, which is hard to find in movies these days. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">9. The whole of 9th and 10th, Brinda Ma'am kept trying to teach us French. But we didn't study; we were more interested in talking to her about perfumes and Paris. Now that I'm a part of the French Exchange, all I want to do is speak French all day. Shubhra and Surabhi teach me, since they are very good at French. I want to be able to converse with my french partner when she comes here, <b>but more importantly impress her 19 year old brother when I go there with my French skills.</b> Even though I studied French for a long time in school, I couldn't speak a coherent sentence in French until the the French Exchange news and the other day "I'm going avec elle" got out of my mouth.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">* I think I forgot to mention it. My French partner's name is Raphaelle and she's coming to live with me in October for 15 days. She's absolutely cool, not only because she has an older brother (Pierre), but also because she travels a LOT and will have great stories to tell and (hopefully) wouldn't be the Snotty-French-Girl-Difficult-To-Bear when she's here. I'll go to stay at her place in May for 15 days and I CANNOT WAIT!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">10. I classify activities into bad things (studying, doing anything assigned to me, basically things I should do) and good things (watching TV & movies, reading books, basically things I want to do). So if I have to do a bad thing, I need a good thing to look forward to because if the good thing isn't there, I won't be able to sit through the bad thing and eventually fall asleep. Thats why no matter what is on, I have to watch TV from 10 to 11 in the night. Like, I didn't mind the half-yearlies in September since October and November will be two great months. Besides, we are SUPPOSED to get bad marks in 11th, otherwise, how else will we learn?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">11. I really LOVE stories that have strong, female characters, ESPECIALLY if they are evil. Like Wilhelmina Slater from Ugly Betty [ Whats the matter, people still view me as a drop dead gorgeous fashion Nazi] or Sue Sylvester from Glee</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">[</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You know, the way you use your mental illness to help these kids is really inspiring. I'm shocked you're not married.]</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But hey, good female characters are fun too, like Dr. Brennan from Bones.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">12. I want an accent like Hilda's from Ugly Betty.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">13. Ever since I've started studying Psychology, I absolutely love to provide a psychological reason justifying a behavior or an event. It really irritates other people sometimes. :D</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">14. I once bought a Superman t-shirt because the guy selling them was really cute. Pathetic, hun?</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">15. There's a girl who lives in my building, and when I grow up, I want to be just like her. She has an amazing sense of style and the hugest collection of formal skirts ever. Every evening, i meet her in the elevator, coming back from work wearing her sophisticated skirts and heels or going away to party. Also, she wears really good perfume.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Okay, so I tag <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/15504583315951925394">Daksha</a>,<a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/12894840128776787000">Neetu</a> , <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/02622410643454108685">Ketan</a>, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/14121037540795214765">Priyanka</a> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/03492504122111641025">Mishika</a>, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/05708544526844237025">Soin</a> and <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/02082233053617158546">Rohith</a>.</span></span></div></span>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-33201451181405062562010-09-06T16:03:00.001+05:302010-09-06T16:04:31.154+05:30Pass yaa fail?My dad sent me this text:<br />
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" I failed in some subjects in exam, but my friend passed in all. Now, he is an engineer in Microsoft and I am the owner of Microsoft."- Bill Gates<br />
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So I texted back: Does that mean I'm allowed to fail?<br />
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Dad: If you want to fail, be sure to turn out like Bill gates.Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-6117699391581243422010-08-11T20:15:00.005+05:302010-08-11T20:23:05.059+05:30Post # 50 :)<div style="text-align: center;"><b>Eet</b></div><div><br />
</div>'<i>Its like forgetting the words to your favorite song, </i><br />
<div><i>You can't believe it, you were always singing along,</i></div><div><i>It was so easy, and the words so sweet</i></div><div><i>You can't remember, you try to feel the beat'</i></div><div><i><br />
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</div><div>Once upon a time, there was a little boy. A happy and healthy baby, he was born into a very privileged family, the kind that seem to lack nothing. They were a wealthy lot, not just in money, but in other things too, that mattered much more. They were kind and loving, looked out for their friends and were generally popular. The father and the mother of the little boy loved each other immensely, and why wouldn't they, since they had every reason to celebrate life as they knew it, every other day.<br />
When their son was born, they were naturally overjoyed, and having a large family scattered across the globe, all of them came together to celebrate.<br />
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He was born a beautiful baby, and even at this age, everyone could tell he would grow up to be a handsome man. Friends and well-wishers never stopped arriving, as they envied the couple's good fortune, cooed at the baby and stared at him in wonderment.; his mother was over the moon and his father couldn't be prouder.<br />
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As he grew up, his parents never saw a day when their little son wasn't up to mischief. He caused chaos in the house, running up and down all day, disrupting the household work, breaking valuables and teasing the life out of any girl that came by his house. But yet nobody minded, because all they had to do was take one look at that adorable thing and all their anger would vanish.<br />
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As years passed by, he became an absolute charmer, as he greeted his mother's friends warmly and shook hands with his father's friends. His mother saw the mischievous glint in his eye and would just wait for the moment he would make her burst into laughter. Being an artist, she painted scores of paintings which she treasured deeply. She would display them proudly in the hall and gaze at them, content.<br />
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This family of three would go for vacations with friends, buy ridiculously expensive items and led a happy life. But by no means was this boy a brat. You see, born and brought up in the high society had taught the mother an important lesson- if you can't stay grounded, you can't stay at all.<br />
She taught her son the most basic of values, and taught him to respect everything, from the food he ate to the people he met. She taught him to be sincere and polite, kind and humble. As he listened to his mother day after day, he turned out to be one of the most loyal, charming and genuine person one would ever have the good fortune to meet.<br />
So even though his mischief did bring back a few complaints, his parents knew his heart was in the right place. A crack here and a joke there always did good to a person's soul, his mother used to say.<br />
As he became a teenager, and grew taller and more handsome every day, he had a strong, independent mind of his own. He had heard and seen enough to attain a good judgement of what was right and what was wrong. He had grown up to be vary smart indeed. His mother secretly loved passing him the phone as girls giggled madly over the line and asked to speak to her son. She was very, very fond of him and they were one small happy family for a while.<br />
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Until one stormy, fateful evening and a terrible evening it was.<br />
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The mother, that evening, decided to drive to the local store to buy some groceries.<br />
As her son reached home that evening, he was exhausted. His football coach had started rigorous training, and that boy was an exceptional player, best he had seen in a long time, he used to say.<br />
So as he came home that evening and found his mother nowhere in sight, he just assumed that maybe she was with a friend or probably caught up somewhere. After some time, when he had taken a shower and cooled himself off, he tried calling her and found her unreachable.<br />
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He called his father, and he too, was equally puzzled. After hours of calling and checking up on the possible places where she could be, they finally approached the police.<br />
