Nascent Emissions

Two Hours Of Eternal Splendour (I)

2012-02-14T04:32:00.001+05:30

Part I
The Ending

Loving you is irrevocably drugging myself to a form of living I know I can spend my life in. Loving you is living.

Few not so bright rays of sun manage to percolate through the thick oriental curtains on the window to rest on the left side of his face. Penetrating the aquatic blueness of the window tresses, they fall on his face like luminous ripples of water. I gaze at him. I sigh.

He lies on his back, covered upto his chest in the soft, velvety blanket I share with him. The blanket protects what we seek to share only with each other from the curious eyes of the fan, the walls, and the mischievous mirror. I plant a careful kiss on his glistening shoulder. I then draw out from the blanket.

I do not intend to get away from him. Having savoured him in every other possible way, I now wish to savour him through my eyes. I lift myself up, leaning on my elbow, and cast the most loving gaze at him. My lips instantly register that same smile he described as the sexiest curve of my body. I smile imagining things, both pleasant and forbidden.

Oblivious to my shenanigans, he sleeps. Peaceful, calm, radiant. I am sure he is dreaming. Dreaming about us. I can feel him sigh behind his closed eyes.He is definitely dreaming about us. It is easy to read him. It was easier to have fallen in love with him. Almost instantly. Like a sudden revelation.

Half of his face is playing host to the mild rays of the distant sun. The serenely illuminated countenance of his is reminding me of his admirably illuminated inner self. The other half of his face bears a shadow of his own features, reminiscent of the protective shade he has been nurturing me in for so long. His perfectly chiseled, smooth shoulders give but a peek into the majesty that he is. His right arm, so far a pillow for me, is now lying with a casual grace on the softness of the blanket. He is perfect. His aura is perfect. But soon, it'll all be gone.

(Part II- The Premonition, coming up soon)

Dear Delegates

2012-02-11T01:49:00.001+05:30

Today happens to begin what must be one of the most eagerly looked forward to conferences of the year 2012 in the Delhi college circuit. Delhi Technological University is organizing DeltechMun'12 over the next two days where delegates from pan Delhi colleges will congregate to discuss issues encompassing Human Rights, Global Security Concerns, Financial Stability, Climate Change, inter alia. Though not a regular MUN person, I do have my fair bit of experience now spanning more than 6 years in this genre of debating. As I write this, I do feel excited and happy that in some hours, I will be Chairing a non-MUN committee at Deltech, one which I simulated in my own college (JMC) without any precedents to look up to. The Model G20 Summit. Being an economics student, a committee which simulates the debates between Finance Ministers and Central Bank governors of 20 significant economies of the world on core financial and policy coordination issues, G20 seemed like the ideal platform to extrapolate arguments contained in text books and ET to a conference where we talk like world leaders making important decisions. The responsibility associated with researching and understanding is manifold when we prepare for such conferences, and it is this academic bent which appeals to me- not the flamboyant oratory or chic ensemble on display.

Today, when we assemble for the two day G20 Summit we are looking to simulate, two agendas of immense contemporary and future relevance would be put to debate. These are-
1. Coordinating economic policies and reducing global macroeconomic imbalance
2. Need for a global strategy to reduce carbon emissions and its growth implications.

As the Chair, these are the words which have been conveyed to my committee members, who I am hoping bear these in mind and end the two days of informed debating on a successful note (devoid of filibustering and neck-grabbing tendencies)

Dear Delegates

What we are entering today is an era unlike any seen earlier in terms of doubts, uncertainties and magnitude of issues which plague us as a global community. In matters financial and otherwise, it is truly quoted that the only prediction that will hold true is that no prediction will hold true. The meeting of G-20 nations has thus been convened in February 2012 within the precincts of Delhi Technological University to see if we may locate ways of mitigating uncertainties in matters of global financial stability and sustainability as we pursue growth objectives with a mad zeal.

It is only after the 2008 Washington Summit that G-20 was able to establish its credibility as an effective forum for promoting cohesion for a salubrious financial climate throughout the world and to debate issues which transcend the concerns of any one organization. Stepping into the shoes of Finance Ministers and Central Bank governors, as delegates, we are expecting you to take on two issues that the most erudite experts in the world have failed to arrive at a consensus on. The threats of a worldwide recession unprecedented in scale are looming large over our collective psyche and the skeptics are already out in the open conjecturing if the world will end in fire or ice given the hypocritical attention global warming concerns are receiving. Both these topics shall hopefully be debated with a professional, solution oriented, in depth analysis by the enthusiastic delegates who will constitute my committee.

As for myself, I am a Economics Honors graduate from Delhi University, aspiring to become a proactive, change inducing bureaucrat in near future. With my academic areas of interest encompassing the issues we have put forward for debating, I shall be serving as your Chair along with Sakshi from DTU as the Director. Together, we shall be hoping to provide you with an experience which enriches and entertains.

Being a part of Deltech MUN 2012 is as much a matter of pride for me as if for all of you. Congratulations on being short listed for my committee. Feel free to touch base for any query.

Looking forward to an amazing session.

Regards,
Saumya Kulshreshtha

Trek Up To The 100th!

2012-02-10T04:39:00.000+05:30

Yes. Through this post, I am out here celebrating the century of nascent words which have escaped my heart over last 3 years. It feels incredible. When I go through the neatly drafted older articles, I often sense pride and warmth serenading my being. The words were always reflective of my thoughts. Honest thoughts. Not one word here has an element of fabrication. Each single post of mine is written with personal care, tenderness, love and thoughtfulness. Emotions have been my guides. People my inspirations.

What I would want to dedicate my 100th post to is my inspirations. The three people who have been a distinct part of me and who have inspired me not from around me, but from within me. Their faces lurk behind most of my writings. What I share with them prompts me on. Whether the happy moments or the sad, they either cause them or help me live through them. Invariably, they metamorphose into some exquisite thoughts which my quill itches to paint into some precious words.

Here they are. Here is who they are. Here is what they mean.

The Love

He is the Guardian Angel of my solitary heart. I read about love. He taught me about love. The feeling that filled me with his arrival in my life was so overwhelming that it needed to flow out. It had to flow out. He made me feel so much of love that I could finally begin to understand it. Once I understood it, I felt a need to write about it, share about it. Love has been an experience of learning and unlearning. Nothing stands absolute in its path except for the fact that it exists as an Absolute need for all of our survival. I did mention about having understood it. But love is a spectacular panorama. Not one to be understood easily. He says, "So what? Live it, feel it, flow with it." And the words flow along too. Gracefully. Dancing under his magic.

The Care

He is solace of my heart. My reason for feeling good. My reason for looking forward to a new day. In his face, I've seen a frown which I sensed a need to smoothen. In his eyes, I've seen some pain which I always yearned to help flow out. In his heart, I've seen a coldness which I felt I could help thaw. He is the majesty which stands tall to the respect of the world. He is the softness which has always been cared for by me. In caring for him, I have felt infinite warmth being reflected back towards my heart. Each time I watched over him, I sensed some faith building up in me. Can there be a more potent inspiration that faith itself? The care, taking care, being cared for, lent me that faith, and the consequent inspiration. Its friendship at its best. The fights inspire me more than the good times. My writings carry lessons and emotions I gained via the periods of distress, the periods of taking care. Its is not the cherry on top of the cake I am claiming, it is the whole cake of memories I am sharing.

The Smile

She came into my life with the glow of sunshine. Funny I call her that despite heliophobia being one of her prominent attributes. Her innocence, silliness and childish purity has been comfort of my heart in the darkest of hours. Happiness deep down within has been ascertained by me to be a prerequisite to aid clear flow of thoughts out into comprehensible words. She channelized the best of positive energies towards me with that one bright smile she flashed at me on the first day I noticed her, and continued to flash the same at me each day we met and began getting closer. Her brightness, her contagious positivity, her infinitely pretty face, and the stupendous happiness she is always sprinkling around- all these factors have been the greatest motivations whenever I have sought to make anyone happy through the words I share on my blog. If she did not lent me all that bliss, I could not possibly have passed it on.

And We Turn 100

I am not thanking them. They're all mine. My own. And they've stuck by in my good and bad times. I've fought each one of them with bitternes. I've loved each one of them with passion and tenderness. I was in three different worlds while I wrote the above three, but that in now way means they are distinct or isolated sections of my existence. They inspire and encourage me together.
In his love lies tender care and plentiful smiles.
In his care I find smiles and the warmth of love.
In her smiles hides a reason to love and to take care.
They all hurt. They all are close. They all are behind my expressions.

For having come a long way. from writing my post #1 to now writing post #100, I am ecstatic. Each one of you reading it has been a part of my journey. Thank you so much! I know you are happy for me and are sharing that ridiculously beautiful smile with me. Thanks again. Hope to keep seeing you around.

A Montage Of Memories

2012-02-09T04:21:00.000+05:30

What is the time of the year that as a college student you most look forward to? Definitely not the exams and assessments. It is, indubitably, the time your whole college is drowned under a spirit of celebration- your annual college festival which is not just a time to have fun, but also to work your asses off and proudly show off your college to the whole world out there.

I'll add one more thing to the above generalization. Not just for the incumbent college students, but also for the nascent alumni, the most looked forward to occasion is not the Convocation or the Reunions, but again, the college festival. I say this from personal experience. Reunions are good in their place, but they do not recreate the fervor and frolic associated with college life. Festivals certainly do. With a bunch of old friends, heading down to your own college with a cup full of memories in your hand and a sparkle of expectations in your eyes is an exercise many of us would like to undertake to revel once again in that relaxed, carefree air. My lips widen in a huge smile as I recall to mind that a similar trip I shall be undertaking towards to my college just about a fortnight hence. It is that time of the year again. It is MONTAGE time again!

Splashed all across my twitter timeline and facebook wall are updates and more updates about this year's edition of Jesus and Mary College's Annual Festival- Montage'12. It is heartwarming to see juniors take the oars in their hands and row towards the D-Day with such skill and innovation. With each successive edition, we at JMC have gone a notch higher in terms of the quality and enthusiasm with which we decorate the fest. More spunk has consistently been added. More shimmer sprinkled. More care observed in organization. More efficiency achieved. More events conducted. More participants attracted. More fame gained. And if I am to go by the words of the college president, Kanika Chaturvedi, this year, Montage promises to be nothing less than EPIC. Dear Kanika, make it an advanced version of epic. I know it lies in you and your team to do that!

The team. Aah. Now they are an enviable lot. A bunch of young, smart girls, who put the most passionate sections of their heart and the most creative sections of their brain into making certain that the fest is pulled off with uncomplicated meticulousness and stylish grace. One of the many new things they have tried this year is reaching out to people via an interesting blog. Oh, they have made some awesome teaser videos too, but since I am a blogging person, I am glad that my lonely, nightime occupation is being taken seriously by some cute damsels. They are churning out some cool posts with a candour and lightheartedness I wish God blessed all of us with. The feel you get while reading all those posts just makes the air around the road leading to the fest all the more energized. The countdown has begun.

Hit the fb page, or the Montage official website, but what I will strongly recommend is that stop by Montage's official blog by clicking here. Take a moment. We want you to laugh with us. We can be pompous about ourselves, because all the awesomeness JMC lends to us is prone to spilling out now and then. But with this blog, the creative scribes of JMC are out there to make you feel at home even before you step into our campus.

Its here. Montage '12. So, are you ready?

PS- If you are one of my male friends reading it, FINE, I know I have to make sure I take you along. I will. I promise. But don't you dare pester me to introduce you to femme fatales from my college. Please.

An Era Of Mausiqi Ended

2012-02-08T02:55:00.001+05:30

Log kehte hain Jagjit na raha. Ghazal ro rahi rahi mera manmeet na raha. -Manoj Kumar on Jagjit Singh's demise on 10th October, last year.

Ghazal kehna bahut zimmedaari ka kaam hai. In other words, conveying the pathos of a poet with musical embellishments is a job of immense responsibility. Jagjit Ji, without fail, discharged this responsibility with enviable perfection. Ghulam Ali Sahab was true when he remarked on Jagjit Ji's demise that "With the going of Jagjit, a pillar of mausiqi has been lost." However, more touched was I on reading as a eulogy Manoj Kumar's above quoted expression. Jagjit ji's loss cannot be captured more lucidly in words. In his going away, ghazals have been left bereft of their most beloved humraahi. Humsafar. The face of ghazals as catches the popular imagination today had been chiseled by the dexterous of doyen of contemporary Indian light classical music. On 10th October last year, he decided that it was time now he serenaded the heavens with his silken voice. If he had not been so hasty in his departure, today we would have been celebrating his 71st birthday.

Jagjit Ji's voice is a magic potion. Much about him shall always be said in present tense, for he has immortalized himself via some priceless jewels. Rare gems like him never recede to the past. Their worth and glory enhances as time progresses. Jagjit Ji's soulful renditions of some great poetry can make reality hit you hard, or transport you to a surreal world. They may intensify your gloom by echoing with surprising precision a personal sorrow. The same ghazals could exude a salubrious air- an air capable of setting right the ills concomitant to deeply, passionately felt love.

Besides being a prolific singer, Jagjit ji was a great storyteller. Ask me what sung by him is my favorite ballad and I won't spare a nano second in pointing towards these lines. These lines are a chain of thoughts. Lyrically beautiful. Rendered sublime in Jagjit Ji's soulful voice.

Baat niklegi toh phir door talak jaaegi

Log bewajah udaasi ka sabab poochhenge

Yeh bhi poochhenge ki tum itni pareshaan kyun ho

Ungliyan uthengi sookhe hue baalon ki taraf

Ik nazar dekhenge guzre hue saalon ki taraf

Choodiyon par bhi kai tanz kiye jaayenge

Kaanpte haathon pe bhi fiqre kase jayenge

Log zaalim hain har ik baat ka tana denge

Baaton baaton mein mera zikr bhi le aayenge

Unki baaton ka zara sa bhi asar mat lena

Warna chehre ke taasur se samajh jayenge

Chaahe kuchh bhi ho sawalaat na karna unse

Mere baare mein koi baat na karna unse

Now, doesn't this story sound all too familiar? If you have not, I implore you with all my heart to lend an ear to this just once. For this composition, veteran lyricist Javed Akhtar is said to have remarked - Baat nikal bhi gayi, aur door talak jayegi bhi. These were Jagjit Ji's early days. Javed Akhtar's words proved prophetic for the heights extraordinaire which Jagjit Ji was destined to climb.

He shimmered like the brightest star in the sky of Indian music. A sitara, however, has not been lost. He is, in fact, shining ever more brightly, firmly, coruscating in the hearts of millions who loved him and will continue to do so till eternity.

Today is his 71st birthday. I wish it were in my capacity to reach out to him and wish him just once.

Achchha sa koi mausam, tanha sa koi aalam

Har waqt ka rona toh, bekaar ka rona hai.

Down The Road- A Review

2012-02-06T04:17:00.000+05:30

My short sabbatical to an internet free zone was spent with my nose poking deep into the pages of Down The Road- A collection of short stories by various authors about life on campus, edited by Ahmed Faiyaz and Rohini Kejriwal. What I felt about the book shall come later, but I must share with the readers that I was often found by concerned family members sometimes sharing a ridiculously personal smile, at others a worried pensive stare with the pages of the book. It was not merely because the book was handsomely engrossing. It was certainly because the book shared stories which seemed personal.

Life on campus is a rigmarole for most of us. It, invariably, occupies a very special place in the chest where we preserve our precious memories. Growing up, finding ourselves, making friends, understanding love, learning, unlearning, failing, trying, enjoying, crying- you look back at college and you find yourself enveloped by a dozen emotions you once lived through, the ones which have played an important part in shaping you as you know yourself today. Quite obviously, I had my hoped pinned high on Down The Road, especially because I am fresh out of DU, and still not quite over the feel of campus life.

The book lived up to its name. Quite effortlessly, it took me down the memory lane. It is a fresh and pleasant collection of short stories by young authors from diverse background and with diverse writing styles. It tells simple tales of incidents we've lived through in school or college. Most of the stories which appealed to me dealt with love and friendship- the discovery, the innocence, the misunderstandings, the whole experience in fact. The book is divided into five sections with 28 stories by 16 authors. The individual authors have explored many different facets of campus life including elections, politics, ragging, teachers, passions, lessons, crushes, placements inter alia.A thumbs up to the editors for selection of stories included in this anthology. Some of the stories will make you smile as you remember the hazy face of that first crush, some others might touch you where you are most sensitive and feel some pain or regret. Narrated with an almost personal tenderness, many of these stories make you reflect on those trivialities which seem to acquire meaning only in retrospect.

What I did not enjoy was the last section of the book, with two essays about campus fiction and campus based movies. I was riding high on the nostalgic atmosphere which the stories created around me, and quite honestly, I did not feel like forcing myself through those passages which seemed a little dry after the wonderful and touching stories. I would give the book 3 on 5 stars. It is worth a read, in fact a few stories are worth reading many times over. Some warmth and some nostalgia you are sure to feel while you involuntarily find yourself living your college days.

My favorite five from the stories published in this anthology-

1. Smells Like Home by Aashish Mehotra
About the reluctant return to his homeland of an NRI student, who experiences comfort in the company of a girl whose presence he takes for granted.
2. Bellow Yellow by Chinmayi Bali
A commendable, mature and intense story about the darker tendencies which inhabit a student's being. Well narrated, delicately handled.
3. The Music Room by Ira Trivedi
The forbidden love story of a bright young student and a docile, out of place music teacher.
4. The Cafe With No Name by Sneh Thakur
A gently narrated tale of the brewing relationship between a student of limited means and a concerned and doting Parsi owner of the roadside cafe. Heartwarming.
5. Remember Me? by Ahmed Faiyaz
This one because it made me revisit Ruheen and Aditya's love story, one I had gotten quite attached to while reading Another Chance.