The police, to be fair to them, carried out a thorough investigation. It was revealed that she had bought the groceries and then was never seen again. The car was left abandoned on the road. There were few passersby on the road because of the bad weather and there weren't much leads to follow.<br />
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The father used his contacts to make sure that people on the case worked to the best of their abilities. An extensive list of suspects was made and were interrogated thoroughly, but still nothing was found. It was as if she had vanished in thin air. The son got into a wild fight with some boys of another school who suggested obscene reasons explaining her mother's disappearance.<br />
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Seventeen days after that terrible evening, the mother's body was found outside her house, tossed carelessly at the edge. An autopsy of the body reported that she had been assaulted and murdered by being stabbed in back and chest and struck on the head.<br />
<br />
Misery struck that family from then on. It was as if a cyclone had come and devastated everything they had ever known. You see, they were the perfect family across the street with the perfect house. No matter what, nothing this bad ever happened to families like these- they were the people to whom the local club first sent the invitation on special occasions, the people whose lawn smelt of freshly mown grass and house of potpourri. Murder of the mother didn't fit anywhere in the picture.<br />
<br />
In the first initial days, the father and son were by each other's side. Friends and acquaintances mourned with them and rarely left them alone. Condolences were expressed and food and flowers arrived but the fact remained; neither of them had ever felt grief like this before and they didn't know how to deal with it.<br />
As the weeks passed, they started to get on with their life but somehow, neither of them ever recovered from the trauma. A tragedy may bring out the best in people or the worst. For the father and the son, it brought out both.<br />
<br />
They both worked harder than ever before, put on the bravest face possible while trying to help each other out, hoping that the killer be found. The father buried himself in work, hoping to fill the void caused by his wife's absence . Everything has a cause, he used to think. What had gone wrong here then? He couldn't for his life even begin to IMAGINE why anybody would even consider hurting her like it had been done. He completely involved himself in the investigation, worked ruthless hours but as the days passed, the case, like all others, began to lose momentum.<br />
<br />
The son tried to gain some sense of normalcy in his life, as he became the 'dead woman's kid'. He avoided the pitying eyes, and was rash at any discussion that involved his mother. He busied himself in friends and school, sports and work, ignoring the sympathy.<br />
<br />
Slowly and unknowingly, a distance crept between the father and the son. At first, they had been inseparable, supporting each other throughout, but the mother's absence started to gnaw at them. She had been like the glue of the family, the butter of the sandwich, keeping them together. They both stayed away from home as much as possible, avoiding each other. The father saw his wife's shadow and his incompetence in catching the killer in his son. This in turn made the son realize his father's lack of support and love at this time, making him bitter and resentful.<br />
<br />
Time passed and the lives of the father and the son, which had always been interconnected in different ways soon took a separate turn. A time came when they would barely nod when they passed each other; they had learnt to live without each other.<br />
The son, as he occupied himself and got on with his life, never saw one moment where he was truly content at the end of the day when he lay on the bed. He could never be the same former self he once was; it was like something inside his heart had died.<br />
<br />
Until.<br />
<br />
Until one beautiful, sunny, ordinary day when all that changed again.<br />
You see, on that day, a little girl came along....</div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-28441137374627761732010-07-03T11:29:00.000+05:302010-07-03T12:53:49.593+05:30Ronaldo is SEXY.Here are a few random facts about my knowledge of football: <div> </div><div>- I possess none.</div><div>- But I'm freakishly excited about today's Argentina v/s Germany.</div><div>- I'm supporting Argentina, mainly because their coach is Maradona, and the name Maradona sounds SO cool. I wish my name was Maradona. Also, because yesterday was Ritika's birthday and she invited all her German Exchange friends and all they talked about was their stupid German Exchange for the whole FIVE hours and I'm starting to get just a LITTLE bit irritated of Germany.</div><div>- Its saddening that Portugal got out so early, poor Ronaldo.</div><div>- Ronaldo's expression in Shakira's Waka Waka at 2: 09 is INSANE. REALLY.</div><div>- Waving Flag is so much better than Waka Waka.</div><div>- Though I like the thing that Shakira wears in her hair in the video.</div><div>- Kerala is the second-most-football-crazy state in India. When I went there this summer, there were all these slogans painted on the walls, like 'Argentina Fan Club' and stuff, which aren't there anywhere else.</div><div>- The most-football-crazy state in India is West Bengal, but I guess everyone knows that.</div><div>- Also, I've finally decided I'll support Real Madrid and Manchester United because of Ronaldo&Kaka and Rooney respectively.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Here are a few random facts about Kerala:</div><div><br /></div><div>- There are just TOO many trees, I'm sorry. They're taking the phrase 'Go Green' way too seriously. </div><div>- They have huge, airy houses (flat culture doesn't exist there) with even bigger ceilings. Guess what the view is from the balcony? OF TREES.</div><div>- Beaches and Sea is the awesomest thing EVER. Delhi should have a beach. I don't think I can ever get tired of looking at the vast, endless expanse of sea/ocean. Its beautiful.</div><div>- Black soil we read about in Geography? Yeah, its REALLY black. </div><div>- The golden sand in Calicut was coarser than the black sand in Kovalam.</div><div>- Everyone there eats directly using their hands, so each restaurant has a separate area that says 'WASH'.</div><div>- Most restaurants don't serve mineral water. They boil the tap water and mix a herb in it which turns the water slightly red. I didn't pretend to be a vampire at all.</div><div>- Keralites, or maybe south Indians in general, I dunno, shake their head in a funny way. Like Noddy does, only 360 degrees instead of his up and down. But the problem is, you can't tell whether its a yes or a no. </div><div>- Everyone there has a smile on their face and goes around grinning all the time at everyone. I wish people in Delhi were like that. Here, people hurl abuses at you for no reason.</div><div>- HORRIBLE clothes.</div><div>- NO HOT GUYS. Outrageous, really.</div><div>- There is a British and Indian name for a lot of places, like Cochin and Kochi. Thiruvananthpuram and Trivandrum. </div><div>- Beaches are so crowded.</div><div>- Waves are POWERFUL!</div><div>- In movies, they show the hero and the heroine are having the time of their life at the beach. But they always skip out the part where they should feel so ICKY after going to the beach because sand is everywhere. Movies lack any kind of practicality, really.</div><div>- Their biggest movie star there is Mohan Lal. </div><div>- Fort Kochi is not actually a fort, its old Kochi.</div><div>- And its AMAZING! They have all these cool streets like Princess Street, Rose Street and there are a lot of homestays there which are fickin expensive, even more so than Taj.</div><div>- The wind at Kanyakumari's shore is SOOOOOOO strong that I could swear my feet got lifted up in the air for just a second.</div><div>- Everyone there goes around wearing hats and sunglasses because the sunlight is so strong. </div><div>- I couldn't find one McDonald's in the whole of Kerala. </div><div>- Kochi airport is gooooooood.</div><div>- There was stuff like Ratatouille (yes, like in the movie!!), lobster and steak in the daily menu.</div><div>- Kerala has great spices, apparently.</div><div>- Lighthouses are cute.</div><div>- India's coastline's view from air is awesome.</div><div>- Shells are cute too.</div><div>- They also eat a different kinda rice, which are fatter in structure and bad in taste but more nutritious.</div><div>- EVERYONE WEARS A DHOTI. Not pretty. Though I wore it once too. :D</div><div>- In spite of, or because of, all that, Kerala IS extremely beautiful.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-84653150931423736382010-05-13T13:13:00.001+05:302010-05-13T13:33:04.809+05:30Worth a thousand words?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf3IBnx0ewtPd5Zhq-ppWYUw5u3FWq3etNCRoRSzV5C4WHbatzIFEA5EvQ_yGYzXcoaiC5Gy4kpDvtfzWR0lPeDN9fXT4ggu4rwbctnWSpxJPb28Kt27c0UsbPeMbK5r0KfJsg2U5WdFLh/s1600/DSC02401.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf3IBnx0ewtPd5Zhq-ppWYUw5u3FWq3etNCRoRSzV5C4WHbatzIFEA5EvQ_yGYzXcoaiC5Gy4kpDvtfzWR0lPeDN9fXT4ggu4rwbctnWSpxJPb28Kt27c0UsbPeMbK5r0KfJsg2U5WdFLh/s400/DSC02401.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470661611654594434" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf3IBnx0ewtPd5Zhq-ppWYUw5u3FWq3etNCRoRSzV5C4WHbatzIFEA5EvQ_yGYzXcoaiC5Gy4kpDvtfzWR0lPeDN9fXT4ggu4rwbctnWSpxJPb28Kt27c0UsbPeMbK5r0KfJsg2U5WdFLh/s1600/DSC02401.JPG"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_opiVljSN_N5wHfL606k7xZb9g_t3MkCMB_bf-NJswkRR8_DcSnhmpC2BZWeGl52-I_h-oirjTqLcB5yKmV-mLumTtypyMlIqYtYnJ6WYpnUPQ04yb-HipBJMb5innHoEOoTzeDIJz0h/s1600/DSC02396.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; 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cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUfJGS1LzVD1xckTwlqrEWy7f-c3bJkXIV3tqqAKyuG-BgFeuVRSdPV2CS45wXTKTaRAGLNo2dQSq2NaXET8KbJjnuvDfAzd-Z5rjIlI99PXXZH4wBWgkL8zWwsFuZ3Z0UAPTvz-P90q6E/s400/DSC02160.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470658115958083378" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUfJGS1LzVD1xckTwlqrEWy7f-c3bJkXIV3tqqAKyuG-BgFeuVRSdPV2CS45wXTKTaRAGLNo2dQSq2NaXET8KbJjnuvDfAzd-Z5rjIlI99PXXZH4wBWgkL8zWwsFuZ3Z0UAPTvz-P90q6E/s1600/DSC02160.JPG"></a>Inside an elevator.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6uvMHM_MS7KYaysphZOuY0RqIFOOTJq990rKdHh2pzCqd9JuLQeF-wCVIPWhMOO-PDSS5zokFq14eze9kPS7eOvffxyAmxDNdgblmhzfwE_1_32E3SfdXQCbo9cK369KNaiV_ydFOK6pr/s1600/DSC01934.JPG"></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6uvMHM_MS7KYaysphZOuY0RqIFOOTJq990rKdHh2pzCqd9JuLQeF-wCVIPWhMOO-PDSS5zokFq14eze9kPS7eOvffxyAmxDNdgblmhzfwE_1_32E3SfdXQCbo9cK369KNaiV_ydFOK6pr/s1600/DSC01934.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6uvMHM_MS7KYaysphZOuY0RqIFOOTJq990rKdHh2pzCqd9JuLQeF-wCVIPWhMOO-PDSS5zokFq14eze9kPS7eOvffxyAmxDNdgblmhzfwE_1_32E3SfdXQCbo9cK369KNaiV_ydFOK6pr/s400/DSC01934.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470658110024570850" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6uvMHM_MS7KYaysphZOuY0RqIFOOTJq990rKdHh2pzCqd9JuLQeF-wCVIPWhMOO-PDSS5zokFq14eze9kPS7eOvffxyAmxDNdgblmhzfwE_1_32E3SfdXQCbo9cK369KNaiV_ydFOK6pr/s1600/DSC01934.JPG"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFFrrRTPN8NXX6nHLw3t1r2gdiFt_kpRN0x-iLI1_sza_LorYxWFFUSVbA1i0cQH0_jPxKzH1lopMw5SqOAWUmOnUMQj3xj_UPIgRHTLj4jokj1M94Zl_zPV2rQ7Gla4JQTb0Ulhe2TYC6/s1600/DSC01196.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFFrrRTPN8NXX6nHLw3t1r2gdiFt_kpRN0x-iLI1_sza_LorYxWFFUSVbA1i0cQH0_jPxKzH1lopMw5SqOAWUmOnUMQj3xj_UPIgRHTLj4jokj1M94Zl_zPV2rQ7Gla4JQTb0Ulhe2TYC6/s400/DSC01196.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470658099095811234" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFFrrRTPN8NXX6nHLw3t1r2gdiFt_kpRN0x-iLI1_sza_LorYxWFFUSVbA1i0cQH0_jPxKzH1lopMw5SqOAWUmOnUMQj3xj_UPIgRHTLj4jokj1M94Zl_zPV2rQ7Gla4JQTb0Ulhe2TYC6/s1600/DSC01196.JPG"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiZnu8ImOdB8OM_ItseidIT8cn2bUnAO3kJ-mE9Ahe1roDmZ3VzGvNi5f4iCgwh-O-lWD4nwOYMzlgAaIbDSEfMV-PhUbA4Z0el5bUglsAXOLZZx0We9XDoSvPex1CL7p_0DDs72Ighu2d/s1600/DSC00896.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiZnu8ImOdB8OM_ItseidIT8cn2bUnAO3kJ-mE9Ahe1roDmZ3VzGvNi5f4iCgwh-O-lWD4nwOYMzlgAaIbDSEfMV-PhUbA4Z0el5bUglsAXOLZZx0We9XDoSvPex1CL7p_0DDs72Ighu2d/s400/DSC00896.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470658094275839842" /></a><br /></div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-40966195598627941542010-04-28T15:46:00.000+05:302010-04-29T20:41:40.699+05:30Not Intrusted<div><br /></div><div>Everyone knows that no one really studies before July after you've completed tenth (doesn't apply to science people). But the school can't let us stay at home for WHOLE three months, can it? So this is what my school does- makes us reach school at SEVEN A.M. in the morning. Yes. Seven. Because its too hot at 7: 45. It lets us off at 1. Because its too hot at 2. This would've made sense, just a TINY, TINY bit if we had something to do in school.<div>For example, yesterday</div><div>First Block - Played Pictionary.</div><div>Second Block- Made up plans for tomorrow's trip but then dumped them all.</div><div>Third Block- Roamed around in school.</div><div><br /></div><div>Break</div><div><br /></div><div>Workshop</div><div><br /></div><div>Its like this everyday. Anyway, coming back to my post topic,</div><div><br /></div><div>We have workshops every single day. Career Counselling. People from different organisations come everyday to make us aware of all the options we have before we make a decision. Mostly, we are told about the unconventional, lesser known careers, which is rather fun. Like yesterday, we had a guy telling us about animation. Did you know that the entire Avatar was shot in an airport hangar?!! Wait, I'm going a little off the point now.</div><div>So we have very different people coming up and talking to us. People in my school don't accept anyone new easily. They poke fun and mock them, unless they judge them cool enough to listen.</div><div><br /></div><div>There came some people who spoke a little differently. With an accent, or weird pronunciations. Face it, nobody's perfect. There was this one guy who kept pronouncing interesting as 'intrusting' and kept saying 'You needs'. So maybe its a little funny. Once. Twice. Then you've had enough with the mockery.</div><div>This is one thing I don't get- if people speak in a different way, why does the rest of the world have such a huge problem with it? Is it the reluctance to accept someone unusual?</div><div>My dad always says, if the content in your speech is good enough, if there is power in your words, then it doesn't really matter how you say it. People want to listen to you.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last year, we had this teacher who broke up words, like she'd say, "Consti...." Pause. "Tution." "Legis...." pause. "Lation". When she started to teach us, many people inserted a 'pation' after the consti, before she could get to tution. But then everyone started to realize, she was a really, really good teacher. The best in her subject. Soon everyone forgot about the consti, and listened to her eagerly.</div><div>New Kid started making fun of the 'intrusting' guy and I told him to get over it.</div><div>"Come on, Srishti," said New Kid. "Don't be such a Mother India."</div><div>That doesn't even make sense. How does not making fun of somebody make you a mother India? Its not even called being nice...its just plain, common, courtesy.</div><div>And the New Kid is a published author.</div><div>Go figure. :|</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We were taken to an old age home today. It was nice, but I certainly can't say moving. Everyone treated them like they were time bombs, who could explode any time and start crying and narrating their life story. They looked happy enough. A girl in my class started crying. Really. She did. :|</div><div><br /></div><div>One important point one uncle there raised was, why don't we have religious studies as a subject? Not centered on one particular religion, but a basic, common understanding of all religions. After all, religion is an integral part of any society, its important that we know about it.</div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXc8qx0eOh25vQJ5CfLj-eBu5FEDvjKY41em5rY1KZx8z6uolpyD46Ee92gelFPFXOinvtr0ePSV-VLK6nZKWvEsTB2nsLKJtjxCwHhzkDQXW5ItOa5cFwcL2cdezC7bR9bf4V3NuE2tJ/s1600/DSC02510.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXc8qx0eOh25vQJ5CfLj-eBu5FEDvjKY41em5rY1KZx8z6uolpyD46Ee92gelFPFXOinvtr0ePSV-VLK6nZKWvEsTB2nsLKJtjxCwHhzkDQXW5ItOa5cFwcL2cdezC7bR9bf4V3NuE2tJ/s400/DSC02510.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465561824776762242" /></a><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXc8qx0eOh25vQJ5CfLj-eBu5FEDvjKY41em5rY1KZx8z6uolpyD46Ee92gelFPFXOinvtr0ePSV-VLK6nZKWvEsTB2nsLKJtjxCwHhzkDQXW5ItOa5cFwcL2cdezC7bR9bf4V3NuE2tJ/s1600/DSC02510.JPG"></a><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXc8qx0eOh25vQJ5CfLj-eBu5FEDvjKY41em5rY1KZx8z6uolpyD46Ee92gelFPFXOinvtr0ePSV-VLK6nZKWvEsTB2nsLKJtjxCwHhzkDQXW5ItOa5cFwcL2cdezC7bR9bf4V3NuE2tJ/s1600/DSC02510.JPG"></a>He's telling us about his childhood days. :)</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RRoWaH1pI5K1mfJaR4ldde-eI4d2poaIoPwD5GvsSmIQ7cPgHeDLxFsrhDA4ch6zFcDMdZCKnZ5voNGGvFaH4WPrpV3-qCTQ8-tlH_UhrLgCj-sPXAWxTzIN9rbzCEzEjQwHjW61glwk/s1600/DSC02528.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RRoWaH1pI5K1mfJaR4ldde-eI4d2poaIoPwD5GvsSmIQ7cPgHeDLxFsrhDA4ch6zFcDMdZCKnZ5voNGGvFaH4WPrpV3-qCTQ8-tlH_UhrLgCj-sPXAWxTzIN9rbzCEzEjQwHjW61glwk/s400/DSC02528.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465561811817435762" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>He's telling us a joke. Everyone was laughing crazily when he finished, but I didn't get it. Something' really, <i>really</i> wrong with me.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RRoWaH1pI5K1mfJaR4ldde-eI4d2poaIoPwD5GvsSmIQ7cPgHeDLxFsrhDA4ch6zFcDMdZCKnZ5voNGGvFaH4WPrpV3-qCTQ8-tlH_UhrLgCj-sPXAWxTzIN9rbzCEzEjQwHjW61glwk/s1600/DSC02528.JPG"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghio8cLaiu-cbnD8sTXkxVInVmaE33OxLG7BnCCHmZohGwoHwIU4-dTQnI3GvPrLgMvQYDCtD9wYVzHWAjyVvgdzT_yML8yAb-MJIz5C3t5_A4fHSxQ_DDL86ITo8-k7uIQy6FJjDPnQCy/s1600/DSC02500.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghio8cLaiu-cbnD8sTXkxVInVmaE33OxLG7BnCCHmZohGwoHwIU4-dTQnI3GvPrLgMvQYDCtD9wYVzHWAjyVvgdzT_yML8yAb-MJIz5C3t5_A4fHSxQ_DDL86ITo8-k7uIQy6FJjDPnQCy/s400/DSC02500.