Another Chance by Ahmed Faiyaz- A Review

2012-02-01T03:29:00.000+05:30

"At the end of love there is unloving, when you can engage in the ceaseless hunt for all those things to be taken out, and somehow discarded, when you can fight against the new roads and try, futilely, to return to what you were before." -Page 180, Another Chance.

Much thought goes into deciding the title for a book. No matter what genre, what subject, what type a book, a title is supposed to provide just enough peek into a book's soul, without revealing too much about it. It is your first impression of the book, and in case of novels, fiction novels such as the one I am attempting to review, the title of the book is supposed to hold the story together, even guide the reader when he feels lost about the direction the book will take after the next turn in the story. Ahmed Faiyaz's Another Chance boasts of a title which is precise and perfect. It encapsulates the very essence of the book in a mere two words- Another Chance. To a romantic's heart (read:me) these two words are almost a philosophy. In Ahmed's novel, they are a simple expression of the desire which harries many a unlucky-but-still-in-love hearts. The Desire For Another Chance.

The plot of the book revolves around a single girl-Ruheen Oberoi, described by the author as a depressingly gorgeous woman in the prelude to the novel. She is a hep, free spirited girl, sought after girl, brought up by an indulging grandfather, who lost her parents when young. Aditya Sharma, Ruheen's enduring lover, a young corporate trying to make his mark, is the second protagonist in this novel. His commitment to Ruheen is almost dreamlike- but much comes in the way of consummation of their love. A string of men enter Ruheen's life at successive junctures- A politician's son and Ruheen's obsessive stalker-Vishal, Ruheen's childhood friend with feelings for her-Varun, and then Ruheen's good-for-nothing, abusive husband-Rohan. Luck, as is guessable, does not favor Ruheen's relationship with any. At a young age, battered by the chicaneries of life, Ruheen gives up hope for finding love and comfort in a man's arms, when Aditya re-enters her life. However, love, as we know it, is not a simple road to tread on. It comes with its own complications, its own compulsions, its own tests. Will Ruheen finally find happiness? Does love deserve a second chance? Is the human heart, with all its weaknesses, a sound guide to consult while making life altering decisions? All this, and more, you ponder as you flip through the pages of Another Chance.

After Love, Life & All That Jazz... it is the second book by Ahmed Faiyaz that I am reading. Like the earlier one, this too has done a decent job of providing me a good, entertaining, and moving story which is not too heavy and easy to relate with. Having read these two books, I can conveniently say, that Ahmed does fabulously when it comes to painting close-to-home, real life characters. While in the last book, what could have been three independent stories were intertwined in the narrative, here it helps to have just one rather simple story to follow and focus attention on. Simple, but replete with exciting twists and turns.

It took me about quarter to four hours to read the book, and I am by no means a fast reader. It is much like a bollywood romance, which engages, touches, entertains, and leaves you with happy tears in the end. Do not pick this book to satisfy the literary critic in you. Pick this book for catching some fresh air, a simple break from your otherwise ridden-with-anxieties life. As I said, not heavy duty stuff in this book. An easy, light read, whose climax builds up like that of a mushy, romantic flick. When during the course of the book you start sharing the agony of the character and get desperate for them to achieve happiness, you know that the writer has succeeded in casting his spell on you- in binding you together with the narrative. I have a proclivity towards falling for nicely narrated romances. This one gets 3 on 5 stars from me for primarily two reasons. First is its ending- they way it builds up, gives you hope, then perturbs you, then leaves you with fond tears. Second is for the author's handling of human emotions- their gullibility and resilience- and for his treatment of the dynamics of a new age, urban relationship. The narrative of the books shifts between many locations, Indian and foreign- and the screenplay like storytelling makes it conveniently possible to imagine vividly the characters and their setting. If you read with as much passion as I do, you'll lose yourself to the story. And in my view, that is how one should read to draw maximum satisfaction from a book.

I cannot end this review without mentioning the brilliant cover portrait of Bruna Abdullah which almost brings Ruheen's character alive in front of your eyes. Her expression on the cover was the first thing that made me want this book. For all of you wanting to a read a little mature and not an utterly cheesy romance with no load, do remember to pick this up on your next trip to a book shop.

Protected?!

2012-01-29T02:38:00.000+05:30

Protecting her?

Was that the plan?

To nourish, to cherish,

To save from the evil man?

The endless sky

"Dangerous to fly!”

Wide crystal water

"Fatal to enter!”

Inviting golden desert

"Treacherous mounds of dirt!”

Morbid confines of home

"Your haven, your zone!”

So, Protecting her

Was that the plan?

I'm sorry you failed

She’s at best – Jailed!

"You thought I was protected

Cradled in sound slumber?

I was shushing my heart from dreaming

Beating it to sheen-less amber"

The Newsroom Mafia by Oswald Pareira- A Review

2012-01-28T04:08:00.000+05:30

Is there a genre of fiction that can be called a masala thriller? Or a bollywood thriller? Well, if there were one, then Oswald Pereira's debut novel would effortlessly claim the golden throne among the list of books belonging to this category. What a read!

The Newsroom Mafia is a journalist's take on the crime syndicate that thrives in the dingy alleyways of Mumbai. Veteran journalist Oswald Pereira has woven a sensational story around the politics-underworld-media nexus which is routinely camouflaged, but which we all already know too well about. The excitement I felt while turning the last pages of this book is wanting to pour out in what will end up being an all out positive review of the book, but a synopsis is more than necessary if I am to express with lucidity why the reader inside me is so thoroughly satiated with Pereira's ingenuous screenplay-like-novel.

Narayan Swamy is the typical image of a Mumbai underworld Don, who self indulgently likes to be addressed as the "Godfather"- incidentally also his favorite movie. He is his own hero- a self proclaimed Robinhood who is the savior of destitutes languishing without any concern or empathy from the authorities. Our Don is a wannabe social worker, with, ironically, a criminal acumen so strong that is successful in transforming him from a deprived nobody to an A-listed celebrity in the power circles.This crime messiah prospers under expedient partnerships with influential politicians, legal and financial advisers, and media honchos doubling up as his investigative sources. Thus completes the perfect character of our Don- the mighty, invincible supervillain.

Enter our hero- Supercop Donald Fernandez, Commissioner of the Mumbai Police Force, 'second only to the Scotland Yard'. He is a genuine, but publicity hungry cop, stories of whose bravery are routinely splashed across the front pages of India's most widely read English language news paper- The Newsroom. This titular newspaper's star crime reporter, Oscar Pinto is Donald's favored media partner- who gets all the exclusive crime scoops right from the supercop's lips. The story begins with a false front page report in The Newsroom written by Oscar about Don's arrest by Supercop Donald Fernandez. But all hell breaks lose when the news spreads that Don has escaped before the Mumbai police could even sniff his scent. What follows is an all out war declared by the Supercop on the Don- a chase ridden with deception, seduction, betrayal, power games, conspiracies, cold blooded murders and most importantly, paid and planted media reports where the pen does more damage than swords could possible wreck.

Though the book promises a lot of drama, the author has done a fine job of excluding any unnecessary theatrics and sticking to the story which progresses at a thrill inducing speed. The crafty storyline keeps you guessing and each page you turn brings with itself a new twist which makes it almost impossible to not turn the page again and be caught under the charms of a similar twist. The characters are straight out of some bollywood-rather tollywood screenplay described to such perfection that you end up making mental pictures of them which runs like an animated display as the plot unfolds. What works most for me is the earthy, crude narrative- an almost no nonsense exposé of the mechanics of crime syndicate as it operates in our country. The precision and the details provided keep the story real, but the spice element is not in the least compromised upon. When the cover predicts for you a foray into the sleazy and murky Mumbai Underworld much like a movie poster, your hopes already dart through the sky. Pereira does not disappoint at all with the expectations he keeps building up throughout the book.

As the plot thickens, the battle between the Don and Supercop becomes 'nerve-tinglingly' entertaining with dirty power politics and sleazy tactics being played in from both ends. How the fourth-estate, the media lusts after dollops of exclusive reports has been articulated with an insiders expertise. Also, the extent to which news is manipulated to serve not the interests of its own industry or of its readers but to pander to the insidious motives of the money backed, power hungry politicians and criminals puts your faith in the real life newspapers in uncertain waters. The novel is set in 1980s when the underworld had begun pullulating with concomitant maledictions like bootlegging, prostitution, money laundering, smuggling, power politics finding roots in the fecund Bombay climate. The anachronistic setting is too perfect to make each line of the novel seem close to inspired from reality.

I could go on, for there are so many elements still left in the book which excite me as I remember them. However, I will restrain myself to only mentioning my favorite among a bevy of more than a dozen characters as I end my post. Stella Kutty- a journalist draped in crisp cotton sarees, whose modesty is betrayed by the lurking sensuality behind all the covers is the perfect doze of seduction in story. She is the mysterious woman with an irresistible appeal who is the most potent weapon in Don's arsenal when needed.

I am hoping for a sequel. Or at least some more books in this relatively unexplored genre. Its 4 stars on 5 for me. Very strongly recommended!

(Reviewed on request from Grey Oak-Westland)

Love Quintet

2012-01-25T03:47:00.001+05:30

I was asked a few days back by someone to recommend romantic novels which make for a heart warming read. I don't know what all names I blurted out under the assumed pressure of answering quick, but the question stuck by in my head for a decently long time there after. When I answered it for myself, I spotted five romantic books distinctly embedded in my memory which by far have been the best I have stumbled upon. Since romance as a literary genre encompasses a lot, I will specify that what I am about to share with my readers today are 5 of the best 'Love Stories' I have read, which I strongly recommend to you all as well. An important caveat, before I share my favorites, is that my reading habits are not the best around. I mean, I read a lot, but according to some literature aficionados, I read crap. Anyway, I often fall in love with even what is otherwise condemned as crap. So, not sticking to any stereotypes, from a wide variety of sub-genres- here are 5 love stories which conversed straight with my heart and whose essence flowed out through tears in my eyes.

#1 Olivia and Jai by Rebecca Ryman

Historical Fiction, I guess.

I found this book in a dusty, dingy corner of my college library. Picking it up on instinct, I could never even have imagined what an emotional rigmarole this book had planned to offer me. Set up during the earlier years of British Raj in India, this story, if I remember correctly, is the tale of two lovers haunted by a long history of family rivalries. Olivia, an American tourist in India and Jai Raventhorne, a local born of an Anglo-Indian union have nothing in common save an inherited animosity. However, they find themselves irresistibly drawn to each other and soon their attraction metamorphoses into passion. This passion is not only evident in their love, but also in their actions of vengeance on each other. To see the plot unravel, fluctuating between love, passion, animosity and revenge is a thrilling experience. Someone from you please remind me to read this book again :)

#2 The Twilight Series by Stephenie Meyer
Fantasy fiction- Romantic fiction
Enough had been said and heard about this book. You can look down upon me for all I care, but I am in love with Edward Cullen, as much as I am in love with Bella Swan's character. Stephenie Meyer has constructed a scintillating plot, playing marvelously on an average girl's insecurities and an her dreams of a perfect lover. I have read the whole series twice over, and I will not shy away from burying myself in those familiar pages again when the depression of our 'practical' existence (the practicality even extending to matters of heart) becomes too much to handle.

#3 Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

Literary Classic
Need I say anything about this epic love tale which females of all age, around the world have read, and reread and romanticized over and over again? The story of unconsummated passion between Cathy and Heathcliff is a saga in its own self. The narrative of this book is not all flowery, but very dark, almost progressing like a mystery. Perhaps that is why this book was met with censure at first, but over the years has acquired ascendancy among romantic classics. Heathcliff is a character immortalized in our memory, as that dark and intense hero- capable of passion, and capable of destruction too. Sigh. The wonderful Yorkshire moors. The intense yet unresolved passion. I feel the book is calling me again.

#4 I Too Had A Love Story by Ravinder Singh
Romance

Now, do not judge me for this. I read a lot of new age, commercial Indian literature (if we can call it that), and this book is by far the best I've come across in this genre. Ravin and Khushi, the protagonists of this novel, are the couple next door. The way their love progresses, their sweet murmuring, their first encounters, their brewing passion- everything in this book is painfully relatable. And when you (especially if you are like me) start identifying so much with the incidents and characters in the book, the climax has the potential for leaving you depressed for hours after. I, in fact, found myself wailing. The fact that it is believed to be the author's own story makes the read all the more emotional. Now, the sequel of this story has hit the market. Can Love Happen Twice? I got my copy today. Hell yes I am excited!

#5 Abhijnanashakuntalam by Kalidasa

Sanskrit Classic
Yes, it is an odd inclusion in this list, but for my UPSC preparations, I have gone through most of Sanskrit dramas, prose and poems. 'Erotic' (Shringaar) is the main element of most of the great Sanskrit works, and though I fell in love with a lot of love stories narrated by the likes of Magha, Bana, Bharavi and others, Abhijnanashakuntalam clearly stood out as the most amazing. It is a simple tale of love between King Dushyant and an ashramkanya, Shakuntala. On a hunting expedition, Dushyanta stumbles upon Shakuntala, falls in love, and their love in consummated in a simple Gandharva wedding. Crisis strikes when Dushyanta returns to his Capital City and forgets Shakuntala and their love under the influence of a curse from Rishi Durvasa. Kalidasa weaves a string of some exquisite verses detailing how the two lovers overcome the hurdles created by Providence's chicanery. Trivia- India, Bharat, is said to have derived its name from Shakuntala and Dushyanta's son- Bharata.

I am all pepped up and reading a lot many books these days. Though I am in a mood for experimenting with different genres at present, I shall return to the trusted romances soon. Just as an concluding thought, I never find a story complete till it does not have an adequate doze of romance in it. A love story, may be as a secondary narrative always does its bit in keeping me hooked onto a novel, no matter which genre it belongs to. Hopefully, I will come up with another list of my favorites, really soon. Till then, keep reading!

Tagged!

2012-01-23T03:59:00.001+05:30

Yayyiiieee! So after watching with 'green' envy all my favorite bloggers receive not one, but upto a dozen "The Varsatile Blogger" Awards, I finally manage to get my own. Without much ado, I will simply follow the rules concomitant to this award, which are-

The Rules:
1. Thank the person who nominated you for the award
2. Nominate 15 other bloggers and inform them of the same
3. Share 7 Random facts about yourself
4. Add the Versatile Blogger Award picture to your Blog Post

#1 Gratitude

A humbly uttered and heartfelt gratitude to a blogger whom I have really come to admire in the recent past. Jyoti Babel, who writes at Pages, is one of the best reviewers and culinary experimentalist I have come across. Her blog is always a treat to go through. Since I cannot cook to even save my life, I hope to mug up Jyoti's recipes by heart before the prospect of my marriage starts looming in front of my eyes. Given that a blogger of Jyoti's caliber has tagged me as a Versatile Blogger, the significance of the tag increases manifold.

#2 New Set Of 'The Versatile Blogger' Awardees

Now, this is the most difficult bit. I have been asked to nominate 15 bloggers, but to call someone 'versatile' is a huge responsibility. Many blogs I follow ascribe to a particular type of content, which the bloggers seem to have a proven mastery over, scarce venturing out of their comfort zones. I will, hence, mention only 5 blogs and bloggers, who in my view justify the definition of 'versatility'.

Anup Bishnoi at Grass On Fire

Aavika Dhanda at Nirvana

Achint Mathur at Aman Ki Aasha

Aakriti at Yarn of Words

Anshul Thakur at Aesthetic Blasphemy

Yes, I know I am repetitive in terms of the bloggers I place topmost on my blog roll, but then, these are the ones I am incorrigibly hooked onto. The five I mentioned here have a peculiarity- each one of them has their initial as 'A'. Only a random coincidence. As I stumble on more blogs of significance, I will keep augmenting to this list.

#3 Seven Random Things About Myself

1. I love giving and receiving gifts.

2. I am a recent twitter addict and I love to play on the trending twitter topic.

3. Writing reviews of books is a fond hobby and there are more chances I will end up appreciating a book than denouncing it.

4. Sufi songs and ghazals are my most preferred genres of music.

5. I am a decently good singer. In fact, at a time I aspired to cut an album of my own. Childhood dreams, left amid the glory of childhood only.

6. Caffeine is the only sinful addiction I admit to. May be, chocolates are my second most sinful attachments.

7. Ruskin Bond is one author I have romanticized throughout my life.

I wrote a similar list for my first ever blog award, which can be glanced through here- The 7X7 Link Award

#4 Picture

Already added above.

Once again, thanks Jyoti! I only hope that in the coming days I only become a better and better writer, and Nascent Emissions becomes a blog more and more readers are able to find their own reflection in.

The Canyon Of Souls by Ronald Malfi- A Review

2012-01-21T04:23:00.001+05:30

Coincidences in life are can sometimes be amusing, and sometimes a little spooky. It is due to a coincidence that the book 'The Canyon Of Souls' hit off with me instantly. And this coincidence was a spooky one. I had undertaken a literary quest sometime back for understanding the deeper meanings of words like 'Nature', 'Providence', 'Divinity' and 'Man'. Specifically, 'Nature of Man'. More specifically 'Insidious Nature of Man'. In Ronald Malfi's The Canyon of Souls does not lie an understanding of the above mentioned terms-but in it lies a story while builds upon these concepts to skillfully weave together a light thriller, with thrill emanating from both- natural and preternatural sources.

The Canyon Of Souls is what the Tibetan lore accords the status of a beyul. Beyuls are places of mythical significance, the lands between our world and the next, or, between the world of mortals and the world of immortals. Beyuls are believed to be hidden in the womb of Nature, which has a way of preventing man from discovering them. The book narrates an extreme adventure story of a group of seven explorers, who set out in the search of Canyon of Souls, nestled somewhere deep in the belly of the arduous Mountains of the North.

The protagonist of The Canyon of Souls, doubling up as the narrator is Tim Overleigh, a one time famous and dexterous sculptor who abandoned his art after the death of his beloved wife, Hannah, in a fatal car accident. Being chased continuously by her ghost, Tim takes recourse to a number of adrenaline pumping adventure activities. He nearly escapes death while on a spelunking expedition, after which most of his time is spent inside his morbidly dull home. A chance meeting with his long lost acquaintance, Andrew Trumbauer -an enigmatic, adventure junkie- opens in from of Tim an invitation for joining 6 other men on a peregrination through the icy Godesh Ridge in the Himalayas to seek the still unscaled Canyon of Souls. Convinced that this is his one chance to escape the dullness of his surroundings and put his life back on track, Tim and Andrew, and some more explorers set on a journey through not just the unforgiving weather and impossible terrain of Himalayas, but also a journey through Tibetan mysticism, deceit, death and life altering realizations.

The Canyon of Souls, before saying anything else, has one of the most promising plots I have come across in a long time. To add to the glee of a reader uninitiated in the adventure fiction genre, the author Ronald Malfi does a fine job of scripting a tale which becomes towards the middle a compulsive page turner. Quick paced, and laced with vivid imagery, what I like about the book is that it is not an idle read. As much as it makes you gape and tremble with unforeseen twists in the plot, it makes you think too. What begins as an inquiry into the legendary conflict of Man versus Nature metamorphoses into an even darker and enduring conflict of Man versus Man. A little scratching on the fabric of the story reveals the underside of a bevy of thoughts on human psyche- its glory and its darkness, and although this aspect has not been investigated enough in Malfi's narrative, it still feels that these yet incomplete investigations are running like a stream under the very plot of the story.

As it progresses, the storyline transforms from being another of those explorers' diaries to a gory macabre tale which kept me glued to itself. Even though I continued turning pages at a more than decent speed with due intrigue, I still could not help being put off by Malfi's verbosity, unwelcome in places. The author, however, deserves accolades for his brilliant descriptions of Himalayan topography, of the action in the story, and even of the subtle details of Tim's haunting visions. His metaphors and similes are striking and aid the reader's imagination to flow with that of the writer's.

As far as the story line is concerned, it was riveting. I did have an issue with half sketched details of the other characters in the story. The five other explorers with Tim and Andrew included Petras, Curtis, Chad Nando, Hollinger, and Shotsky- and these are people you can picture in your mind only skeletally; knowing not their background, but may be only one defining trait of their personality. In some parts, the book disappoints as it does not reveal few motives for vengeful actions either clearly or convincingly. For curious readers who revel in details, this can be a key low point of a narrative.

As for a definite verdict- the book is nice. For a one time rapid read, it is totally worth its salt. Three stars on five for me it is, for giving me some eye widening moments, and also making me believe in guardian spirits- a dakini- as the author has put it.

(This was reviewed on request from Grey Oak-Westland)

A Ruhani Sojourn

2012-01-17T04:05:00.000+05:30

"Gori sove sej par, mukh par daare khes.
Chal khusro ghar aapne, saanjh bhai chanhu des."

Nestled at the heart of alleys bustling with religious books, flowers and chaadar for worship, food shops to feed the lesser privileged, and beggars hauling you from all sides is one of the most inspiringly spiritual places in all of Delhi- The Dargah of Khwaja Nizam-ud-din Auliya. Whether you visit his dargah with the faith of a devotee, or the curiosity of an explorer- the unmistakable aura in the air flowing through its sacred precincts will touch you in a pleasantly memorable way. Each visit of mine to this dargah has been a mystic experience. Here, I've always experienced tranquility and clarity of thoughts; and an urge to explore the ruhaniyat experienced in Auliya's presence a little more.

Hazrat Khwaja Syed Nizam-ud-din Auliya was a sufi mystic belonging to the Chishti Silsila (meaning a chain or lineage) of Sufism, the other known name from the same silsila being that of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer Shareef fame.In Delhi Nizam-ud-din Auliya is arguably the most venerated sufi peer, with the largest list of devotees thronging his dargah each day of the week, at all hours of the day. My luck was shining bright the day I made my first visit to his dargah. While I was lost in the magnificent golden hues which reflect off the dome of the main shrine, some enamouring sufi music greeted my eager ears, and I squatted down for close to two hours on the cold marble floor of its courtyard, soaking in the beauty of the whole atmosphere. Maati ke tum deevare, jo suno hamari baat...

One of the gravest anomalies in my life is that I have not found myself touched by spirituality or divinity in the slightest measure. That was precisely the reason why I explored the whole courtyard of Auliya's dargah with a childlike curiosity and amazement. I was informed of Auliya's almost filial love for his mureed, Amir Khusrau, the last in the line of great peers to have consecrated our land with their presence. Auliya willed that a devotee first pay obeisance at Khusrau's dargah (lying in the same complex) before he proceeded to worship at his own shrine- such was his love for his devoted student. Sufi diaries are filled with fables of the interactions between Auliya and Khusrau. The dance of dervishes first manifests in one of such fable. Listening to these fables in an erudite company while staring at humble heads bowing down in prayer at Auliya's doorstep is an experience I may not be able to put fairly to words.

I do distinctly remember this very fair, middle aged lady, dressed in a rich black fabric, sitting on the right side of the main shrine from my first visit to the dargah. She had her forehead pressed to the wall lining the inner sanctum on which were engraved some religious words in Arabic script which I obviously could not decipher. Upon close scrutiny I realized that she is mumbling something. On closer scrutiny I realized that she is cring softly, huge beads trickling down her cheeks. I checked myself immediately, for it felt grotesque to be intruding in someone's personal moment of connection with her Lord. But I did settle down myself near her. She was reciting one of the chapters of Quran, the Sura-e-yaseen. Did I say reciting? No, she was singing it in a lovely husky but muffled voice, stopping only to kiss the Arabic calligraphy decorating the wall. I sat for almost as long as she did, listening intently to her, not understanding a word, but experiencing something overwhelming. The last thing I remember from that day is some tears in my own eyes before I left the sacred courtyard.

Ever since, I do feel overwhelmed when I visit this dargah. Devotion, faith, amity, honesty, miseries, smiles, desires, gratitude, divinity-all of these are palpable in the very air of this place. Since spirituality is not my domain, I end up shedding soft tears, sometimes in confusions, at others in relief when there. Each time, it is an overwhelming, yet liberating experience of its own kind. There is so much still for me to understand about things which are not easily perceivable. The only thing I understand as of now is that Auliya preached a message of love, patience, tolerance and secularism while he was making his important contributions to our city's rich history around 13th century AD. Tolerance and patience are virtues I am attempting to imbibe in. Love is what I make sure to carry within myself each moment the way Auliya and other sufi mystics preached it. When it is to that love that one surrenders, the peace and bliss we so yearn for can be the only natural thing to follow.

Do visit the Nizam-ud-din dargah complex if you still have not. There are lot of other historically significant sites in the vicinity, more on which I would perhaps write later.

Sultan-ul-Mashaikh Nizam-ud-din Auliya's mysticism is all that has charmed an amateur Delhi explorer's quill as of now.

Notes.
1. The couplet at the beginning was composed by Amir Khusrau at the time of Auliya's demise. Succinctly, yet hauntingly it captures Khusrau's crestfallen state when his object of devotion had escaped from his mortal body.
2. Sultan-ul-Mashaikh is an epithet for Nizam-ud-din Auliya, often used as a prefix before his name. It toughly translates as the "King of spiritual guides".
3. A rickshaw ride from the Jangpura Metro Station on the purple line is what you would need to have your own personal rendezvous with Delhi's greatest sufi peer, and also his mureed.

Disenchantment

2012-01-14T05:06:00.000+05:30

I never cleared the dust off that window. I always knew what lay behind it. I mean, I could guess. It was not a big window. It was small. Not tiny, just small. Often I would see sun's rays filter through its dust rich glass and cluster in a small square of light on the grey floor. This square of light would stealthily broom across the cracking grey floor, leaving behind not footsteps of light, but a trail of darkness. Rather, greyness. I often liked to play with that little square of light- skip in and out of it. My darkened, weather beaten, less than ordinary looking feet would momentarily be purified by sun's white light as they skipped into that square. When they skipped out, they would enter again the ordinariness which has for long been their home..

This game with light was a passing distraction. My larger fascination was with that small window on the opposite wall. The window accumulating dust, giving only a hazy glimpse of the picturesque scenery that lay beyond. A chirping bird perched onto the overhanging branch. Glistening dew precariously hanging from the tip of a luscious green leaf. Orchids-white and purple and carnations-white and purple lining the fence in a mad array of grandeur. Just a hint of redness of an occasional rose, breaking the sacred monotony of my favorite white and purple flowers. A pair of rabbits, white balls of fur with their beady red eyes, dashing playfully through the greenery at the edge of the pond. The pond divided in two zones, each rich in fishes of differing hues. Its left side green under the overhanging canopy of huge summer trees. The right side bare, allowing sun's rays to prance around it's watery surface. Through the dust, I could figure out all the silhouettes-the flowers, the trees, the fence, the branch, the pond.

All this lay beyond that window. Yes it was a small window, but it was my only window. As the four ugly walls of that dingy confine of a room seemed to close in on me at times, the presence of that window would provide me respite. I feared the world beyond my door, with known foes and known miseries- I seldom ventured out. I was enchanted by the world beyond my window- I always kept an eye on it. I painted happy pictures and waited for the day I could be one with the wilderness the scene beyond had to offer.

I had never gone near the window. I always kept basking in the balmy light it sent in my cold room. I always kept imagining the scenery that lay beyond it, the beauty I remembered from more than two years ago when I had last ventured out. I had romanticized its translucent potential. I even spoke to it sometimes, beckoned to the heart of nature which I had believed to be sacrosanct. The window was my companion, I was its. I trusted it to open itself to me when it thought it should. May be when the heart of nature ripens to glory.

Today, its tiny panes flew open. I smiled at the invitation, but then I feared. There was some stench of ill-begotten pandemonium. I took a few steps towards it. The silhouettes I saw through dusty haze were there, but they were just that- empty silhouettes. The scenery that lay beyond the window was as per my thoughts, with only one marked difference- there was no life in any element which I had painted in my imaginations. The outlines were there, the colors conspicuously absent. The leaves, the flowers, the water- was shivering under a windy pandemonium. They seemed lifeless, but attempting to exist somehow.

I felt a surge of sorrow. Then a surge of empathy. I thought I could get closer to the window, peep out, and see how I could help restore the beauty. I took but one step more and a strong gush of wind forced the rattling panes to shut with a bang.

I looked back at the door- a world I had consciously shut out.
I looked at the shut window panes- a world no longer the calming beauty I had thought it to be.
I looked at the walls. For the first time I felt faithless. For the first time, trapped.

The 7X7 Link Award

2012-01-13T04:46:00.001+05:30

I have just been initiated into the world of blog awards, primarily due to the kindness of a blogger who writes under the curious guise of The Serious Butterfly. Her name is Sanchari, and this colorful butterfly flaps her wings over numerous ideas and issues and employs some beautiful words to provide contours to hitherto formless thoughts. She is an artist too- the hues of creativity splashed on her blog will make you realize her caliber.

And the reason for my current obsession with her and her blog is that she has conferred on me my first ever blog award! Honestly, the concept of Blog Awards has still to appeal to me in full glory, but accepting it as a gesture of appreciation does wonders to nourish the writer inside me. It makes me happy for the fact that while I am but a miniscule speck floating amid the current of millions of upcoming writers of brilliant potential, some people out there are noticing my words and encouraging me to keep them flowing.

I am following Sanchari's lead. As I have learnt a few hours back, there are rules to acceptance of this award. They are flexible, but the ones adopted by Sanchari are fun, hence I'll make use of her research, with some special words of gratitude being sent her way.

Rules to this award:
1. Thank the person who gave it to you.
2. Share 7 unusual things about yourself.
3. Share 7 of your worthy posts under the following heads- Most Beautiful Piece, Most Helpful, Most Popular, Most Controversial, Most Surprisingly Successful, Most Underrated, and Most Pride Worthy.
4. Nominate seven other bloggers and notify them.

#1 Gratitude

Dear Sanchari, I formally thank you for making me feel awesome at the dead of the night. My first blog award will always be remembered. It might so happen that it will be the only one to be remembered, since I do not foresee more coming my way, but that dismal picture shall be painted some other day.

#2 Seven Unusual Things About Myself

One- I am a very clumsy eater, and I try to hide this fact, resulting into a clumsier eater in the attempt. This is the reason I never eat my subs in company; they are always packed and eaten in the solitude of home.
Two- I love silver jewellery, and often think that on the progressive path, I will skip gold and graduate to diamonds and platinum straightaway. For the time being, I am saving to buy some silver pieces I have been eyeing for a long period.
Three- I have a habit of hugging special words and sleeping. How? By clutching to my bosom my journal, a nice novel, some rare letters or even my phone if it pings with a touching SMS.
Four- No matter where I go, I always carry a pen and my journal along.
Five- Agrasen Ki Baoli and Nizam-ud-din Auliya's Dargah are my favorite places in Delhi, at least for the time being.
Six- I am a listener and observer- I think that in each element around me hides a story waiting for me to discover it.
Seven- I hate being answerable for any of my actions. I work hard towards avoiding any situation where I am answerable, but often ruin things by trying too hard.

#3 Seven Posts

Most Beautiful - An Engagement Mills & Boon Style!
Descriptively the most beautiful, this post takes inspiration from a real live love story to paint some fictional scenes. Among my own writings, it has a sacrosanct status.
Most Helpful - At The Edge Of Sunshine
In this post I record some musings which I want to remember forever. Written based on a chance meeting with a relative stranger, this article talks of the importance of been shaken out of our comfort zones to realize our true potential in life and the perils of stereotyping our own selves. Helps me, has helped a few others too.
Most Popular- Valentine Art Affection
Sitting on top since the very day it got posted, this post based on the magic of Leonid Afremov's brush strokes beats all the other in number of individual page views by miles. It is a visual delight, and a welcome break from my customary lethargically long posts.
Most Controversial- Revelation
It is a nice post, once again extremely close to my heart, but it is the only one on which a critical debate has arisen right here, on my blog itself. While the content was appreciated, the controversy hinged around my proclivity for grandiloquent words, my untamed verbosity of expression..err...and I think I did it again!
Most Surprisingly Successful- Understanding Them/ Beauty Lies In Distortions
This was my first guest post with which I ventured into an area I seldom explored- psychological vestiges of experiences during adolescence. More than comments, it fetched me numerous words of gratitude sent via personal mediums. When we are brave enough to share thoughts we feel tormented with, we might actually inadvertently end up helping someone else- this I learnt from this guest post experience.
Most Underrated- Winter Reminiscences- That Story
If the comments are anything to go by, then I feel this post did not get the attention it deserved. I tried to figure out, but could not find reasons as to why. Motherhood is not a topic I touch upon often in my post, and when here I did, I thought I did a decent job of it.
Most Prideworthy- That Walk Down My College
I know I did a good job with this piece of writing. Besides getting me noticed among some people of reckoning, it narrated with devoted honesty a simple incident which left a profound impact on me.

#4 New Set Of 7X7 Link Award Recipients

Yarn of Words by Aakrity Malik
The25thHour by Archika Poria
Monumental Crankiness by Rahul Biswas
A Portrait Of Emotion by Priyanka Tampi
Nirvana by Aavika Dhanda
Words by Saru Singhal
Hausle Buland by Kunal

Dewy Diamonds

2012-01-10T05:07:00.000+05:30

Moist pearls tickle my toes

Smell of dew runs up my nose

Bare feet nudging at rich wet grass,

Droplets reflecting the sheen of stars

Eyelid touched by a rainy cue

My lips curve at the magic of dew.

The darkest hour enchants like a spell,

Dawn crawls in with a musty smell.

Morning bliss derived from that,

Nighttime's glow in the nature's lap.

Dancing For Real

2012-01-09T04:56:00.000+05:30

With the Masterchef India Season 2 drawing towards a finale, I was fearing that my weekends will now acquire a dull hue. Not to be. At the perfect moment was launched the third installment of Dance India Dance, indubitably India's finest and most loved dance reality show. Whether the simplistic original, the cute children's special or the recent doubles- I have followed each episode of all these three variations with frenzied devotion, much to the chagrin of my not-so-enthusiastic-about-dance family members.

Geeta 'Ma'

I carry a little spirit of a dancer in myself. I am not trained, neither very nimble on my feet, yet I can pull off Odissi and Bharatnatyam performances with deceptive ease if I stick to the basics. Learning ballet was a childhood dream, lost sight of in childhood itself. Folk was masti embodied in music, spilling over easily to flamboyant yet graceful dance movements. Dancing for me was like talking to the flowing wind, smiling at almost nothing, and a medium for expressing angst and resentment for things not fine in life. During school time, dancing was perhaps my only workout, the absence of which is my college years was visible in the pounds piling on around my tummy. Eschewing my attachment to each single distinctly remembered performance, I can safely claim that I was happiest when I performed a musical drama as a protagonist beleaguered by the conflict between inner and superficial beauty. My mentor combined elements of puppet dance, jazz and contemporary to create a performance which was lauded and remembered for days to come.