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465561804517013970" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghio8cLaiu-cbnD8sTXkxVInVmaE33OxLG7BnCCHmZohGwoHwIU4-dTQnI3GvPrLgMvQYDCtD9wYVzHWAjyVvgdzT_yML8yAb-MJIz5C3t5_A4fHSxQ_DDL86ITo8-k7uIQy6FJjDPnQCy/s1600/DSC02500.JPG"></a>I also had to stand up and tell them how cool it was to be there! I used some really good Hindi words. :D</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, I really, really like Regina Spektor. That woman is a genius. I love her music. Its all about Lady GaGa and Mariah Carey these days....Regina Spektor trumps all of them. Here is one of her coolest songs-</div><div><br /></div><div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/HqG1Dh36-6s&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/HqG1Dh36-6s&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div></div></div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-73604874803025836752010-04-19T13:55:00.000+05:302010-04-19T15:21:19.401+05:30Can I get some fire?So on Saturday night, I was at the New Friends colony market. Its a really good market actually, with loads of good restaurants without the snobby air of it.<div>I was with this other person (henceforth referred to as 'Uncle') and this another person (henceforth referred to as 'Ann').</div><div>We were waiting for our juice and I looked around aimlessly. There were food stalls and magazine vendors, as I checked out their titles.</div><div>Then Uncle pointed to us, a group of three girls. Look at them, he said. They're smoking, his voice more patronizing than usual.</div><div>I resisted the urge to say "So?"</div><div>Ann looked mostly unconcerned.</div><div>Uncle looked at them, disdain clearly visible on his face.</div><div>"Do y'know, smoking is prohibited in public places?", he told us in a matter-of-factly tone. </div><div>And then I realized something-</div><div>He wouldn't have given them a second glance, if instead of those girls, there were a bunch of guys standing there and smoking.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which they do all the time. But does anyone bat an eyelid? No.</div><div><br /></div><div>He still had an expression of distaste on his face, as if he'd swallowed a particularly juicy fly, and I half-expected him to go over there, snatch the cigarettes out of their hands, stump them beneath his feet and yell, "<i>Batameez</i>!"</div><div>I didn't want to say anything or I'd be chastised for Not Knowing Anything and Speaking Without Thinking.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was a little confused; as far as i had seen, he was a man with modern views.</div><div>Then why this prejudice?</div><div><br /></div><div>This question is not directed at him, but to all people in general who have a problem with ONLY girls smoking in public. Or smoking at all (or anything else, for that matter).</div><div><br /></div><div>Is this how its supposed to be, then? Even though smoking in public places is banned, when guys do it, thats alright, but when girls do it, its not? Is that it? Now smoking is a guy's domain? Isn't that sexist?</div><div><br /></div><div>In this day and age, when we pride ourselves on having a female President, when the gap between girls and guys is fast getting bridged, where does a prejudice of this sort fit?</div><div><br /></div><div>Merely allocating a third of seats in the Legislature to women isn't gonna do the trick. Sexual prejudice is deep-seated, and needs to be combated in our everyday lives. The very mindset of people has to change. Handing out political power doesn't necessarily mean change. Its little things like these that matter.</div><div>Now I'm no smoker, nor do I think that its a very good habit. I mostly dodge the fumes, as I know that passive smoking is equally harmful. But I don't believe in this kinda prejudice.</div><div><br /></div><div>In 10th, in Political Science, we had a chapter- Gender, Caste and Religion. It taught how discrimination takes place in each of these three. </div><div>We study about it so much, we make notes, we get marks and sometimes even straight A's. But when it comes to practical application, we fail miserably. Then we go back to our rigid, old-age, dead beliefs (not implying that these are ALWAYS bad), wholly convinced we are right.</div><div>Theory is BASED on practical application. If after reading about all kinds of biases, being explained how they are wrong in a thoughtful, logical way, we still cannot apply it in our lives, then its safe to consider our entire year absolutely wasted.</div><div><br /></div><div>On a completely different note, I'M GOING TO CAMP!!!</div><div>Youreka, thank you, thank you, thank you for existing! 11th June, I board the train for Chakrata, or Room on the Roof. My major will be watercraft. I shall learn all about rafting, reading water currents, paddling and all that. I haven't yet decided on my minor.</div><div>Maybe I'll be awesome at my major. Maybe that one week will be the best week of my life. Maybe I'll meet the love of my life.</div><div>Who knows? Anything can happen.</div><div><br /></div><div>I CAN'T WAITTT!!</div><div><br /></div><div>Whooo-hooooo!!</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-52738081924948731352010-04-15T11:32:00.000+05:302010-04-15T12:02:55.955+05:30I'll miss you, Ma'am<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDsf2iWg5mG-cOGfRHq4Euo8oBhQ3OVlHpkyjrTd1rzV5qWVySbE5h7Gv671S5fJkQhSf61UYf_bTPkqZNE8hNWgahZ2JXflz3Cf0gzC-pQ0S7dyPLMS0kziM_NM-VRv_U7vb7iVnTFtqI/s1600/DSC02049.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDsf2iWg5mG-cOGfRHq4Euo8oBhQ3OVlHpkyjrTd1rzV5qWVySbE5h7Gv671S5fJkQhSf61UYf_bTPkqZNE8hNWgahZ2JXflz3Cf0gzC-pQ0S7dyPLMS0kziM_NM-VRv_U7vb7iVnTFtqI/s400/DSC02049.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460248077825494386" /></a><br />Dedicated to Brinda Ma'am, the awesomest teacher <i>ever.</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div>So we were a mixed section. I am, or rather was, in tenth D. Here, there were nine students with French as second language and 30 students with Hindi as second language. French and Hindi classes were at the same time, so needless to say, we were thrown out of the class, since we were the minority. </div><div>Our fun started with this. Going out and looking for an empty class wastes a lot more time than waiting for the teacher to come in the class. </div><div>Ma'am, we <i>always</i> went in the opposite direction so you'd find us later and we'd study lesser. </div><div>We <i>always </i>pretended that we didn't know the class we were supposed to be in even though you told us to be there the previous day.</div><div><br /></div><div>We knew how you loved to talk, so if we weren't in the mood to study any particular day, we thought of topics in which we could engage you. Wines, cheese, Paris, other teachers, your students, interior designing, your travels, Michael Jackson...we knew how to make you talk. And we loved you for it. And yet again, when we had spent the entire class talking about all this stuff, and the bell would ring, you'd say "Don't make me talk tomorrow, children".</div><div>And we would smile sincerely but still do that the next day.</div><div><br /></div><div>I never got my Get Ready to class, and you still forgave me. My French notebook was an assortment of doodles, lyrics of songs, quotes, everything but French. </div><div>You always said that you'd call my parents but you never did.</div><div><br /></div><div>Its funny, but we actually looked <i>forward</i> to French. Not because we could sit back and relax and just chat. But because we could do that AND study, both at the same time.</div><div>Because you became our best friend, Ma'am. Because we never could get enough of you, no matter what. Because you gave us hundreds of thousands of assignments and made us do them while consulting us about your perfume. Because we could call teachers by their names in front of you.</div><div><br /></div><div>We love you, Ma'am. You ask us if other children mimic you and we can honestly answer yes. Then you'd laugh and tell us to show you. And we did.</div><div>You shared with us all your experience, some even personal, and told us all you could.</div><div>We came to your house to study, just before the French board, and couldn't help gasping at your beautiful house, which you had mentioned so many times before. I still remember sitting at your beautiful terrace, talking about everything.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, Ma'am. You're the best, Ma'am. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>All my love, </div><div>Srishti</div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. I never ate the chips of those sixth class students. Neither did I leave that note. Swear, ma'am.</div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-44760433174500865022010-03-26T21:18:00.000+05:302010-03-27T10:06:22.386+05:30Set FreeI AM DONEEEE!! <div>O.V.E.R.</div><div><br /></div><div>overrrrrrrrrrrr.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, okay, stupid MCQ's are still left. But thats just for 20 marks. On 31st. WHO CARESS??</div><div><br /></div><div>The point is, I'm almost free from the exams which have been ruining my life since practically the whole year. </div><div>And they went smoothly. In your FACE, CBSE. Heheh.</div><div><br /></div><div>My Leesha's back and thanks to her, the room of my wall now adorns a gianormous New Moon poster. Edward yo. :)</div><div><br /></div><div>These few months have been very, very hard. But now, I'm ready to take on April-May-June. Which are hopefully going to be one of the best months ever.</div><div>In fact, last exam just got over today and I already snuck out to a place where minors, such as myself, are not really, umm allowed. But I didn't take part in any of the err, activities, so its cool. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since the exams are over now and every person on this Earth who I'm even remotely associated with is very concerned about those, the obvious question now is:</div><div>What next?</div><div>What are my plans for future, and stuff like that.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, I, after great deliberation and negotiation, have decided to choose <b>Humanities.</b></div><div>Needless to say, I've been met with a lot of skepticism, criticism and a huge amount of advice. </div><div>Many (Mostly Apoo) says that I'll be wasting my time and ruining my future and not utilizing my 'mental aptitude' to the fullest.</div><div>That I'm crazy to take this and regret my choice later.</div><div>That I'll have to live in a rented apartment with cheap momos as my dinner every night, because I'm gonna have to work really hard and will receive very little in return.</div><div>That I'll struggle and struggle my whole life and still be denied the appreciation I want and /or deserve.</div><div><br /></div><div>All I can say is, first do your homework right and then come and talk to me.</div><div>For the first time in my life, I'm actually <i>excited </i>about studying something. To hell with everything else.</div><div>Of course, it is true that I'll be stuck with a bunch of dopes who'll not be able to distinguish photosynthesis from photography, but who cares.</div><div>What I'll be studying for the next two years is:</div><div> </div><div>English- Everyone has to study that. I <i>want </i>to study that.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maths- Which will be my death I'm sure, but its always nice to have a challenge.</div><div><br /></div><div>Economics- Love it as of now, but lets see.</div><div><br /></div><div>Political Science- This...should be interesting.</div><div><br /></div><div>Psychology- CAN'T WAIT!!</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll also be studying French and Biology, but from somewhere else. </div><div><br /></div><div>Some may say that my choice of subjects is really not respectable, whatever, but its better than Science, where even if I spent my every waking hour studying, I'll still only be acceptable.</div><div><br /></div><div>I met a lot of great, self-actualized people today. I wish I were like them. Hell, I wish I WERE them.</div><div><br /></div><div>My pathetic existence never ceases to amaze me.</div><div> </div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><br /></div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-67082777904218387272010-02-17T19:56:00.000+05:302010-02-17T20:08:00.253+05:30Black Valentine'sThey decided lets meet.<div>Lets meet over a coffee.</div><div>Pre-valentine's?</div><div><br /></div><div>@German Bakery</div><div><br /></div><div>They took a table. Ordered a coffee. Laughing, chatting.</div><div>Not a worry in the world. Except placement exams, He thought.</div><div>But He was with Her. Who cared about exams?</div><div><br /></div><div>And suddenly, blast.</div><div>Everything's black.</div><div><br /></div><div>@Hospital</div><div><br /></div><div>They had to amputate His legs. She was ninety per cent burnt. Barely alive. Negligible chance of survival. He was still unconscious.</div><div><br /></div><div>Government officials handed a cheque to His mother. His mother tore it up and threw it on his face.</div><div><br /></div><div>He died yesterday night. She's on the brink of death.</div><div><br /></div><div>All they wanted,</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>was coffee.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-64269174712053351372010-02-05T12:18:00.000+05:302010-02-05T12:31:26.120+05:30They're coming.I don't think people get it.<div>I <i>know </i>I have boards this year okay. I KNOW. I don't need people reminding me every two minutes every SINGLE day. </div><div>As if I need every auntie to go, "<i>Beta, </i>boards <i>hai iss saal</i>!"</div><div>As if I need the whole world's advice.</div><div>As if I need my every action dictated by the fact that I have boards this year.</div><div><br /></div><div>They say it like its a disease, that I have to be cautious.</div><div><br /></div><div>As if my whole life depends on these exams, as if I'm bound to collapse into a big heap of nothingness if I don't score well in 'boards'. </div><div>I don't care what anyone says, I WORSHIP Kapil Sibal for scrapping them off. </div><div>9th is so lucky. They have Gardening as a subject. <i>Gardening. </i>I want to Garden.</div><div><br /></div><div>This sucks. </div><div>Maths sucks.</div><div><i>Life </i>sucks.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh and, support Shah Rukh Khan in his stand against the incredibly stupid Shiv Sena. </div><div>Join,</div><div><a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=287708310215&ref=mf">http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=287708310215&ref=mf</a></div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-51096208592894972962010-01-16T16:52:00.000+05:302010-01-19T13:47:41.694+05:30Hun. Who's the Idiot now?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.bollywood-stars.net/images/3-idiots-poster.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 450px; height: 581px;" src="http://www.bollywood-stars.net/images/3-idiots-poster.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>While the world is going on about the brilliancy and excellence of 3 Idiots, here's what <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sagarika_Ghose-Sardesai">Sagarika Ghose</a> has to say. <div> </div><div><br /></div><div>"The film (3 Idiots) tells us that India's system of higher education is idiotic, teachers are lisping semi-insane brutes who drive students to suicide, rote learning is always bad and the IIT's produce nothing but Lamborghini-chasing mercenaries who are only waiting to land corporate jobs in the US.</div><div>....Of course, the film is a fictionalized version of the IIT's, and perhaps a better reflection of the vast number of engineering colleges mushrooming across India, which are indeed soul-less factories where real education is substituted for cramming. And, of course, we are not meant to take 3 Idiots too seriously, as it is after all just about having an escapist laugh and not thinking too much. After all, if you think too much, you may discover that 3 Idiots is a dangerous, preachy and sanctimonious film that disdains all forms of hard work; that subliminally condemns studying as a pathetic exercise in rote learning and scorns the <i>sadhna </i>of higher education.</div><div>The film establishes that unless you are naturally gifted scientific genius like Ranchordas Chanchad, there's no point wasting time with your books. Then you're better off singing songs or becoming a wildlife photographer. As if becoming a 'wildlife photographer' is a sweet, extracurricular hobby that doesn't require hard work and determination and an equal amount of <i>sadhna.</i></div><div><i>....</i>The incredible popularity of the film shows that as a nation we are in no mood to study and are delighted that idiocy is at last legitimate.' - Sagarika Ghose</div><div><br /></div><div>Popcorn, anyone?</div><div> </div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-14483127668946208792010-01-11T18:55:00.000+05:302010-01-11T19:30:08.343+05:30Ghost in the Pink Fur Coat<div>January 9th, around 7:30 Pm</div><div><br /></div>Its dark. Very dark. I'm hiding behind the Cycling Machine in Rita Aunty's balcony. Chonu and Nishant are behind the chair and Partho's somewhere too. Its still very dark. The garden in front of the balcony is rumored to habituate hundreds of varieties of insects, worms, an occasional monkey and even <i>snakes.</i> <i> </i>Chonu and Nishant are fighting, and the scene, the place, the sounds make me nostalgic. <div>We're all in Rita Aunty's balcony.</div><div>We're playing Hide and Seek.</div><div>We're waiting for the 'seekers'.</div><div>Suddenly, the door in her balcony, adjacent to the Cycling Machine, which opens into the house...creaks open. Slowly. We all freeze. I remain very still. A figure steps out, hooded.</div><div>Its very dark and I can't see who it is.</div><div>But one thing drives the fear out of my mind.</div><div>The figure's wearing a pink fur coat. Its <i>definitely </i>not a ghost. Ghosts don't wear pink fur coats.</div><div>Its Rita Aunty. Dressed for her evening walk.</div><div>I can recognize her coat anywhere, anytime. </div><div>But I'm again scared. What if she gets mad finding the four of us in her house without her permission? What if she bans us from playing in that area? She didn't know we were here. Yet.</div><div>And suddenly,</div><div>There's a quick tick and the balcony is illuminated, all sign of darkness gone. </div><div>There's light all around- to reveal four not-so-small-people crouching behind chairs and Cycling Machines in her balcony.</div><div>"<i>Arre!</i>", she exclaims loudly, very, <i>very</i> astonished, as she took a step back. Even after her exclamation, we all remain hiding, hoping against hope that it wasn't us that she saw.</div><div>It was.</div><div>But none of us move an inch. She stands there, shocked to the core, unable to move. My hand flies to my mouth so the sound of laughter is muffled. I'm about to tip the Cycling Machine over, I'm laughing so hard. But I don't want her to hear. </div><div><br /></div><div>One Minute Later (during which, all four of us are trying to cover our laughter, STILL CROUCHING, HIDDEN, while she's plain shocked, speechless)</div><div>"Wha-wha-what...?", she finally manages. I can understand. There <i>have </i>been a lot of thefts lately. And crouching there in her balcony, I bet we didn't look any less than thieves.