Remo D'Souza- "Gabbar"

Anyway. So today concluded the Mega Auditions of the show ruling my mind, DID Season 3, with the selection of top 18. These have been divided into teams of six to be mentored by three choreographers who are now cult figures- Geeta Kapoor, Terence Lewis and Remo D'Souza. While Geeta Kapoor, more famous as the often jested about sobriquet of Geeta 'Ma', claims all my predilection, it is Remo Ke Rangeele who seem poised to become the favorites once the Gala Round kickstarts on next weekend.

Terence 'stylish' Lewis

For those of us who ridicule dance as a long term career option or write it off as at best a hobby, the auditions of DID Seasons 3 provided some nice background stories to convince us towards a fresher perspective on dance. True, melodramatic flashes into the personal plights of contestants may be a put off when the competition is in full swing and the vote count critical. But during the audition stage, it is these documentaries shot about the personal lives of the contestants which add just enough zing to keep me glued to the television set even during repeat telecasts of the show.

The top five stories which I will try and remember from the auditions of DID Season 3.

1. Furkan- This is a story from the neighbourhood. Uttam Nagar's Furkan is an auto driver's son who earns a daily stipend of Rs. 70 by volunteering for trafiic management of haywire West Delhi roads. Since financial situations at home are bleak, it is from this stipend that Furkan manages to fulfill his needs, primary among which are videos he procures to learn dance. And when this boy comes on stage looking lost, nervous, unsure, but pulls of an astounding Robotics performance wittily choreographed to "Teri tirchhi nazar ne..", you are forced to sit up and take notice.

2. Raj- He comes from Ranchi, has no formal training, but different to most like him who lack a Guru, he does not even have the privilege of watching videos and aping them to train himself. He just has music, an enthusiastic heart which gives him a sense of rhythm, and a talented mind from which originate smart and hilariously entertaining choreography. He couldn't survive the tough DID competition, but upon being eliminated, all he sought was a chance to see his huge portrait decorating the background once to his heart's content. Him, I hope to see again in the next season.

3. Mohina- Or I should say Princess Mohina Singh of the Kingdom of Riva, Madhya Pradesh. One of the few happy stories from the auditions. My reading on royal women informs me of the added restrictions on their movement (and flight) for they carry on themselves the burden of royalty, with izzat and maryada as the ruling keywords. But this princess broke free, and with what charm! Besides her talent, what was heartwarming was to see her father in the background, informing the audience of their traditions, yet standing behind his daughter as she set out to pursue her passion.

4. Pradeep Gurung- When this lad from Guwahati performed an air cartwheel with stylish ease, I stared at the television set in disbelief. He runs a successful dance school back home, but his insistence on making a career out of dance won him disfavor with his mother. He had to move out, has not met his mother in years, misses her, but knows in his heart that if he is able to attain success while following his passion, it is his mother who would be the happiest and proudest of him. His audition performance was dedicated to his mother. Touching. Amazing.

5. Neerav- He was Terence Lewis' assistant in the first two seasons of DID. He participated in this year's auditions without informing his mentor to whom apparently he is really attached. He had wanted to participate earlier, but being the bread winner for his family, continuing with a stable income had been an unspoken mandate on him. This season he felt he was at ease, but some awkward, surprise filled glimpses from his stunned mentor were enough to lead to copious tear showers on the set. His dance was just about okay, but his story, quite compelling.

Pradeep and Mohina are the only ones who have made it to the final leg of the show. I have picked my favorites, but am waiting for the curtain raiser of the gala round to be sure of people I will be rooting for. Until then, I'll keep irritating my folks with this revived penchant for dancing.
:)

Being Elizabeth by Barbara Bradford Taylor- A Review

2012-01-07T04:00:00.002+05:30

"Just that....Love won't wait. You have to immediately grab hold of it, hang on to it, when it suddenly appears in all its glory. Yes, you really do, because it certainly has a way of disappearing on you. In fact, you could say it's ephemeral. It evaporates...just like that!"
"You and I certainly grabbed it, didn't we?"

The above is a conversation between Elizabeth Turner and Robert Dunley, the romantic couple who star as the protagonist in another of Barbara Taylor Bradford's family sagas, this time about the Deravenel Dynasty. At the outset itself it must be remarked, that Bradford, OBE, the best selling author of A Woman Of Substance, does not quite live upto her reputation in this book. The author claims at the end of the book that her story is inspired from the life of Elizabeth Tudor, one of England's most dynamic monarchs. However, it is a classic case of how sometimes too much inspiration is bad inspiration. A plot summary might be apt before I sum up my views on the book.

Being Elizabeth is the story the eponymous Elizabeth Deravenel Turner, the last in the line of what has been fictionalized as the oldest conglomerate in the world, the Deravenal Dynasty. In a story that spans a decade, from the mid 1990s transitioning into a new millennium, culminating in the year 2006, Being Elizabeth essays the journey of Elizabeth as the Managing Director of the Deravenel's which she inherits at a tender age and in a devastated condition owing the reckless handling of business operations by Elizabeth's now dead half sister, Mary Turner. Together with her trusted comrades, Cecil Williams and Roberth Dunley, and with the aid of her impeccable business acumen, Elizabeth succeeds in putting back Deravenel's on the path to glory. With the latter gent, Elizabeth has a scandalous romantic involvement since he is an already married man. Having had an abusive childhood, yearning for a single hint of love from her father who married six women, Elizabeth develops a phobia of marriage which becomes the most significant obstacle in the stability of her relation with Robert Dunley. Problems in Elizabeth's life are compounded by constant threats to her sovereign business empire and her claim to the Deravenel inheritance as well.

Being Elizabeth is a story told in a monotone, granting no serious jolts or gasps to the reader. Having read Ms. Bradford extensively, I have figured that one of her peculiar characteristics is that she weaves the crisis into the very fabric of the story. So it lurks around always. As a reader, you keep waiting for that one serious eruption which will set the protagonists life haywire, and then the story will pick up pace. Alas, with Being Elizabeth, nothing like that actually happens.

Bradford spends a lot of time giving vivid description of Edwardian art and architecture, which, unless you are an aficionado, can make things a little draggy. Still, you will but marvel at her for creating that theatrical ambiance in your mind, in which you can easily place the characters and imagine their story. She does her research well, and in this case, since her characters come inspired from real life figures, their development in the story is rather admirable. They are steady and lucid and distinctly identifiable.

Although it would help readers if they have read the previous two installments of the Ravenscar Dynasty, this book would still not rev up the intrigue which makes one want to turn pages. It is predictable. Highly so. The descriptions about imminent family coups, takeover bids, business strategies, and much else, are intelligent and informed, but also lethargically long and repetitive.

For me, the high points of the book, besides Bradford's amazing prowess at writing impeccably beautiful and poetic English, are two. First, she, like always, has for the subject of her book a smart, empowered and a woman in control. You would never find her heroines shedding tears or feeling oppressed. Her heroines always rise above their predicaments, and shine bright. Secondly, I love the love angle in the story. As stated earlier, the love story between the protagonists in this book is inspired by the rumoured affair between Queen Elizabeth Tudor and Robert Dudley, her closest aide, and the first Earl Of Leicester. Bradford does a fine job of carving out an intense, passionate and touching love story, though I find the erotic element a little over emphasized in the book, unnecessarily so.

I would give it a little less than 2 stars on 5, and that for a Barbara Taylor Bradford family saga is a little disappointing.

The Author- From her, you instinctively expect more.

Beauty Lies In Distortions

2012-01-05T03:02:00.001+05:30

The quote I have used as the title to this post I came across in one of the episodes of the musical travelogue- The Dewarists. It intrigued me, and stayed somewhere at the back of my mind. A day back, I used the same as the opening line for a Guest Post I had been invited to write by a blogger friend, Gopan. Guest Post- I had not quite known of this concept, till I came across a few blogs which encourage different writers to come together and air their views on a common portal. On my part, I felt ecstatic at the knowledge that a person who knew me only via my writings wanted a splash of my thoughts on his blog. I was given an absolute free hand to choose the subject of my article, only with the appendage that something on social issues would be slightly more appreciated.

I did not exactly pick a social issue, but something close enough. Like most of us, I too have had a tumultuous adolescence. Growing up had its beauties, but it also gifted me an alternate set of experiences which could baffle, obfuscate, frustrate, anger, depress, irritate, and cause a deluge of many more not-so-positive emotions to infect my brain. Transitioning into adulthood, looking back at the period which has left the most pronounced effects on my current and lifelong personality, I could discover a lot of thoughts inside me which I wanted to put to paper. I have always been a worshiper and admirer of the beauties which lie within subjectivities- and it has always beat me how people care not to appreciate or understand the innate subjectivity each human carries in his demeanour, emotions, psyche, and (needless to say) in a combination of those three.

My reflections on adolescence as I had experienced it, primarily hinging on the lack of understanding which as adolescents we faced in our times, the impacts of it on our individual and collective psyche- combined with the pathos of the subjectivity which remains most consist in the Universe, waiting to be included, appreciated and not ridiculed, form the broad basis of my article, titled Understanding Them.

The wonderful blogger who invited me to contribute to his portal, quite aptly named My Open Voice, was gracious enough to post my article without any editing on his blog. His name is Gopan. A Kerala resident, soon to be flying to UK to pursue further studies, Gopan, as I found out later is, academically at least, a bright psychologist. I was initially skeptical to attempt a piece of writing which naively touches upon psycho-social contents for the perusal of a psychologist, but his balanced appreciation of the same has left me glad for having done it. I would be happy if my readers would visit the link specified below and give me their feedback, even if it contradicts my beliefs as projected in the article.

Understanding Them

@

My Open Voice

Coupled with the happiness of having written my first guest post, was the mirth of having completed 100 followers on Nascent Emissions. Thanking each single one of you for all the support you gave, I would specially like to thank Nishant Jain, who, a little after midnight on 3rd January 2012 officially became my 100th follower. For information's sake, Nishant is a dear buddy from school, and had insisted that he be informed as soon as my blog completes 99 followers, so that with a little promptness, he could have the distinction (insignificant, I know) of being the 100th name to be associated with my Nascent Emissions. Graduating to triple figure followers base does feel amazing, and a cup of coffee is what I shall be treating myself with.

Fledgling Affection

2012-01-03T03:14:00.001+05:30

"So, what would be the top five things you do if the 2012 fiasco were to happen?"
Kanika Chaturvedi left this query for me @twitter a day before. I had never given it a thought. If the world were to end, as has been predicted in some quarters, in the year 2012, what would be top five things I would want to do? The high bred among my stock of friends would snub the query, as useless confabulations of some vacuous brains. But it was an interesting note to have welcomed in the year 2012 with. So, I tweeted.

The first interesting detail I would remember from the year 2012 would be the following five points, which are the innocent first thoughts to have entered my brain. I find them naive and cute at the same time, and I am copy pasting them straight from twitter. Of course, with slight bit of my musings accessorizing them at their tail end.

#1 I have letters to write. I want to finish them before the world ends.

As said earlier, I love the whiff of paper. There are certain traditional paradigms, which, I wish, had not been hijacked by the technology which establishes itself as an omnipotent deity at present. Writing letters is a romantic's delight! Quite obviously, hence, it is mine. There are some I started on. Some are pure cheese and corn mixed together to let my special ones know they are special. Some others are important confessions of guilt, hurt and anger which I wanted to convey to dear kith after putting thought and heart in it. They lie incomplete. But they are cozy reminders of how much I value those who make my world. And if it were the world, my world coming to an end, these I intend to complete as a first priority. Sounds bollywood-ish? Well, that's what I grew up watching. (

#2 There is a large chunk of Italian Cuisine I still have to taste. Learning it won't make sense anymore.
To call myself an inveterate foodie would be an understatement. I recently started falling for Italian cuisine, realizing quite late that luscious Italian culinary specialties are naturally made for me. I am 'cheesy' and 'corny' in my thoughts and writings, may be also in my appetite. Those dollops of cheese of a dozen different kinds, that creaminess, that subtle aroma of herbs, and the generous quantities of corns and mushrooms in different preparations- this is stuff that dreams are made of. Give chocolates and give me cheese- I won't have a single regret before dying then.

#3 There are some people I met via WSDC/EOC interactions, who are in need of urgent smiles and warmth. They will take my attention.

Hugs and smiles in copious quantities, to everyone walking past by. On a serious note though, being at the helm of organizations like Women Studies and Development Cell and Equal Opportunity Cell made me come across some faces and some stories that can touch anyone at the softest spot in their heart. These were stories of courage, of despair, of honesty, of losses, of dreams, of daring, of tears and of smiles. The faces behind these stories, some at least, don't need, but deserve some genuine smiles and warm hugs. 2012 or not- this one thought I intent to keep. At some places at least, we should not procrastinate.

#4 I dream of a novel. To compensate hastily, I will compile Nascent Emissions into a book, printed with a jazzy cover, & kiss it when done.
It was supposed to be a secret dream, but the moment I posted on twitter, being a published author no longer remained secret, but it still remains a dream. I realized it a moment too late, but the thought of the alternative devised to suit the requirements of ending time filled me with mirth. Nascent Emissions forms an important part of my subconscious, I realized. And why should it not? It has been a companion for the most special of my thoughts and ideas.

#5 I will marry!

Oh yes! This, I will. Now is not the best time to write on it, because I am filled with the visions of passion which surface when Elizabeth Turner (the heroine of a compelling Barbara Bradford historical fiction which I am reading currently) meets her love and is consumed by it before she can take another breath. However, this is perhaps the most important part of my top five. So, even though the visions are their, describing them is a near impossible task. I can only share a chuckle and some knowing smiles with other fellow romantics, females specifically, for they would know why this wish. All this romance, it has to go somewhere, isn't it?

Thanks Kanika Chaturvedi, for being the idea behind this post. More gratitude for giving my these silly smiles and thoughts. Not all of them are silly though. He was an intelligent man who asked us to live each day as our last. To do a few things mentioned above, and a few more things which are pullulating inside my brain, I do not really need to wait for the end of the world. What should be done, must be done. So, except for the marriage bit, I shall do all. Its a better note to begin the year on, rather than resolving to lose weight, because, as Sonal Kalra puts it, 'woh hota toh hai nahi'.

And now that I mention her name, I am also reminded of the fact that I wanted to dedicate my first post of the year to the people I love. But Ms. Sonal Kalra stopped me. In her casual yet persuasive tone, she churned out another priceless set of calmness tricks, this time on the first day of 2012. Her article, titled Are You Ready To Fall In Love? was about just that, falling in love, not with anyone, but your own self. Her fabulous quill yet again worked its magic, and made me want to dedicate the first post of they year to myself. I will heed her advice and not spend the year seeking the approval of others. I will make sure I have my own.

“To fall in love with oneself is the beginning of a life long romance.” –Oscar Wilde

PS- All this new blissful affection, its my new year gift for myself. I believe in gifts, remember? I hope you all do to :) Love and best wishes for a great year(s) ahead! Even though my most clairvoyant friend thinks this is the last, I'm happily assuming the opposite.

Mere liye :)

Winter Reminiscences- To My Fellow Bloggers

2011-12-31T02:22:00.001+05:30

Kehno ko, I started blogging in 2009, but the true charms of what has now been endearingly christened as the 'blogosphere' were opened up and understood by me only in the course of this year.Of the 80 odd posts which make Nascent Emissions what it is, roughly 70% have been written this year. As a writer, also as a blogger- since blogging is now emerging as a technically distinct form of writing- I feel I have evolved tremendously in the past one year. Also, I have gone through hundreds of blogs, read more than a few hundred posts, and have felt enriched, amazed and simply blissful while journeying through this supposed endless Universe. I have felt glad to connect with some bloggers at a personal level and have felt gladder to come across bloggers who bear no semblance to any element of mine. Mothers posting pictures of their growing up kids, apprentice cooks sharing their newly experimented with recipes, love lorn hearts ruminating about the priceless moments life gives them, photographers freezing time to display on their blogs, artists sharing the best of their crafts with a world wide audience, nascent poets posting the out pourings of their quill, enthusiastic explorers giving a virtual foray into places yet unheard of, politically charged minds corroborating, arguing, analyzing and educating the uninitiated, inveterate readers promptly posting reviews for the world's perusal- all these are but only some shades which the blogosphere encapsulates effortlessly in its domain. While 'blogger' is still standard and familiar and best for me, services like wordpress and tumblr are the new fads to build a personalized online identity, whether as a writer, a poet, a photographer, or an artist.

I am still this extremely humble species lost amid the world of some seasoned and gifted bloggers. To understand how this world functions, I obviously began by browsing through examples, trying to gain knowledge, and find inspiration. Even before I conceived Nascent Emissions, I already had a list of favorites, a list of veterans I knew I would eagerly follow. When I finally logged into connect with fellow writers in this amazing world, I found awesome support pouring in for me, from people known and unknown. It felt great. The wannabe writer in me, who always felt depressingly suppressed now had a vent, a quite beautiful one at that.

So this post, being drafted just under 24 hours away from a new year dawning on us, is dedicated to the influences, inspirations and the encouragements I met with in the magnificent blogging Universe.