</div><div>"Playing Hide and Seek, Aunty! Hide and Seek?", Nishant calls out jovially.</div><div>We all come out. She gapes at us.</div><div>"Sorry, "I say. </div><div>"No, no, its perfectly alright, I was just very surprised..." Understatement of the year.</div><div>She walks back inside, all thoughts of evening walk forgotten.</div><div>We somehow stumble out of there, and as soon as we're out of her earshot, burst into laughter.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh yes. Saturday, we were out playing in the biting cold and this happened. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-61459203812431996692010-01-08T18:01:00.000+05:302010-01-08T18:45:19.548+05:30Shooting the MoonThere's something about The Pogues which makes you want to throw off your shoes and dance on the table. <div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:10px;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DrBLqp-s__o&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DrBLqp-s__o&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Which reminds me of my favorite scene from Titanic.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:10px;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/U50hqJS2ock&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/U50hqJS2ock&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm against choosing favorite movies because you can't have <i>one </i>favorite movie, you have a <i>bunch </i>of favorite movies. But Titanic is an exception to that rule. Titanic is the awesomest movie ever known to humankind on Earth. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Its so cold that my nose has turned into an abnormal shade of pink. </div><div>There's so much fog that I can't see whats five meters ahead of me at eight in the morning.</div><div>Smoke, or whatever that thing is, comes out of my mouth even at noon. </div><div>I haven't seen the sun for days. Okay not days, hours whatever.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lesson of the day: Do not walk with your shoelaces untied because you're too lazy to bend down and tie them. </div><div><br /></div><div>It always hurts more in the cold.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, a haircut and a blow-dry are a lot more effective than I gave them credit for.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-size:10px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre;font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div></div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-60217314416734076512010-01-01T16:35:00.000+05:302010-01-01T17:01:53.767+05:3001/01/10This is it.<div><br /></div><div>2010's here. I have a feeling its gonna be something special.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday, I was in the suckiest of moods and I wished, and I really, really wished, that I wanted to be someone else. I didn't wanna be me anymore.</div><div>I actually thought that if I wished hard enough, I would wake up and find myself in someone else's body. Someone who wasn't me.</div><div>Someone self-actualized.</div><div>Someone totally in touch with themselves.</div><div>Someone less confused.</div><div>Someone less so-easily-influenced-by-anyone.</div><div>Someone, when they're shelling peanuts, the shells break up into two perfect pieces. </div><div>Someone who <i>always</i> has more time than things to do.</div><div>Someone who's a good planner and a good time manager.</div><div>Someone who can please everyone and Someone who, when goes to bed at night, can sleep a good night's sleep because they've done whatever they should've done that day.</div><div>Someone who doesn't go, 'CRAP!' because they haven't been able to stick to their deadlines.</div><div>In other words, Someone...Perfect.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know if anyone like that exists, and if they do, I'm so ready for soul-swapping. </div><div>I'm sure there are people in whose life, everything <i>just goes right all the time.</i> Like they're a walking contradiction to Murphy's Law.</div><div>I'm nowhere NEAR that.</div><div><br /></div><div>But after a long night of thinking, I've realized that even if I'm not all that, I could be. In a much lesser degree, but still. </div><div><br /></div><div>Last night, I got this text:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">Cheers to a new year and another chance for us to make it right.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">Happy Sparkling Twenty Ten.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><i>Another chance for us to make it right.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>And I'll take that chance. I have to. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday, I asked Ess, 'What are you gonna do tonight?'</div><div>'We're going out,' he had replied. </div><div>'Where?', I had asked again.</div><div>'Wherever destiny takes us,' And although he was obviously being dramatic, and joking, this phrase has been repeating itself over and over in my head since midnight.</div><div>Wherever destiny takes us.</div><div><br /></div><div>I really feel something special's in store for this year. I really do.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first three months, there's nothing but study planned. After that, I'll be free. Not only free, I'll have three months off. </div><div><i>To do whatever I like.</i></div><div>The thought makes me dizzy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Happy New Year to all.</div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-78980312459756093992009-12-23T19:57:00.000+05:302009-12-23T20:36:48.800+05:30All I Want For Christmas Is......a box full of Christmas Movies, nothing else.<div><br /></div><div>Santa is just a costume and gifts are just excuses; using these two, all people want is to spread love.</div><div><br /></div><div>This may sound hysterical but its true.</div><div><br /></div><div>I read a Christmas based book, The Gift by Cecilia Ahern (who now, has become one of my very favorite authors). Its a beautiful book, and I recommend it to anyone who's as crazy about Christmas and lesson-teaching stories as I am. This is an extract from the book: (note how vividly she describes everything, and how true all of it is)</div><div><br /></div><div>'On Christmas Morning, an air of calm settles outside. The emptiness on the streets doesn't instill fear; in fact it has an opposite effect. It's a picture of safety, and, despite the seasonal chill; there's warmth. For varying reasons, for every household this day of every year is just spent inside. While outside is sombre, inside is a world of bright, frenzied colour, a hysteria of ripping wrapping paper and flying coloured ribbons.</div><div>Christmas music and festive fragrances of cinnamon and spice of all things nice fill the air. Exclamations of glee, of hugs and thanks, explode like party streamers. These Christmas days and indoor days; not a sinner lingering outside, for even they have a roof over their heads.'</div><div><img src="http://sites.google.com/a/skrishnasbooks.com/blog-pics/Home/covers/thegift.JPG" style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" /></div><div>In my old school, on the walls along the staircase, there were quotes and Thought-for-the-day's pasted. And I read the quotes each time I passed. One of them I recall clearly, and a few days ago, I realized its true-ness.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Its nice to be important, but its more important to be nice.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>This Christmas, lets try to be a little nicer. Family, friends, strangers, anyone.</div><div><br /></div><div>So,</div><div><br /></div><div>If you could wish for one thing this Christmas, what would you wish for?</div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-81382885722229799092009-12-04T17:44:00.000+05:302009-12-08T21:42:38.655+05:30Bonjour India!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was lucky enough to be a part of the twelve student group who were sent to the FIRC- French Information Research Centre. (Thanks Daggu :))</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Little did I know, as I climbed into the twelve seater minivan, that I'd learn something entirely different than what was expected.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We were there to witness a story narration by a professional French Storyteller. Now, I've never met a storyteller. I didn't even know that a profession like that even </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">existed.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Telling stories for a living? My kind of thing! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As we walked inside the gates, I saw the chairs and tables covered in clean, white linen and multi-colored satin bows on them. There was a round table and chairs around it. I've always, always, always, wanted to sit at round tables covered with white linen. And there should be a champagne glass in front of me. I've seen those only at weddings, and somehow, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">that</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> mood isn't created. But those chairs around the tables? For me? Yay!