My Favorite Posts from 2011
I read a lot in this year. A hell lot. I was free, unimaginably free for a good 3-4 months in this year, and in that time, I only read. A lot many posts touched me, most of them I have forgotten about. My favorites are the ones which stayed with me, quote obviously.
To Wife- This is the product of the richest imagination I know, so quite effortlessly, it becomes my most read and most favorite post from this year. "But one couldn't call me ambitious, for my dreams are lazy dreams. Instead of ambitious, call me hopeful. And instead of dreamer, dreamy."- I have quoted this line I do not know how many times and at how many places, with due credits of course to the author, Anup Bishnoi. Him, I admire. And even this capacity to admire him makes me feel lucky.
The Shit Called Love- I am cheesy, romantic and a believer. A little fictional narration in this post satiated all those three elements of my being. Written by Rahul Biswas, a blogger with tremendous potential, I love this post for the simplicity of its thought embedded in a very crafty narrative. This, could be the perfect potion for those who because of some unfortunate frictions have forgotten to believe in the 'shit called love'.
Taare Zameen Par - This post has a personal significance for me. Written by Achint Mathur, one of the most self assured person I know, it is a minimalist peek into the lives of three persons I know. This has been written to express, not to impress- and it did make me understand why Achint likes to call himself a thoughtful observer. It is because he is one.
Life And Death- Perhaps the simplest creation of the most incredible artist I know. Incredible and admirable, because I know her art flows in her veins. Besides the beauty in the painting, what I relish is the beauty in thought of this soon-to-be-very-famous,innocent looking, demure little girls called Priyanka Tampi.
Loving...The Artistic Way- This one is my favorite from my own blog, from amongst everything I wrote this year. So nothing to describe about it. It is just the sweetest thought I played with and felt I had satisfactorily put it into words too.

My Favorite Blogs from 2011
This was simple. These blogs I visit everyday. Almost.
Grass On Fire- If there is one person I want to write like, its Anup Bishnoi. You will find exquisite stuff on his blog. Exquisite? Aah! I do not even have words to describe what reading his blog feels like. For me, he is the master. His posts, you would want to read again and again. Richest imagination, grandest language.
Twishmay Shankar (My Life, The Universe and Everything)- He, Twishmay, writes about everything I can never even begin to understand. Surprisingly, his quills not only makes me understand, but fascinates me with the kind of concepts he introduces in his writings. It is the thinker, and the very well read thinker in him that I admire so much. Knowing not just what he writes, but also how he writes has been a treat. And even though he comes across as this exceptionally high-bred intellectual, he is perfectly humble to feedback and criticism. He is smart, and that shows effortlessly in his writings.
Yarn Of ~Words- The perfect virtual hangout for romantics like me. This blog has been nurtured like her offspring by the sweetly awesome author-cum-poet, Aakriti Malik. She attaches herself to her writings, and that is how I like to write. So, in matters of writing (and a few more things), she is like an elder soul sister.The best thing about her blog- no matter how soon is your next visit, you will always find some new and interesting post waiting to be read by you. This blog is her mirror, and it does a beautiful job of reflecting the wonderful person she is.
Aesthetic Blasphemy- I don't know why exactly I like this blog, but I know for sure I do. I do not even know the real name of the blogger behind all the creativity which is splashed across his blog, but he is one hell of a writer, who writes about such diverse things that I would never be able to put his writings into any single category. Creative, and endearing.
An Indian Muslim- I do not, again, know the name of the author. What caught my fancy first was the exquisite collection of quotable Urdu couplets and updates of various Mushairas which the author promptly posted on his blog, and later, I surfed more to discover interesting trivia from the hypocritically secular India's social and cultural and political life. This Indian Muslim is a reporter, observer and a poetry lover- he subsumes in himself all ingredients which make his blog very addictive. I only wish it were updated a bit more frequently.

I Thank
The following bloggers, I thank for liking my blog enough to include in their reading list. I kind of like checking my traffic updates, and I get a good number of readers from all of you. For giving me a little mention in what is supposed to be your exclusive space, thanks a ton!
Aakriti Malik, she pours her heart out at Yarn Of ~Words
Aavika Dhanda, she romances with words at Nirvana
Achint Mathur, he shares opinions at Aman Ki Aasha
Archika Poria, she spreads laughter at The25thHour
Dipesh Mittal, he expresses his thoughts at Tears and Cheers
Rohan Manchanda, he litters his intelligent scribbles at Scribarohan
Saurabh Gupta, he displays his fine penmanship at Almost There...
Shikha Singh, she articulates her beliefs at The Silver Lining

Again, I Thank
The following people, for keeping abreast with my writing, and giving me consistent, constructive and encouraging feedback. If you guys did not drop in your comments, I would not have even known whom am I writing for :)
Apoorv Aggarwal, Sushruti Tripathi, Gopan K, Aakriti Malik, Gautam Kapil, Saurabh Gupta, Jyoti, Rahul Biswas, Kunal, Dipesh Mittal, Achint Mathur, Shakuntala Ma'am, Ebha Ma'am, Pallak Jagga, Mayank Saroha, Tapan Kulshreshtha, Manan Kulshreshtha, Varghese, Cheistha Kochhar, Kanika Chaturvedi, Sanchari Banerjee, Twishmay Shankar, Vrinda Aggarwal, Bhargav, Panvi Poddar, Akshat Mittal, Aavika Dhanda, Ashutosh, Namit Joshi, Nikita Sailesh and all the others whose name I am forgetting to mention here.
My most valuable comments this year came from three people. Giving them a special mention, definitely banta hai!
Ahmed Faiyaz- the author whose book I reviewed left a sweet feedback on the same post. Happiness!
Beni- A girl whose wit dazzles me. Her appreciation simply means a lot!
Anup Bishnoi- A writer I wished I could write like. One comment by him, and I know I jumped in ecstasy.

Heartfelt thanks to all of you, yet again. Hope that in the coming year, you all grow as writers, and as persons too. Stay connected! Keep reading, and keep writing

New Year Wishes with a pretty smile and some chosen flowers. Hope you all like!

Winter Reminiscences- Loss!

2011-12-26T02:59:00.000+05:30

Disbelief, anger

And a smile.

They who held hands

Apart by a mile.

Love's scary vision

Life's daunting trial.

A moment more of pain

Then grace on a calm heart's isle.

With great things comes the possibility of great losses.

Our best bet, as I always say, is to live it while it lasts!

My Tree In A Fern

2011-12-25T03:50:00.000+05:30

The Christmas tree is said to have its roots in the mysterious concept of the "tree of paradise". Of the more credible stories I have heard about it, one relates to Saint Boniface. Saint Boniface was the patron saint of Germany, a missionary who preached Christianity during the 8th century in the Frankish Empire. A legend of the Christmas tree, perhaps the earliest, relates to the time St. Boniface (Apostle of Germany) was sermonizing against idolatry to a tribe of Germanic Druids. To prove that oak tree was not sacred and inviolable, he fell one on the spot. As the tree toppled over, it crushed everything which came in its way, except for a small fir sapling. Saint Boniface conjectured the survival of the fir as a miracle, and proclaimed it as "Tree of Christ". It thence became a tradition to celebrate Yule Tide by planting and nurturing fir saplings.

As a child, I did insist on buying a glitzy little replica of a Christmas tree which I would decorate with shiny bells and stars humming away "Star of wonder, star of light." I knew many carols in my innocent days, which are now fading away from my memory. One which I remember distinctly still is

Long Time Ago In Bethlehem
So The Holy Bible Says
Mary's boy child, Jesus Christ
Was born on Christmas-day
Hark now hear the angels sing
A new king born today
And man will live forever more
Because of Christmas-day.

This carol has a nice chime to it, which recreates all the memories from my school days, where our teachers genuinely endeavoured to inculcate in us the spirit with which the festival should be celebrated. Whether it was those innocent 'Merry X-Mas' cards we made, or the repeated story telling sessions of 'A Christmas Carol'- there is much I miss as I type out this post with my fingers freezing over the key board. Yes, a nice family dinner, complete with a ritualistic plum cake will form a part of my celebrations. What I do not have this year, though, is a nice Christmas Tree- which I really wanted to decorate and which would have added a glow to the otherwise blanketed by winter, lazy atmosphere of my home.

However, not having the tree is not really making me morose for now. In fact, thanks to the plethora of wonderfully positive statuses I have read since oooo hours on facebook, conveying wishes from virtual unknowns to more unknowns, I have this feeling which has begun to grow on me with surprising intensity. I'm being lulled into believing that occasions like Christmas are to step back and invest time on counting one's blessings and making efforts to preserve and cherish them. The wonderful charisma of the Yule festival does, for some signify the impending close of a year- for others, it brings with itself the optimism of preparing and planning for an altogether, yet untouched new year with promises and opportunities we neither know nor can guess about. More often than not, life becomes pretty or ugly simply by what we choose to see in it. Said a very smart man once- 'Twixt the optimist and pessimist/ the difference is droll/ the optimist sees the doughnut/ the pessimist the hole.

Alright, so now I am happy, and looking forward to not just a day, but a whole week of fun, optimism and celebrations, till I settle down into a new year with some new responsibilities and some old dreams firmly planted in my heart and mind. What is the most beautiful thing about Christmas for me? It is the description defying aura which this festival builds around itself. So powerful is the spirit surrounding the festival, that it ensnares all- who own this festival and those who simply choose to flow along with its bliss. I began my Christmas by making a wish- a secret and seemingly impossible, but a wish nonetheless. Baking a cake is next on my agenda. Calling friends, catching up on missed details will form a sure part of my day today. And when I am done laughing and sharing this festive mirth, a Christmas movie, tucked away in front of the tv in a warm quilt on my couch, would just be great to end my day with. Should it be Its A Wonderful Life? Or, no. Since romance is the flavor of the season, may be Serendipity, with all its lucky coincidences, and faith igniting madness would be a better prescription for my romantic health.

And for all the lovely people I know, and who know me- I wish you a very happy holiday season! I hope you all have the best time of year today, and still better times as more days and years go by. May you create the happiest memories for yourself and others, and learn to value everything of value in your life. Count your blessings, if you are to celebrate the day as I will. May be, share with me what are the things that make you feel blessed, or simply happy for existing. The love and blessings of our parents, the warmth and comfort of near and distant family and the infinite care/concern/love showered on us by a few close friends are the common blessings we all should be happy about. I know I can witness life's largesse in the small blessings it bestows on me. I can imagine my whole elusive tree in a little fern which serves me more than that tree as a favorite bookmark surviving all the seasons of a year. I'm sure with a little effort you all can see God's infinite grace too.

Psst...for all my special ones, and you all well know I am talking about you, I do remember you all in my prayers. No kidding. I actually do.

To end, the SERENITY PRAYER

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference."

Winter Warmth

2011-12-24T04:30:00.001+05:30

Giving gifts is essential. Call me a nutcase for it, but I firmly believe and maintain it. I read somewhere, that gifts are better than promises. I do not know under what dimensions, but this seems like an uncannily true line. Now, gifts do not always have to be tangible. At times, they can be in the form of just gestures. In either case, what counts for me is not the size, cost, color, texture, usability, et al, of the gift- but simply the thought behind it. Thoughtfulness is what separates a perfunctorily exchanged gift from a truly special, heart warming, talking,loving gift- which someone would adore and remember for centuries (as we may delineate time under the influence of cheesy romanticism)

So why these random murmurings today? Well, in the past two days, I have been blessed with two new people in life- each who brought a different kind of gift-cum-gesture for me with his/herself. While what they gave me was really special, what was more special were the people themselves. They, I am forced to believe, were the actual gifts the holiday season brought along for me. A little something about them.

A Listener

She has elaborately mentioned details of our first meaningful tryst on her own blog, Yarn Of Words, a perfect virtual hangout for hopeless romantics like me. So,what I will tell you of Aakriti Malik, an elder sister for me, is not that she gifted me an image of my own while she sat in front of me; but that she blessed me with the valuable comfort of listening to all my ramblings without judging me in the least. Yes, it is a blessing to be able to stumble upon someone unexpectedly, who connects with you instantly at more levels than you can recognize at once. And if the same person also is an amazing listener, who promises not to judge you while you share thoughts and angst intimate to you, who respects you even for your mortal shortcomings, who wants to hold your hand as you start shivering a little under the influence of your own uncomfortable thoughts- you know the moment you are living is a gift. A rare, special, precious one.

The fact that we have the same proclivities, same phones, same kind-of crushes, same convictions, same romanticism ingrained deep within us only adds to the beauty of what we shared in the short time we've known each other. At times, what we write for ourselves curiously answers the other person's predicaments. I've known her from my pre-blogger days, as a senior in college- but its only here that I could connect so beautifully with such a beautiful person. So even though I have hated online interactions for taking the soul out of human attachments- blogger made a reverse process happen for me. Online interactions, for once, intensified attachments for me. And sure as hell am I glad for that!

A Smile. A Huge, Persistent, Persuasive Smile.

This was the second most amazing gift I received in a span of two days. More than just a smile in fact. In parts, I have a sequestered existence. With that, I have my sequestered old world notions, a crippling inability to get over things which the technology driven world is leaving behind. Having my ecological austerity in the right place, I still love the whiff of paper. I have always favored greeting cards (the tangible, paper-made ones) as an amazing mode of conveying simple and warm thoughts, at times even without any reason or season. My ill luck- in the past one and half years (I remember distinctly), only 3 greeting cards have made their way to my collection (In my charming younger days, around 30 cards could be exchanged on any single occasion). To make matters worse, out of those three, two I bought for myself on MY birthday. Desperation, you see.

However, deeply thankful am I to an ever smiling and outrageously humble person, who goes by the name of Rohan Manchanda, for recently making that significant addition to my collection. A year my junior, Rohan, besides being one of the smartest, is also one of the humblest species of BITSians I have come across (oh yes, he totally belongs to that distinguished institution), While I was preparing to greet him with my foul morning temper, exacerbated by the fact that I was a little cross with him over something, the thoughtfully prudent Mr. Manchanda gifted me some colorful scribbles in a dainty little card. If I were a little less sleep deprived, I might have sat down and giggled as I read through the first line of his creativity. It could be my compliment of the year. But, that put aside, I was happy to have made a new friend who was capable of sharing contagious smiles. Himself a brilliant writer, Rohan has been a constant source of not encouragement, but enthusiasm behind many of my recent writings. And the kind of respect he has held towards me, despite me not seeing any reasons behind it, has given me those secret, narcissistic moments of bliss.

Thank you Rohan and Aakriti Di. December began on a particularly morose note for me this year. I sense that changing.

Thank you Saurabh, for just lurking around and being the support I often forget to acknowledge.

Winters feel pleasantly warm now :)

The Perfect Bride by Brenda Joyce- A Review

2011-12-21T03:43:00.001+05:30

I had no inkling when I bought this book for an unbelievable bargain price of Rs.25 from a shady corner in Janpath flea market that I am going to be in for such a treat. This book, however, surpassing all my expectations took me on a glorious journey of romance and passion, one I am not likely to get over for at least some months to come.

The Perfect Bride is seventh in the sequence of de Warren dynasty books- historical romance penned by the much loved spinner of compelling tales of passion- Brenda Joyce. In the beautiful and flowing language of Joyce, it narrates the love story, of Blanche Harrington and Rex de Warren, a perfect English woman and a damaged war hero. Blanche is a fine, dignified, composed and graceful woman, who ails from a dark past. She has a family fortune to manage, and hence an immediacy to marry and settle down with one of the 228 suitors lined up for her. She, however, has always been smitten by an old family friend, Sir Rex de Warren. On his part Sir Rex is also more than fond of Lady Blanche, but he is the classic de Warren hero- intense, regal, powerful and not easily the emotive one. He, I reiterate, represents the classic hero from English historical romances- he is a recluse, not for once wanting to adhere to or participate in the customs of English polite society. He has a tortured past, a heartache and a lost leg, and he prefers the confines of his estate at all times, abhorring any company except for that of the charming Lady Blanche.

Common friends connive to bring together Blanche and Rex, but the scene of their re-acquaintance is what neither of them could have imagined or wished for. Upon her visit, Blanche finds him in a compromising situation with his maid. He, of course is flushed with awkwardness and embarrassment. But that is where the beauty of their latent love becomes visible. Their fondness for each other is based not on physical attraction or lust, but enormous mutual respect for each other. The forgettable reunion is soon left behind, and a tale of haunting romance is set on course.

However, here is where the flames of Lady Blanche's dark past are reignited. This is the point of 'crisis' in their love story- but this is not the stereotypical impediment you would expect in the way of two lovers who yearn togetherness. 'Sanity', for all you lovers of romance, would not form one of the usual hindrances in the consummation of a love story. Blanche, as we come to know, has been rendered incapable of all emotions following the traumatic death of her mother. She has an unnatural composure; more apt to say that she is simply passionless. Rex de Warren, with his inveigling persona, however, changes that for her. Their growing intimacy leads them to a night of intense passion, following which Blanche's emotions reawaken, and that too with shocking intensity. Her heart, which she deemed was hard as glass, undergoes an admirable thaw under Rex's embrace, but not all for good. Accompanying the new found feeling of love and passion are horrifying memory trips back to the death scene of Blanche's mother. She has episodes of dementia. She shrieks. She's petrified. She discovers that all truth about her mother's death had been concealed from her. She feels she is losing her sanity day by day. And the only way to protect her, she feels is to shut herself from all feelings of love which are beginning to melt her hard acquired equanimity. In a desperate logic acquired from panic, she decides to run away from everything that caused these paroxysms of insanity to ruin her peace- including Rex.

Thus our lovers are torn apart. In the almost velvety narrative, I found myself many a times weeping, many a times frustrated, because more eager than them was I to see Rex and Blanche together. This love story was unique in many ways. The underlying emotion, the desires, the end might remain the same for most mushy romances, but the path this book treads on was definitely not run-of-the-mill. Here we are not talking of love at first sight, or some mundane physical attraction which leads to intensified lust and passion. Here we encounter long sustained, yet dormant feeling of love borne out of remarkable mutual respect between the protagonists. 'Sanity', as I mentioned, as the main conflict in the storyline adds another dimension to the intrigue which compels a reader to keep turning pages. You would, however, want to pause a few times to absorb the beauty of certain heartwarming scenes described unto perfection by the seasoned love ink of Brenda Joyce.

My favorite parts in the book begin after the introduction of the conflict. That is where the narrative acquires pace. And what might touch you most is the point in the book where Rex decides to watch over and take care of Blanche as she battles her terrifying memories, knowing very well that he is the person keeping her away from himself. So, in order to help her, he needs to restrain completely his emotions for her. It is concern, care and selflessness which then helps sustain whatever little love they had experienced in each others embrace.

Sigh. It is a lovely read. A perfect wintry read. Tucked away in your quilt, with moist eyes and a cold red nose, trust me, this is the book you want in your hands even if you're half as much a romantic as I am.

Winter Reminiscences- Favorite Delhi Moment

2011-12-17T04:10:00.002+05:30

Delhi is a city for the romantics! Whether the Victorian air which greets you as you enter its heart in Connaught Place or the priceless remnants of Mughal and Sultanate architecture which grant it the haunting, old world feel- Delhi will offer you numerous picturesque backgrounds to write your story against. All it needs is the explorer in you, which wants to indulge in its deep set history, and usurp those facets- tangible and intangible- of Delhi life, which grant it its distinct charm. I am, veritably, in love with Delhi! And why not- this is the city which makes me the incorrigible romantic that I am, by giving me such moments which become fond, indelible beauties on the canvass of my memories.

A pity it is, that despite having spent my whole life here, I have primarily explored the city through books and internet. Growing up constraints. But independence brought with it the coveted opportunity of actually going out and understanding and appreciating the city in all its hues. So then, whether it was the monuments, the food, the culture, or the people- I reached out to all that I knew made Delhi special. And this time, the smells, the touches, the emotions, the tastes, the smiles, the textures, the colors- they were all exclusively mine to savour.

Past year was especially brilliant for me, as far as exploring Delhi is concerned. It was a little slow too, because I thought I had discovered my favorites in the city. Janpath, Dargah of Nizam-ud-din Auliya, North Campus alleys, SDA Market Coffee shops, Lotus Temple, Taj CCD, inter alia, top my list of favorite Delhi hang outs. But a decisive winner made its way to the top of this list in October this year. With my best friend in Delhi, and a cooperative weather to make me smile, I thought I might not get a better chance of visiting this one place in Central Delhi I had always wanted to explore. Agrasen Ki Baoli. For those of us who are in love with Mayank Austen Soofi's Delhi diaries, we cannot not know about this place. But visiting it in person is an altogether different experience. And this I discovered on the 19th of October, 2011- what I also like to remember as my favorite Delhi moment from this year.

We reached there early morning. Me and this extremely special friend of mine. Situated a little further up on a small detour off the Hailey road (near Kasturba Gandhi Marg)- one which you are most likely to miss- Agrasen Ki Baoli is not an easy to find monument for first timers. But a cooperative autowallah, content to receive 30 bucks for a 25 rupees worth of journey from Rajiv Chowk, helped us locate it in no time. An unmistakable mustiness greeted us as we stared down the 104 steps of this Baoli. As we later learned from each other, my friend and I resolved almost in our first glimpse down the steps to be back here, back whenever we felt like escaping the pace of life, back whenever we thought serenity would not come so cheap to us at any other place.

Baoli-literally a stepwell. Stepwells were constructed by ancient and medieval rulers as respite zones from scorching heat of Indian summers. There are some more in Delhi, but this one is known to be the most charming. As you will figure out when you visit, the plaque outside its entrance declares it as 'Ugrasen Ki Baoli', but common nomenclature replaces the 'U' with an 'A' to alter the eponymous ruler's identity who is credited to have built this stepwell. At its sides are built some mysteriously inviting niches and chambers, and a staired passageway which leads you to the very top of the reservoir which has now dried up completely. Its popularity and maintenance are both poor. Not many people frequent the place, and in the close to three hours we spent there, it was mostly college students who came, descended to the base of the stairs, and then left as quickly as they came.

We sat around for a long time. It was just very peaceful. Seemed like the perfect place to think, to slow down, and to have a heart-to-heart conversation. When you climb down to a sufficiently low level, you can see just the CP skyline merging with the ancient stones of the Baoli. Nothing else of the concrete world is visible. You feel like you are in two different eras at the same time. Your ambitions want to see you ascend to the top of those tall buildings, your emotions want to restrain you to the tranquility this musty, stagnant well has to offer. Ennui can sometimes be pleasing. And satisfying.

My reverie was broken by the thoughtful look on the face of my friend. Something told me that what I am about to share with this really special friend of mine now is going to be entrenched in my memory forever. I was not wrong. He is a friend I like to call my own; but complications and complacency had both crept in to portend a ruin for perhaps the most special relationship I have nurtured over the past few years. May be it was the feel of being in a time warp, may be it was the calming lull of the surroundings- something enabled me to confess my fears and sadness to him from behind a blur of tears. Some intimate thoughts were then shared. Some dreams, some responsibilities reminded. We went home with a better understanding of each other. We went home a little happier.

A friend, some tears, some words. Delhi's old world beauty in the background. Does one need more to live that cherished, loved, special moment?

Winter Reminiscences- Words To Touch & Feel

2011-12-16T02:03:00.001+05:30

Ashutosh, from Indiblogger, flattered me with his review of my blog. Of the many sane and humbling things he wrote, one was that I should include social topics in my writings. I pondered for a while, and thought which is the immediate issue which grazes my mindscape as soon as I start thinking about social concerns. Lots of things came to mind. I've spent the past two years in college working diligently in the area of women upliftment, voicing out concerns of gender based discrimination, yet not subscribing to the conventional 'feminist' outlook. I've joined hands with Mr. Sanjeev Sachdeva and done my bit to sensitize general public about issues of accessibility. I've felt passionately about wanting to work in the field of education as soon as I find myself able enough.

However, none of the above rang a bell so strong in my head for me to feel attached with. When it comes to writing, attachment with my thoughts and expressions is an absolute necessity to churn out any decent post. I then resigned myself to the pages of my journal to feel the power of some poetic gems I had collected for myself from various sources in the past year over my mind and soul. Many amazing poems from contemporary writers, and literary legends, in English, Hindi, Urdu, Sanksrit and Punjabi were strewn across my journal with each single one summoning a distinct event from memory right in front of my eyes. I could pick out two as my finds of the year. The first one is called Jo Beet Gayi So Baat Gayi, by Harivansh Rai Bachchan, and is already mentioned elsewhere on my blog. Its the second one which moistened my eyes yet again as I read it. For me it is the most brilliant poetic compositions of Kaifi Azmi, who is reckoned as one of the greatest shayars of the 20th century. Giving due credit to Winnie Saghan, my most interesting yet least discovered friend from college, who introduced me to this poem, I would like to share these priceless words from the great shayar with my blog readers. The poem is called 'Doosra Banwaas'. Read on to find out why.

DOOSRA BANWAAS

Ram banwaas se jab laut ke ghar mein aaye,
Yaad jangal bahut aaya jo nagar mein aaye,
Raqsse deewangee aangan mein jo dekha hoga,
6 december ko Shri Ram ne socha hoga,
Itne deewane kahan se mere ghar mein aaye?

Jagmagate the jahan Ram key qadmon ke nishaan,
Piyaar kee kahkashan leti thi angdayee jahan,
Mod nafrat ke usee rah guzar mein aaye,
Dharam kya unka hae, kya zaat hae, yeh janta kaun?
Ghar na jalta tau unhe raat mein pehchanta kaun,
Ghar jalane ko mera, log jo ghar mein aaye,
Shakahari hae mere dost tumahara khanjar.

Tumne Babar kee taraf pheke thhe saare patthar
Hae mere sar ki khata zakhm jo sar mein aaye,
Paun Sarjoo mein aabhi Ram ne dhoye bhee na thhe
Ke nazar aaye wahan khoon ke gehre dhabbe,
Paun dhoye bina Sarjoo ke kinare se uthe,
Ram yeh kehte hue aapne dwaare se uthe,
Rajdhani kee fiza aayee nahin raas mujhe,
6 December ko mila doosra banwaas mujhe.

So, this was a priceless jewel from the quill of Kaifi Azmi, written remembering 6th December 1992- the black day which cast a shameful shadow over the hypocrisy of our secularism. To be honest, I feel we have come a long way since the fundamental elements dictated the course of our day to day lives.This was evident in the calm which accompanied the Ram Janmbhoomi verdict which came out last year, almost 20 years after the ignominious incident. We were almost a generation ahead in time, and today's generation chose not to attach any uncalled for hysteria with the verdict. Good.

However, the fact that strong communal identities are on the path of dissolution is nothing but a delusion which overtly optimistic people like me foolishly want to believe in. I wanted to believe in it because if I did not, I stood the danger of losing something valuable in my life. My optimism has been replaced with mute resignation now. Banners against perpetrators of communal crimes might be flying high, but almost nothing has changed as far as common man's religious mindedness is concerned. May be our generation has moved on, but in parts we're still controlled by the one which chooses to stay where it is- in glory of its own, and in rejection and contempt of the other.

A lot of you might not associate closely or personally with what I have written above, but I have a reason for all this stifling acrimony against fatal caste/communal loyalties which exist in our society. The reason is that I have already lost something precious because of them and their subtler manifestations in my life, or may be just in our collective psyche.

And that is all I have to say.

Love, Life & All That Jazz by Ahmed Faiyaz - A Review

2011-12-15T02:16:00.002+05:30

"How I wish you could see the potential, the potential of you and me. It's like a book elegantly bound, but in a language you can't read just yet." Lyrics from 'I will possess your heart', Death Cab for Cutie.

For the above quote, and many more, I am thankful to Ahmed Faiyaz, the writer of the book I am attempting to review presently. A book I was contemplating leaving unread after completing some fifteen pages made it's way quite unassumingly to my heart. So much, that my heart felt heavy when it ended. I wished it lasted longer, just to grant me some more of those amazingly real and relatable moments. But even as it ended, it made me believe in the concept of a silver lining, for a moment motivating me to find my own.

Love, Life & All That Jazz (LL&ATJ) is a contemporary tale of love, of dreams, of coming of age. It rotates around six central characters, aided finely by a few more who help shape and pace the story as it moves ahead.

Though some readers might differ, but for me, the main story in the narrative of LL&ATZ was that of Sameer and Tania- the couple with whom the story begins and ends. They are in love, but want different things from life- a fact that complicates their co-existence. While Sameer to make it big in life by pursuing and MBA and career in the UK, Tania is a focused interior designer with her own ambitions and plans to put to reality. Their story is about their long distance relationship, the yearning and the frustrations, and about growing up.

Vicky and Naina, a rich and affluent charmer and his sultry, ambitious model girlfriend are the second couple in this book. They make for that killer couple on the page 3 circuit, a culture towards which Naina gravitates because of the demands of her career and Vicky avoids because of the fatigue emanating from constant attention of nosy shutterbugs. The possessiveness and ambitions, the love and temper- all accessorize their exclusive story woven into that of their other four friends.

Tanveer and Tanaz, the third couple, are adorable and my favorite. Tanveer is the typical small town lad lost in a big city, with pressures and demands of his financially unstable family always looming large on his mindscape. He is bright, diligent, but insecure- and what comes as the proverbial ray of hope in his life is a vivacious Tanaz, the daughter of his Parsi landlady. But religious differences and responsibilities on Tanveer as the sole bread winner of his family bring in more than just complications in the beautiful life they both look forward to sharing.

This is broadly the set up of the story. Author Ahmed Faiyaz has done a wonderful job of finely interweaving each individual story into the over all narrative, with a pace that does not allow you to lose focus or interest. I'll be honest. I did not so much like the book after reading the initial twenty pages. It seemed one of those many books written by amateur, wannabe writers, which litter the book stalls with their jazzy covers and cheesy titles. (Oh! And this is not disdain. I am guilty of having read and thoroughly enjoyed many such books. But I kind of had had enough) So while I was contemplating leaving it and moving onto a historical treatise which lay unread beside my pillow, something in the narrative struck a nerve and I carried on. I am so glad I did.

The story begins with about five characters, and to confess, it is initially a little difficult to shift focus between all of them as they develop their distinct identities in the narrative simultaneously. However, as the story progresses, the author does a brilliant job of giving definition,background and a distinct flavor to each character, so much so that recalling any single name to mind after you're done with the book will make you picture clearly his/her character in your head. What also helps is that all the characters and situations in the book are extremely relatable. With simplicity in his language, the author has managed to churn out some priceless dialogues and heart warming scenes. This is not one of the grandest of books you will read, but with literary opulence staring down and intimidating modest readers like me from all angles, the humble, breezy and comforting narrative of this book is what you might fall in love with.

Even though I have labelled it a review, I don't think it is one. I will not rate this book. I cannot critique it. The hopeless romantic that I tag myself as forced me to find way too many familiarities (actual and imagined) with this book, and the consequent predilection just asks me to recommend this book to readers like myself. Heartaches, dreams, pressing family situations, uncertain careers- we are actually coming of age. Want to see a mirror, the kind which promises a silver lining at the end? Do grab this book.

Ahmed Faiyaz has decorated his book with exquisite quotations, one at the beginning of each chapter to give you an abstract peek into what lies ahead in the story. I end this post borrowing one from Chapter 10 of Love, Life & All That Jazz...

"The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise we love only the reflection of ourselves we find in them." - Thoman Merton

Leonid Afremov again. Can I ever thank him enough for adding all these colors to my life?

Winter Reminiscences- That Story...

2011-12-13T04:17:00.000+05:30

Did you witness what was supposed to be the last complete lunar eclipse of this year? I missed it! By some fifteen minutes. So when I finally did climb onto the terrace, the majestic moon was not clearly in sight. That was because, it was right overhead. Putting her knowledge on display, my sister pointed upwards and said "Aapko pata hai didi, jab moon sar par hota hai, tab hamara weight sabse kam hota hai." I grinned and looked up to thank Mr. Moon for granting some respite to a universally-criticized-for-being-overweight-girl. I do not know the logic behind this fact, nor the veracity of the same- but I am glad I locked eyes with the famously romantic moon.

With a halo of soft glow surrounding it, the moon surpassed it's own reputation for being one of the most alluring celestial objects. It glowed right down at me, and like a loser out of some romantic bollywood flick, I smiled back at it. On fewer occasions have I seen it more beautiful. Nascent out of an blanket of darkness, which first consumed it, and then revealed with care and titillation its radiance to the world, the moon was like this fresh damsel waiting to be appreciated by all. Why would I not get poetic? And then the focus shifted from its beauty, to its blemishes. These otherwise obscure spots were strikingly visible today, may be adding more to the moon's beauty (as the cliche goes), may be taking away from it. For me, they played the role of a memory bell, which rang hard to bring back to my mind the most touching of stories I heard this year, which is fast fleeting by.

It interests me to know the story behind each new individual I come across. All of us do have our stories, each distinct, each worthy of being told. I met many interesting people this year, heard many interesting stories, but there was this one which stuck by with remarkable obstinacy. I do not think I am the authority to be telling this story, still I will. Because I know this is one tale which will not simply breeze past my head once I feel I have absorbed it enough. I feel a need to put it into words. A simple, subtle, short story.

There was a girl in my college, a junior, who with humility in her disposition, sincerity in her eyes and sweetness in her smile immediately warmed my heart to her. She was one of the most active workers of WSDC, the society I presided over when in college and with whatever responsibilities she was given, did never let me down. I often noticed some hints of recalcitrance in her social interactions, but once given the confidence of being the ablest at discharging duties entrusted to her, she would work with tireless dedication to translate all our visions as a society into reality. I did also notice some abnormality in her skin sometimes, it appeared to me too wrinkled for her age. But I didn't think much about it, partly because of the fear of developing awkwardness while looking at her, and partly because of her face which I genuinely found wonderfully beautiful to look at. I did ponder over the possible story behind her ever smiling face, but never had time to ask or to sit down and listen to her.

This was till she herself told not just me, but our whole WSDC family a small part of her life's story in blue ink, on a couple of A4 sheets. We had organized a bilingual creative writing competition for pan-Delhi students, the best entries of which were to be published in our annual magazine "Being A Woman; Being Me". She participated, chose to express herself in Hindi and picked up the simplest, yet the most sacred of the themes to write her entry on- "Mamta Ki Chhaon". While I received the best of poems and powerful prose works under the same heading, hers was different- it was a simple tale of concealed poignancy.

I was right when I thought that the wrinkly skin she has was kind of abnormal. From what I got to know later, she was born with it, born with a rare skin disease. Belonging to an extremely humble background, she related how her mother told her later on in life the reaction her birth met with from the elder and insensitive relatives. Her's was not a celebratory welcome to planet earth. Her welcome was one ridden with shock, dejection and, as I hinted earlier, insensitivity. Firstly, she was a girl- and yes, my experiences within the framework of WSDC have taught me that large sections of Indian populace are still obsessed with the wont for a male progeny, which often leads them to lament the arrival of a girl-child. Secondly, she was not the prettiest of babies, as her so-called astute relatives saw it. The concerned relatives did not hesitate from labeling the new born as inauspicious, as a burden and best to be kept away from. And yes, I hope you could guess I am writing as euphemistically as I can.