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And then I saw around twenty-five little French kids, all dressed as if they were out for a picnic. There were other schools too, but they naturally caught my attention. They, as I found out later, were the kids from Lycee Francaise, which is a French school for children from classes sixth to eighth. The event was pretty formal and they were running around, playing and I immediately smiled, seeing what they were doing. We stood, as we were a little early, looking around, and surprisingly, they approached us. First came the boys, and alomst all of them had golden hair (not blonde) and the Zac Efron hairstyle which I totally LOVE! This one:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img src="http://www.blog-city.info/en/img4/4561_Zac-Efron-1-05182007.jpg" style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 393px;" border="0" alt="" /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Only less weirder. So I couldn't stop staring at them. I was too nervous too actually talk to them so I let the others talk.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">1. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And then, behind me, this group of French girls come and say, "Quelle est votre classe?" Which is your class? I look nervously at Shubhra. " D</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ixième," she tells me. I repeat. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We look at each other for a while...a little more broken French.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Je t'aime ta jupe, " I like your skirt, I tell one girl.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Merci, merci", she says happily.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then they go back. We roamed around for a bit, as we were early.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">2.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And then I noticed something- there was French Jazz music playing in the background. And the little French kids, they started dancing! Just like that.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There were many people there, all of them older, and they didn't care. They started dancing, doing weird, funny little actions.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Just like that.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I couldn't take my eyes off them. Would I dance with all those people looking at me? No. Why?</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">3.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Finally, we took our seats, and this French boy turns around and looks at me. "Bonjour," I say. He grins and holds up two fingers, the victory sign. These kids were COOL. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The event started and whenever anybody on the stage said Bonjour, just as a form of greeting, all those French kids would shout Bonjour back. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The group-song competition started...first up was our school and the name of the song was announced.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">4.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And surprisingly, all the French kids started hooting and giggling. "Whats so funny?" I asked them in French. One of them said managed to squeeze in between giggles,"Sarkozy...Carla Bruni."</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I couldn't make anything of this answer until later I came to know that that song was dedicated to Nicholas Sarkozy by Carla Bruni.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Those kids were giggling. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">5.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our team was singing, it was a slow, romantic, melodious song. Everybody was listening quietly. And one of the French kids, he started clapping. Slowly, with the beat, holding up his hands. He looked at us and gestured to us to do the same. Clap for </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">our</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> team. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There were students there in the age group of fifteen to eighteen years. There were college students and post-graduates. There were teachers and adults.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And here is this twelve year old foreigner telling us to clap, cheer for our own team while everyone listened quietly. Obviously, when the song ended, we did cheer. But that was different. Cheering for a stranger, and sincerely, is much, much different.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">6.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was the French kids' turn then. They ran to the stage, pushing each other. All of them wanted to be in front. As I looked at them, I saw myself. I. Group song. Pushing. Laughing. Not caring that we're on the stage.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They sang enthusiastically, tapping their feet on the ground, almost jumping. After the song ended, they clapped for themselves, and one of them even jumped off the stage and fell face down on the grass. I couldn't stop laughing. (No, he did it intentionally!)</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">7.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Another school's turn. They became very excited when the heard they would be singing Champs-Elysees, a popular French song. They sang along to every word, encouraging everyone to join in.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then was the time for story narration. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">8.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One of them, Clarisse was the name, would be narrating a story. They cheered for her, and they cheered good. "Clarisse! Clarisse!", they yelled, clapping their hands. "Relaxe! Relaxe..." they kept saying...and it was so refreshing. When everybody sat on their seats, prim and proper, these children were jumping up and down, supporting their friend. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She narrated the story beautifully, avec action et al.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then came, Muriel, the professional French story-teller. Muriel here, had vivid, red, curly hair and she wore a so many beads and necklaces and bangles. But the way that woman narrated a story- awesome. She mostly narrated folktales. She traveled all over the world and collected folktales from different cultures. What inspired her to choose a profession like that, somebody asked.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Because, she said smiling wickedly, when I was twenty, I was much in love with a guy who loved stories.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She was fifty seven now.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She told us mostly folktales, about devils and angels and heaven and hell. About how the city of Los Angeles was built and why people say 'Uh-hun.'</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Its all about," she said, "finding the right story for the right person at the right moment."</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">9.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The French kids were the perfect listeners. They gasped and 'oohed' and 'aahed' at the right time and every once in a while, they'd raise their hands and go, "Madame! Madame!" and ask questions. Even in the middle of the story. And nobody minded.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then there was a play, La Petite Chaperon Rouge. The Little Red Riding Hood. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Thank you everyone for coming. Now you can all proceed to have lunch, we have chocolate croissants and hot chocolate and sandwiches waiting for you."</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And the French kids exclaimed and ran towards the food.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And at that moment, right then, I wanted to be one of them.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">had </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">to be one of them.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I had to.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They were so...carefree, unrestricted.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So unaffected, it was amazing.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">wanted to be able to go upto older, intimidating (?) strange teenagers and talk to them casually.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">wanted to to dance on French Jazz, not caring that a group of snotty teenagers were staring at me.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">wanted to make the 'V' sign AND look cool.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">wanted to hoot after hearing the Bruni-Sarkozy song.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">wanted to cheer for my team, absolutely not caring what anyone thought of my screams.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">wanted to jump and laugh on stage and not feel conscious.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">wanted to jump off from the stage, rock-star style.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">wanted to yell my friend's name among a meeting of serious, sophisticated people.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">wanted to jump because there was hot chocolate for lunch.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I wanted all that.</span></span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Because they were happy people. The real happy.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And I'd settle for NOTHING less.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Where has the heart gone? Where has the spontaneity of actions gone? </span></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Nevertheless, </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*raises empty wine glass*</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">To the French Spirit!</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Love,</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Srishti</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">P.S. There's a chilly nip, or rather, Christmas in the air. Bring on the warmth, whatever may be the source. ;)</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><br /></span></span></div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-41933475792410138702009-11-28T14:05:00.001+05:302009-11-29T19:22:47.854+05:30The Human AspectIn times of a crisis, different people react in different ways. During these times, many people overlook the little things. The small details which escape the eye. Or the small details which makes your will for survival stronger. <div>I like to call it 'The Human Aspect'. The Human element.</div><div><br /></div><div>26/11</div><div><br /></div><div>I saw a very excellent documentary on Discovery, Surviving Mumbai yesterday. And noted down these small details.</div><div><br /></div><div>The gunmen rounded up some guests in the hotel and this woman, she was wearing a black evening dress. When they were rounded up, she quickly wrapped a black pashmina around her.</div><div>To appear as a 'conservative, middle-aged woman' to the Muslim gunmen. I think that was very quick thinking on her part. Or it could've earned her the gunmen's wrath.</div><div><br /></div><div>This guy, he's hiding in a room in The Oberoi or the Taj (I forgot which one). He looks outside the window and there is a house in front of the hotel. He can view the inside of the house and he sees a man...brushing his teeth. The hotel in front of him is burning down, and he's carrying on brushing his teeth. Like nothing's happening. </div><div><br /></div><div>A woman remarked that the terrorists wanted to wash their hands or something, but they couldn't open the taps. They could open-fire among a crowd but couldn't open a tap. "But when you have a gun." she said. "Everything is possible. Isn't that interesting?"</div><div><br /></div><div>The staff of the Taj hotel were extremely helpful. They sealed the guests inside the Chambers and themselves remained outside and led the terrorists away from the Chambers. This guy who worked in the Taj had the chance of getting out and getting home to his wife and children, who lived just three blocks away. But he decided to stay and help. He died two days later. Vir Sanghvi wrote an article a while back, praising the dedication of the staff at Taj towards its guests even in such a crisis.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anjali Pollack said, "When the doors finally opened and light spread out, a commando walked in. And I swear, at that moment...he looked nothing less than Brad Pitt to me."</div><div><br /></div><div>I have a book which recounts the experiences of women detained at Concentration Camps during world war2.</div><div>One woman wrote that there was this other woman in the camp, who used her very limited ration of margarine to smear on her face, instead of spreading it on the bread. And they were given very little food.</div><div>There were a group of French women, who went inside the gas chambers in Auschwitz singing Marseilles. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the camps, everything was so filthy and dirty, you couldn't clean up properly. Women's heads were shaved off and sparse little hair grew on them. But once, these girls encountered a French man who was exiting from the same door as them. He held the door open for them and said, "Apres vous, madame." Which means, after you, ma'am. That little gesture made them feel a bit more woman again. </div><div><br /></div><div>My stupid keyboard's given out and on screen keyboard is not fun.</div><div><br /></div><div>More later. </div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-72334650233123222002009-11-18T15:26:00.000+05:302009-11-20T15:22:45.928+05:30The Only Thing<div>I go out, take in- a deep, long breath</div><div>fresh, so pure, almost dizzying</div><div>tangy, wet, oh the typical rain scent</div><div>Let it rain, I say. Let it rain.</div><div>You know why?</div><div>'Cuz this scent's the only thing, we both can smell.</div><div><br /></div><div>I look around, move-the wind passes by</div><div>cool, so crisp, almost heady</div><div>nippy, ruffling, oh the typical rain breeze</div><div>Let it rain, I say. Let it rain.</div><div>You know why?</div><div>'Cuz this wind's the only thing, we both can feel.</div><div><br /></div><div>I extend, my hand-and a drop falls on it</div><div>chilly, so raw, almost stunning</div><div>spotless, sparkling, oh the typical rain drop</div><div>Let it rain, I say. Let it rain.</div><div>You know why?</div><div>'Cuz this drop's the only thing, we both can touch.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sit down, and listen-the sound of the clouds</div><div>brusque, so loud, almost pounding</div><div>snarl, rumbling, oh the typical rain roar</div><div>Let it rain, I say. Let it rain.</div><div>You know why?</div><div>'Cuz this roar's the only thing, we both can hear.</div><div><br /></div><div>I look up, the sky-a vast stretch it is</div><div>blue, and black, almost bruised</div><div>murky, so sombre, oh the typical rain sky</div><div>Let it rain, I say. Let it rain.</div><div>You know why?</div><div>'Cuz this sky's the only thing, we both can see.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Only Thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>So dear rain, </div><div>Please do come again.</div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. And this is my favourite song. :)</div><div>Death Cab for Cutie is SO good.</div><div>I'll Follow You Into the Dark</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:Arial, sans-serif;font-size:10px;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/HYF8cUlbs3I&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/HYF8cUlbs3I&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre;font-size:-webkit-xxx-large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">I will.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre;font-size:12px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre;font-size:12px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre;font-size:-webkit-xxx-large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048361774489508089.post-58561812442690176202009-11-11T20:25:00.000+05:302009-11-18T15:47:47.487+05:30Hide and SeekYou're here; we smile, knowing<div>I look away and back</div><div>You're gone.</div><div>I look around; and you've </div><div>Disappeared.</div><div><br /></div><div>I smile; 'cuz I know</div><div>And I look away-and back</div><div>You're here.</div><div>You grin, I laugh.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hide and seek?", I say</div><div>The glint-in your eyes, is</div><div>Back.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I hide, you seek", you say</div><div>Roll my eyes; fine, I say</div><div>Close, you order; I do</div><div>I look away-and back</div><div>You're gone.</div><div><br /></div><div>Behind the tree, between the leaves</div><div>Think I; look around, but you've </div><div>Disappeared.</div><div><br /></div><div>Behind the rock, hidden, laughing</div><div>I look around, but you've</div><div>Disappeared.</div><div><br /></div><div>Scratch my head, frown</div><div>Wondering; where possibly could</div><div>You have gone?</div><div><br /></div><div>And then, see I, a shadow</div><div>Laughing-to myself; I walk</div><div>Stealthily; towards you, smirking</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ah-ha!", I shout, pointing</div><div>But that-not you,confused</div><div>Not you.</div><div>I look around; but you've </div><div>Disappeared.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sit; despondent, miserable</div><div>I've lost you, I think, forlorn</div><div>I've lost you, this is it.</div><div>Over.</div><div><br /></div><div>And there, you are, smiling</div><div>I cry and jump and hit you.</div><div>And you grin; I laugh-again.</div><div><br /></div><div>You'll never, lose me, you say</div><div>But stubborn I, still, hold on</div><div>to you. Go on, try, you say</div><div><br /></div><div>Afraid, nervous, but try</div><div>I look away-and back</div><div>You're here.</div><div><br /></div><div>Convinced, happy, I smile</div><div>"Look away", you tease, I glare</div><div>You grin, I laugh-again.</div><div><br /></div><div>What now, you ask, I shrug</div><div>"Hide and seek?", you ask, with a glint</div><div>"I hide, you seek", reply I.</div><div><br /></div><div>You raise, eyebrows; challenged</div><div>Close, I order; you do</div><div>You look away-and back</div><div>I'm gone.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Let me hide,</i></div><div><i>Let me lose myself.</i></div><div><i>But please dear love,</i></div><div><i>Find me in the End.</i></div>Srishtihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04700351745397925533noreply@blogger.com15