However, God's abundant grace, encapsulated within the single body of her mother was what proved to be a lifelong blessing for that still unaware infant girl. Her mother was the one who saw all the beauty in the world in her daughter's innocent face. She was the one who resolved to not just take care of her child, but to help her grow into a smart and educated young lady. Her mother was the one who ensured not a single speck of dust ever touched her daughter as that could trigger off immediate allergic reactions. Her mother was the one who stood by her daughter and inspired her to consistently progress ahead. She always tried and is still trying to find a remedy for her daughter's skin condition, but that without ever letting her daughter feel that she lacks something or is different from others in anyway. Her parents have fasted for her; told her she is their adorable and intelligent daughter. The girl, on her part, admits, that if she is alive, it could not have been if not for her mother. She prays that each daughter born on our land be blessed with the kind of affection her mother showered her with.

I do not know if this is her story, or her mother's, but the beauty of a mother daughter relationship is that they are both inalienable parts of each others stories. Because their lives overlap, their stories do too. It is only one of those many stories I know, which is in the process of unfolding. I only hope the best for this girl who gave me the most memorable story of the year. And since this post has turned out to be very long, and I cannot find a fitting end to it, I will just leave the readers with these lines I read somewhere on the occasion of mother's day-

Motherhood makes women crib, complain, eat chocolates and cry. But ask any mum whether she'd barter it for anything in the world and you'll get one hurt, definitive answer. A big, fat, "NO".

The Diary Of A Social Butterfly by Moni Mohsin- A Review

2011-12-08T04:40:00.001+05:30

Now this was a book which made me nervous of my nocturnal reading habits. Why? Because I had no clue when I would fall off the sofa laughing at insane decibels even as my family rejoiced in hitherto peaceful slumber. Fortunately, nothing ugly did ever happen to hinder my night-time trysts with Butterfly Khan, and for all those guffaws which continued for 3 nights and 2 days, I have only her to thank!

Eminent Pakistani columnist Moni Mohsin takes you for an roller-coaster ride through the world of socialites- whom, by the way, Butterfly calls 'Socialists'. But what to do! Poor Butterfly, caught among her own rigmarole of thoughts, often find herself prone to adorable malapropisms, which literally spice up her journals. So, you could find yourself wide eyed as you see an 'angina attack' transforming by the virtue of Butterfly's innocence into a 'vagina attack'. Later you would just settle for howls of laughter as the luscious malapropisms transform 'botox' into 'buttocks', or 'Bangkok' into 'Bangcock'. You will meet business 'typhoons', and see Butterfly becoming 'historical' with laughter.

The Diary Of A Social Butterfly is a book devoid of a plot or a storyline. Rather, it is a compilation of articles published fortnightly by the eminent Pakistani author, Moni Mohsin, in The Friday Times. Moni Mohsin has to her credit other works which gathered much acclaim, like Tender Hooks and The End Of Innocence. This particular book, The Diary Of A Social Butterfly, takes the form of journals written by a Punjabi Convent Educated Socialite, who can think of little else, other than attending parties and maintaining her up market status. Butterfly's journals were scribbled during a crucial and sensitive time for Pakistan's internal stability and international relations- between the years 2001 and 2008. However, our central character, Butterfly, couldn't care less even if the world was on fire- what she needed were parties, and social engagements, and perfect attires, and shoes, and hairstyles, and shawls, and accessories, to remain among the creme de la creme of the Page 3 crowd of Pakistan. Something in her journals reminds you of Sophie Kinsella's Shopoholic series, but Butterfly has that distinct identity which can makes this exaggerated satire on an incorrigible socialite's life totally worth a read! Each of her journal entry begins with two news headlines- one perhaps sourced from the Reuters, the other, from her own life. Whether it is about firing a maid, fighting with her husband, celebrating Eid, or buying a new jora(dress)- Butterfly takes her life very seriously; she, after all, plays the lead role in it. The lesser happenings, like bomb blasts, terrorism, tsunamis and political turmoils the world can itself take care of. These not withstanding, Butterfly will always stay focused and prepare to fly elegantly to the next event in the city.

The characters in Butterfly's life as as colorful as her own self. She has a Oxford alumnus (an 'Oxen' as she calls him) for her husband, who is smart and learned and everything that Butterfly is not. Fondly called Janoo, her husband is routinely abused in Butterfly's diary as 'crack', 'sarrhial', 'donkey', 'dog', 'zinda laash, 'boodhi rooh', et al, especially for holding strong and empathic political views and social concerns. Butterfly has a 13 year old son, named Kulchoo, and even at that tender age, Butterfly can't help but be far sighted and prepare for his wedding each time she is inspired by a novel idea or some innovative decor technique in one of the many weddings she attends. She has a mother-in-law, addressed as the Old Bag, and two sisters-in-law, called as the Twosome Gruesome- the perpetual sources of misery in her otherwise blissful life of glamor and glitz and parties and more parties. Other delightful characters in Butterfly's colorful life include her Mummy, her Aunty Pussy (whose husband has a curious epithet as 'Uncle Cock-up') with her unlucky-in-marriage son Jonkers, her friends- Mulloo, Flopsy, Furry among others.

My ecstatic bit of writing so far would have made it obvious that I LOVED the book. It has humor bordering on insanity- you can ridicule Butterfly for all her ignorance and self obsession, but you can't help loving her for all the light moments she grants you. And, if Khushwant Singh endorses on the cover that this book is 'hilarious', the book has to be just that- hilarious! Huge thumbs-up to the crafty malapropisms- some of the absolutely refuse to leave my head. And the local slangs, aah, they are what make Butterfly's ridiculous English all the more gorgeous.

All in all, Butterfly makes for a highly recommended read. The only caveat I would like to put in place, sourced from a fellow blogger's critique of the same book, is that dumbness as the source of humor, begins to tire out readers towards the end of the book. It is one thing to read this content in the form of fortnightly commentaries with contemporary happenings to relate with, and quite another to read it as a book of chronologically arranged articles lacking any storyline to adhere to. Still, I would regard this book as one of the best I read in the year 2011.

Generously enough, its 3 stars on 5 for me. For all that laughter. :)

Moni Mohsin- the author

At The Edge Of Sunshine

2011-12-07T02:02:00.002+05:30

I mugged up this line when I was 11. Partly because my favorite teacher reiterated it time and time again, and partly because I found it fancy and inviting at my age. "Life is like a bus. People come and people go, but the bus does not stop. It keeps going on and on and on." Seems like a simple thought at present. Simple enough to not even have any significance.

Why am I thinking about it then? Perhaps because something happened recently, a chance meeting, which influenced me so much, that it is not leaving my mindscape. Even after 4 days. Each day we go out, we meet people. Few we do not as much as notice. Few we click with, or feel happy in the company of. Few we look forward to meeting again. Few, we know, stand apart from the crowd. They constitute a category of people who are mighty charming, who impress with the first word they utter, the way they move, the sort of respect they command from others, but who are also beyond your reach, despite being extremely humble in their disposition.

It is precisely this last category of people I look forward to stumbling upon during my social interactions. My good fortune, I usually do. The charm, and aura which they create is something I feel drawn towards. A new person, a good person, an interesting person always leaves your heart a little more elated than before meeting him. And December gives me the best of such meetings to cherish. However, my last such meeting was a little different. I was happy, but with tears in my eyes. Not the cliched khushi ke aansu. They were what they were supposed to be, tears because something pinched hard, very hard.

You don't give yourself a lot of chances, do you?
I had had breakfast at the All American Diner in the morning with my sunshine friend, and so, I was ebullient. Happy, and smiling to myself. I was happy also for a completely unplanned rendezvous with this person (the subject of this post), still an alien to my world, to whom I had been introduced via lengthy eulogical testimonials from some common friends. Two cups of Barista Cappuccino to start the conversation, what more could I ask for? Then came this one question, rhetorical-I reckon, which completely caught me unaware. Who was this person asking me this question anyway? It was just a polite coffee I had looked forward to sharing with him, with loads of thought-provoking exchange of ideas embellishing our meeting, just like it happened the last time. This one line, not only provoked my thoughts, but kind of intruded in my personal space. Am I that easy to read? Was he even right?

Something told me he was. Why would that ebullience otherwise plummet so low that I would start averting my eyes from him, and in stead, focus all my attention on two Barista paper napkins hitherto inconspicuously lying on the table? Why otherwise did I catch myself tearing a sugar sachet when for years consistently I have liked my coffee bitter? My mind was bugged by this person's piercing gaze, which I knew was resting on me, waiting patiently for me to assimilate myself and come up with an answer. I could come up with none. In stead, I came up with a question.

What does not giving yourself enough chances mean?
With eyes gleaming of confidence in his own thought, and a mute kindness in his tone, he explained to me the meaning I sought. And that sounded completely like something delineating me- the part of me I try and keep concealed. It sounded painfully like me. By now, that points comes in your meetings with new people, where you realize if the two of you share a kindred connection, or if the initial charm you felt for someone a consequence of a misplaced adrenaline surge, which now has dissipated for the best. As for me in that weird situation, neither of the two happened. I was sitting with someone clearly smarter than myself, but not to intimidating limits. He had lofty ideals in his head, but his head firmly atop his shoulders. His thoughts were a treasure to observe, but suffocating when I tried stepping into the world they created. This was a person I knew I wanted to hear and learn from, but he was definitely a person whom I would not like to have another prompt tryst with.

Of the many arcane things he uttered, one was that he liked making people uncomfortable. Now that was not the most chivalrous of things to say, and hence my response was an obvious grimace. But of all the things I will remember his for, just in case I do never meet him again, this will stay with me. When discomfort settles in, ousting a crippling complacency, you feel a need to come out, feel alive, make mistakes, learn from them, make mistakes again, and keep learning from a stimulated, active existence. These might not have been his thoughts, but they are my sentiments for sure.

For two days, I was brooding. I had been shaken out of my comfort zone, and pretty badly at that. I am not saying it was a life changing meeting. In fact, it wasn't. But it was one worth remembering, for my own good. His distinct sentences have now condensed in my mind as an elegy to the lost promises of youth, to the unabated acceptance of things as they have come my way. When I think of it now, the gaze- his gaze, coupled with that curl of lips which unnerved me no end as I sat in front of him, seems sort of beautiful in retrospect. I am definitely not meeting up this person again, for being unnerved in an alien company is not an experience I would rush myself towards. For that, I might hate him, but for the warmth which spreads through me as I write, I will definitely admire him.

Most of the worthy, beautiful things in life lie but a step away from us. May be they lie even farther away, but its that first step which we often deliberate too much over taking. By then, the proverbial butterfly has flown away, to a new abode. And we, we lurk right there, right at the edge, still hesitating to take that one step. Insecurities, fears, irrationalities- they exist in each heart, but whether we submit, or make them submit is what differentiates the ordinary from the outstanding. It is not a very well developed thought, but I want to leave it at that. I have found myself lurking at the edge of sunshine many a times in life. Now, with this little, abstract realization, I think I want to step into that sunshine, and open my arms, and feel the rays make my heart their home. Can't help getting poetic, foolishly may be, but it conveys the thought, right?

To end, I again found a painting by my favorite, Leonid Afremov. This one is called

Sun of January

Winter Reminiscences- Expectations of Love!

2011-12-03T14:55:00.000+05:30

Have you ever gotten a taste of your own medicine, as they proverbially say? I mean, have you ever landed in a situation which is like this giant mirror of your life, just that you see your own role being performed by someone else? And all this in a pleasant and amusing way, not with any masochistic or depressive undertones.

It happened with me, at the beginning of the 'month of musings', as I call it. December, as insinuated by me in Flakes Of Love, is that month where besides indulging in hopeless romanticism, I also take a stock of the big and small details of the year gone by. Right from the best books I read, to the people who mattered to me- I like revisiting things that made my year special. Introspection, on the problems faced, moments lived and lessons learnt is perhaps the most important aspect of this yearly catharsis of mine, and this post is precisely about that.

Unlike the previous years, this year's cathartic recollections began on an extremely amusing note. I am known to be this extremely insecure person, who craves undue levels of attention from people she loves. When that is not becoming, situations have been known to get ugly. At times, certain unfortunate friends of mine have been caught in pugnacious encounters with me without any apparent fault of theirs, specifically when even a tiny figment of my brain assumed that they've been sharing with a third person some part of their life which I rightfully think to be my own. Though I am learning to grow up, envy and a certain degree of possessiveness towards people I love have always characterized me. The closest to me suffer the most. Anger and tears follow. Acrimony, thankfully, is kept at bay.

So what was so amusing? The fact that I got a taste of my own bitter medicine. In one of the most harrowing situations in my life, I entered into a confrontation over issues of attention and insecurity where I was on the receiving end! It would've seemed implausible at one time, but it did happen. And the person wroth with me, wroth because of hurt feelings of extreme love, was my mentor. She was the first person ever in life I looked upto, and I know I fell in love with her even before my brain acquired sanity. She is much elder to me, and as much as I wanted to see my future in the strength of her character, she liked seeing her own past in my childhood achievements.

Maturity is often confused with passivity of emotions. May be that's why I was dumb initially when I saw that unmistakable hurt in her eyes caused by my callousness in loving her enough. I was in disbelief and denial. Here is how I defended myself in my thoughts- How could she feel hurt? How could she doubt me? She should know that even though I don't lurk around, I always hold her dear, shouldn't she?

Well, no! She is not obligated to assume that I love her, if I do not care to show her enough the love and concern I hold in my heart. Her getting hurt is not her fault, it is mine. The disbelief and surprise was soon replaced by delight, translating into a smile on my lips. I felt really good in my heart. Firstly, because of the realization that I mattered so much to someone, and secondly because I kind of felt at home. When I threw similar tantrums in front of others, I was assumed to be immature. So, I vowed to 'grow up', implying that I vowed to close myself to such extremities of emotions. No more! I smiled because her one outburst assured me that I wasn't some abnormal being always sulking for attention. Her words were my words, used many a times before. My problem is that I verbalize my thoughts too easily and too often, and ride an emotional high throughout my existence. It is the reaction I get which makes me doubt the very person I am.

I narrated this incident to a friend late at night, with palpable alacrity in my heart. It was a weird state state of excitement. I ended my narrative with these words- "and there I stood, smiling, but with absolutely no idea what to do now!". His query- "So, what will you do now? In fact, is there anything at all that you can do?". Poor chap, his query was obvious. He has been the victim of my outbursts way too often, and this is what I had to say to him- "I will now do everything for her, which I expected others to do when I put them in the same spot. No matter how hard I try, I cannot erase the bad memory, the hurt-that is how it works with hyper emotional beings like myself. But what I can do is to lurk around, and create enough happy memories to make that bad one inconsequential. She matters to me enough to put in that effort, and it is just that I need to let her know."

Lost somewhere within the pages of my journal was a five point mantra I devised for myself long back- more like compiled from various sources. This incident, fortunately, compelled me to find it once again. These five points were put together by me in not some gloomy-reflective condition, but in a state of perfect bliss, when I wanted to pamper my self, and feel proud of the person I am, but with responsibility. Time is good to share it on my blog. This constitutes my treasured lesson from the year 2011. They are not some divine secrets which promise a glorious existence- but five simple lines which if understood simply do have the potential of helping screwed up situations get a little better.

1. Stop lying to yourself. Harms no one but you.
2. Ask for help. Give your near ones the right to interfere while they still can.
3. Do not rationalize, i.e., do not make excuses for yourself. There cannot be a good enough reason for failing to do what you did not.
4. Count your blessings. List your motivations and rewards. Naive, but has the awesome potential to make you feel great.
5. No matter how hard you try, you cannot change the person you are. When it comes to that, let go; with an understanding that holding on and letting go are divided by a invisibly thin line based on personal discernment

I think the best note to end this post on would be a painting by my favorite, Leonid Afremov, titled

Expectations of Love!

Unlikely Hero: Om Puri- A Review

2011-12-02T02:30:00.002+05:30

The book cover- quite inviting

When the subject of a piece of writing is as rich and extraordinary as the much hailed actor Om Puri, a reader's expectations from it shoot right through the sky. Not only the reader, but the writer too should feel blessed for getting a chance to take an intimate peek into his life, and winning an opportunity for leaving a permanent mark in the literature of Indian Cinema.

Alas! This biography does nothing to enthrall the reader, or increase the esteem of the biographer, or of the subject of the biography itself. Om Puri has been one of the most admired Indian actors now since an era. His acting skills boast of an almost preternatural glow, which accord to him an immutable hallowed status in the history of not just Indian, but world cinema. He has been one of my firm personal favorites. I had, for long, been watching his movies without any specific admiration for this glorious character actor he is, but it was a chance viewing of Govind Nihalani's Droh Kaal which left me completely enamoured of both, Om Puri, and his equally talented co-star, Mita Vashisht. There after, his cameo in Gandhi, his riveting performance in East Is East and My Son The Fanatic, his brilliant cop-act in Ardh Satya and his powerful baritone- all drew me towards discovering with awe one of the finest and most consistent of character actors ever.

Naturally, I was expecting a lot from this book. Visually, it fulfilled all my expectation. Interspersed in to the biography are a large number of photos, both from Om's personal and cinematic life. Though not placed in any logical order, they still aid the reader to help translate perspectives into lucid images in his mind. As far as the story of Om told in the book is concerned, it tells you that he was a child born and brought up in extremely adverse and perverse environments. He was the last born, and one of the very few surviving children of his parents. He grew up earning his own bread from a very early age, and diligence and sobriety were permanent traits of his character, especially as far as his devotion to his art is concerned. He studied at NSD, and subsequently at IIFT- Pune, in the august company of some of India's best known parallel cinema actor and directors like Rohini Hattangadi, Naseeruddin Shah, Saeed Mirza, et al. His looks did not fit the the conventional criterion for an 'actor, villain or a comedian', thus he had to work extra hard to prove his mettle, and establish himself as an extremely bankable character actor. Today, he is well recognized face in India and abroad. In fact, the finesse he brings in each act of his got him more fame abroad, specifically in the UK, than in India. This is ironical given the fact that Om could barely speak Englisjh as a student and carried a heavy Punjabi accent when he could. He is settled at present in Bombay with his wife Nandita and son Ishaan.

With Smita Patil-the queen of art cinema, in Sadgati. His portrayal of an untouchable , Dukhi, won his instant acclaim from film aficionados far and wide.

I am late in mentioning it, but Nandita C. Puri, his wife, is the author of this book. Unlikely Hero- the title was coined by Shyam Benegal, and Nandita was the one trusted with telling Om's story to the world. I must've forgotten mentioning her, because she does an extremely disappointing job of giving words to Om's tale. The tone of the biography is patronizing, to say the least. While I wanted to read a biography, I ended up reading a critique of Om's life, which spent more time delineating on the amorous escapades of a young Om (highly interesting, if I may confess) rather than providing perspectives on Om's nuanced growth as an actor and expounding on his relationship with his art, and fellow artists. Professional relationships I mean.

Om Puri as a rickshaw puller in the City of Joy.

Nandita is 16 years younger to Om, whom she met as a reporter in Calcutta. Their love took flight there and then, as Om battled a crumbling marriage back home with Seema Kapoor. She might have been a good reporter, and this I say because even the honeymoon phase of their relationship she has 'reported', with a glaring lack of any emotional appeal to it. What she does well in the book, the only salable attribute perhaps, is the job of peppering the narrative with inconsequential minutiae which titillate the gossip friendly nerves in the reader's system and help him keep turning pages. Two pages in the book are penned by Om's son Ishaan- but like the rest of the book, they too are disappointing, for they talk not of much else but Om's addiction to smoke.

Saving grace- the sections in the book penned down by Om himself. He reflects, albeit concisely, on each of his film projects; something which as an Om Puri fan you look forward to. Also, tidbits of a lecture he gave at Whistling Woods make for a worthwhile read. The prologue by late Patrick Swayze is perhaps the highest point in the whole biography; its appropriate placement at least helps a reader to start on a good note.

Concluding gossip- Om Puri's married life, ever since the release of this biography has been on the rocks. It has been reported, rather recently, that Om wants to divorce Nandita and return to his ex-wife, Seema Kapoor. Speculations are rife that the sleazy revelations of Om's life, which include his 'curious caressing of his maternal aunt's exposed tummy', his teenage 'deflowering' at the hands of an old 'toothless' maid, inter alia , made by Nandita in the Unlikely Hero are the cause behind Om's decision. For me, more important than this gossip is the hope that Om gets another biography to his name, which does justice to his persona as it is remembered on the pages of cinematic history.

Ishaan, Nandita and Om at the book launch. The happy family in the picture is not going through tough phase, and this very biography is rumoured to be the cause.

Flakes of Love

2011-12-01T02:13:00.001+05:30

With a light jacket hung loosely onto my shoulders, I stepped out of my house, like I do daily at ten thirty at night. It is my time for an after-dinner stroll. A step up the stairway, and I found myself smiling, as if something good was going to come my way today. I had not even reached the terrace door when a pleasantly chilly gust of air greeted my face. My loose hair were blown back, and I felt my smile intensifying. The winters I was missing so bad had finally knocked at my door.

Winter, indisputably, is the most romantic of all seasons. Delhi winters especially so. Early morning fog with its musty smell, afternoon rays cascading down to mark their feeble presence, or the extremely chilly nights yearning for the warmth of a lover- winter with all its solemn hues entices hopeless romantics like me. Numerous scenes are automatically added to the fabric of a love story I'm trying to weave. Yes, I am trying to put together a love story. At times for real. At times in just the landscape of my imagination.

Ambling on the terrace was more pleasant than usual today. I was walking through the chill. My hands stretched the jacket to tightly wrap it around my body, but my nose was more than glad to be exposed and breathing in the smell of winters. My mind felt calm, and felt rich. Rich with memories of love. Memories for real, and memories conjured.

In bits, I felt lonely. I have always pictured myself in the warm, cozy embrace of someone special as I open my eyes to a lazy, reluctant morning. In the very next breath, I see myself adamantly returning to slumber, sinking deeper into the same embrace. Sharing coffees by the window, and sharing clasps on a long, aimless walk down the road- these common visions seem to acquire new definition when a fog-rich background is added to them. Lazy smiles. Ceaseless hugs. And beautiful nights. Sigh. I did feel lonely. Acutely.

However, I was not open to any gloom today. Winters, eluding the Delhi air for so long, were finally making their presence felt. Under that fast enveloping feeling of loneliness borne out of an acute urge to share my winter mirth with someone, I desperately sought some pleasant distraction for myself. Finding none, I thought it best to plan for an ideal, still 'single' winter. What would be the best options for living a memorable winter, for a romantic who finds herself still single in the city?

Books-romantic fiction strictly.
Coffee by the balcony-a single mug, of course.
Stroll in Central Park- early morning, to miss the sight of all those lucky couples.
Piping hot tomato soup- at D'pauls, warmth and pocket comfort simultaneously.
Journal entries- amid outdoor beauty, Lodhi Gardens or Agrasen ki Baoli.
Clothes- greys or whites, dark or subtle, intense or calm.
Quilt comforts- with a remote and nice love story on tv.

And if all this love is not potent enough to suffocate me, may be I would spend some time reflecting on yet another closing year. The bests of it, the worsts of it. The achievements, the lessons. The friends, the best friends. December is like a mischievous damsel- it gives me the most beautiful painting of nature to gaze at, it gives me the most salubrious weather to feel rejuvenated in, but it also lends me a powerful craving to have someone near by, and even before I know it, it fills me with the gloom of having to watch another year go by.

I have not even finished writing this post, and I'm already receding into imagining yet another scene which will hopefully fit into the love story I'm writing, for real or not. You, my dear readers, I would be indebted to, if you could suggest something new for me to do these winters, given that I am not occupied anywhere else. If for you winters are not just another passing month, if you romanticize them as much as I do, what would you do to make them absolutely special ?

Ustad Sultan Khan- His Sarangi Lives On....

2011-11-29T02:24:00.001+05:30

Jagjit Singh. Bhupen Hazarika. Ustad Sultan Khan. These three were the unparalleled jewels who embellished the world of Indian Music and enhanced its glory. Each one of them belonged to a vastly different genre of Indian music, each one of them now no longer there to regale our souls with their powerful voices. At times like silk, and times haunting- I still cannot believe that we have lost these three precious voices in such quick succession, with barely any time to even recuperate in between.

While Jagjit Singh was popular among the masses because of the commercial success he could garner, the latter two are relatively lesser known names. Bhupen Hazarika, still, has had a marked presence on the musical scene in the north-east, but Ustad Sultan Khan's fame had remained confined to the dilettantes classical music- not so popular among the youth, till a long time. I myself was introduced to his magical voice rather late in life, when I had acquired enough respect and awe for Hindustani Classical Music. It was with the release of the endearingly melodious 'Piya Basanti' that his voice gained stupendous recognition among the young music listeners. Piya Basanti, with its soft musical curves, remains a top favorite till date.

Padmabhushan Ustad Sultan Khan first gained fame through his extraordinary mastery over the Sarangi, one of the most difficult traditional Indian string instruments, which he learnt under the tutelage of his father Gulab Khan. If you have not heard the notes of his Sarangi, trust me, you are missing out on one of the simplest pleasures of life. Besides being a glorious sarangi player, he is also a prolific singer. In fact, of all his works, what I hold favorite is his first vocal album, titled Sabras. In each song of that album, you can get a taste of the bewitching notes of his Sarangi, combined with the wondrous rustic beauty of his voice, set to either folk or classical tunes. 'Nadi Re Kinaare' is my pick from them all.

A still from Leja Leja, from the album Ustad And The Divas

He sang only a limited number of film songs. His most famous is perhaps 'Albela Sajan' from Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, a age old classical melody which gained effortless commercial success. 'Jhin-min-jheeni' from Maqbool also owes a mellifluous sufi section in the song to Ustad ji's voice. Collaborating with the young voice of Shreya Ghoshal, he churned out one of the most celebrated non-film songs, 'Leja leja', which I find myself humming very often while doing my daily chores. He is one of those artists I have followed with a pious fervour. Like was the case with Jagjit Singh, an attempt to imitate his songs to the last little harkat has been a source of immense musical learning for me.

One of the most-read articles on my blog is Kate Nahi Raat Mori, a post which extols the eponymous song set to his very voice. If there had to be just one song I could recommend to someone oblivious to the charms of Ustad ji's voice, it would be this one. A lot many people landed on the earlier post while searching for its lyrics, as my blog stats later revealed. I'll end this post with the lyrics of the same song, which continuously reverberated in the background as I wrote this post. Praying for his soul.

Kate nahi raat mori,

Piya Tore Kaaran, kaaran.

Kaare-kaare baadal chaaye,

Dekh dekh ji lalchaaye,

Kaise aaoon paas tihaare,

Bhool gaye more saajan.

Bheega bheega mausam aaya,

Piya ka sandesa laaya,

Manwa ko chain na aawe,

Tarse hai mori raina.

In the colors of his land. Ustad Sultan Khan belonged to Jodhpur, and was cremated there yesterday.

Impromptu Rendezvous- School Remains The Best!

2011-11-28T03:10:00.000+05:30

The kind of happiness an impromptu re-union can give you, its quite unique. We leave our academic abodes- schools and colleges- with loud promises keeping in touch, being integrally involved in each others lives, and always being there, with due emotional emphasis. But by now, all of us have been through and known, that even the most genuine of such commitments are often not able to stand the test of circumstances. We move on. We carry few faces firmly forward with us, but leave a lot many more behind. Often, the people we leave behind are the ones with whom we perhaps shared more intimate association while still in their obvious company. There remains a guilt, but there remains a helplessness.

And this is where the concept of reunions catches steam from. Reunions sound ultra grand- sound like a homecoming of sort; but the more they are planned and ranted on about, the more they fall flat on expectations. When invited to reconnect with people whom you shared your pens, pencils, notes, and your very heart with in one era, you can sometimes feel awkward by the pace with which things and people have moved on. You yourself, of course, being no exception. But when reunions are random and unplanned and impromptu and fixed over sleepy calls at the break of dawn, suddenly the excitement associated with them increases manifold. And then, who land up in your company are friends, who really want to be there with you enough to jump out from bed half dizzy and head towards an old hang out without a second thought. Despite it being a Sunday, they shift, alter, delay or cancel plans to experience that coveted tryst with memories.

And yes, though my ramblings might seem exaggerated at points, they do total justice to each emotion I felt during the course of the day. I studied in Laxman Public School, an institution which remains irreplaceable to my existence and to which I will proudly remain associated till even one known face exists in its precincts. What made one of my routine trips to the school even more special today was the coming together of the best of my friends, after an eon, with all the ease of the good old days. Teachers, building, classrooms- everything/everyone was greeted with the familiar mischief, familiar loudness, and familiar warmth. The day was great, and was made better with the lightness of everyone’s demeanour.

We saw a few changes. We don’t know for good or bad. We ended up criticizing them. Alterations, good/bad, associated with things which have a sentimental value are not always welcome. Traditions are sometimes best left untouched. We also found ourselves a little grown up. We began by indulging in the usual fun-banter about teachers, but ended up apologizing to a few for our unpleasant acts committed while we were too young and adamant to realize it.

After a great time, albeit reluctantly, we parted ways. This time too, loud promises were made of keeping in touch, being involved, and being available. I am not thinking about that. I am just happy that today was.

Thank you all, friends and teachers, for making LPS such an awesome experience for me. We might not always be in touch, but our common roots are enough to ensure that we remain connected at some level, always.

Anjali ma'am. Not just a teacher, but a friend and mentor for life. She stood by me when I felt lonely and dark, and made me learn things which cannot be found in any text books.

With Tyagi Sir and Tyagi Ma'am-the best Chemistry teachers ever! I owe all my boards marks to their strict and disciplined, yet fun teaching.

The 12-A2 gang, collecting outside the school gate. From left to right- Piyush, Nishtha, Tarun, Myself and Mayank

Seema ma'am- junior school math teacher. She was the only one who could make me do math. Later, I only deteriorated.

The Winner Stands Alone by Paulo Coelho- An Attempted Review

2011-11-25T03:40:00.002+05:30

"He has no idea what he is doing. He is walking towards Absolute Limitless Evil, capable of anything.Hamid assumes that Igor is just another adult and that he can confront him either with physical force or with logical argument. What he doesn't know is that Absolute Evil has the heart of a child and takes no responsibility for his actions and is convinced that it's right. And when it doesn't get what it wants, its not afraid of using all possible means to satisfy its desires". - The Winner Stands Alone, Paulo Coelho.

For me, the word macabre and love can never go together. But when it comes to Paulo Coelho's writings, you can obviously expect the unexpected. Before I picked up The Winner Stands Alone (TWSA), my experience with Coelho was moderately sweet. I had read three of his works- The Alchemist, Eleven Minutes and Veronica Decides To Die- and each one them, which I read separated by huge spaces in time, enthralled me at some level. So, while I could not exactly call myself and ardent fan of the author, I was definitely one who trusted him for writing good, out-of-the-box stuff.

Things changed a little with TWSA. It is his twelfth book, and like the earlier ones, touches on a something arcanely sublime, which is way above an ordinary person's realm of imagination and understanding. This, exactly, is what Coelho is famous for doing. TWSA pivots around one protagonist, although in totality, there are five names which shape and aid the development, pace and culmination of this book.

Igor Malev, is not just the protagonist, but the very subject of this book. He is an extremely successful Russian telecom giant, who visits Cannes Film Festival with a single thing on his mind- to win back his wife Ewa. Ewa, who was once the motivation and the very reason for his existence is now married to a couturier, Hamid Hussein- a man as successful as Igor, but a powerful contradiction in character to him. Igor never recovers from the loss of his wife, and after two years of separation, decides to win her back. He calls himself to be on a 'mission of love', a mission that requires sacrifices- murders. Set against the backdrop of glitz and glamour of the world's most famous film festival, what then ensues is a tale of 'extraordinary violence' (as the book cover puts it), lasting just under 24 hours, revealing the evil which hides in each human soul and busting the myths associated with the world of celebrities.

TWSA is one of Coelho's most criticized books, as I learnt later. The reason for that, as I can guess, are many. For me, however, the prime reason for finding it an unsatisfactory read, was the profound sense of darkness which as an engrossed reader, TWSA filled me up with. The portrayal of the world of glamour, no doubt realistic, is very depressing. It is depicted as an arena in which under the glimmer of stars, what exists is deep darkness, an abyss of depression from which no return is possible. Gabriela, an aspiring and aging actress, and Jasmine, a young and wise model are the characters who are used to convey this aspect of the story, though in a very repetitive fashion. The narrative of the story keeps shifting between all the five characters (and also a few more), and which though essential to the fabric of the story, hinders the lucidity of the storyline at places. The development of the characters, besides that of Igor and perhaps Hamid Hussein, leaves a lot to be desired. The worst bit for me was the contemplative end of the novel. I like stories which end in light, and even though TWSA does not end in total darkness, it gives me nothing positive to carry in my heart.

What I would keep due credit to Coelho for, though, is his hero- Igor Malev. Yes, he is a character I hated, but that is what this character was intended for- to be unabashedly hated by some and to be justified by others. Both categories of people were not expected to like this character, even if they empathized with him at some points. He was a mirror for all the evil thoughts we allow and justify within ourselves. Igor displays what is known as the Lucifer Effect, a kind of psychological condition, in which an otherwise normal individual develops a mindset where he crosses the dividing line between good and evil, and engages in evil action thoroughly justified in his brain. A good revelation of the psyche of the serial killers can be provided by reading this book; though a tale of love I still refuse to believe this book is. Igor's appentence for Ewa is understandable, but his ways and means and thoughts and actions are capable of powerfully unnerving the young believers in love like me.

Reading 'The Winner Stands Alone' on my way to Jaipur.

I've had long, passionate discussions on this novel with three of my friends; Coelho does stimulate your brain that much for sure. So I might go on presenting my opinion of this book in a tiring, dilatory tone. However, succinctly put, it is not a book for all types of readers. Even for Paulo Coelho admirers, may be this is one book you can skip.Love might not have been the central theme of this book, but it is depicted as the underlying motivation for all things evil. I would give it only about 2 stars on five, and maintain, that for me, macabre and love can never go together.

Anant And Saurabh- A Very Serious Interview

2011-11-23T03:07:00.001+05:30

They are known as "Radio Ke Virus". For me, they were my daily addictions en route to college. I have been listening to them since I don't know when. So, some five years back, when the year 2006 was about to close, I got an opportunity to interview the two of them, for a very special edition of Times Of India-NIE. I could choose anyone- writers, politicians, socialites, artists- but the fifteen year old girl in me preferred to make arrangements for an interview with the masters of mad talk- Anant and Saurabh. While TOI promised to facilitate conversations with the management of Radio Mirchi for this particular interview, what I distinctly remember is the wonderful treatment, and insanely prompt replies I got from both- Anant-Saurabh, and the people I had to go through in order to reach them.

This interview, edited, was published in TOI-NIE edition dated 8th February, 2007. I found it again while rummaging through some old mails, precisely in the hope of re-igniting some lost nostalgia. Now that I read it again, a lot of it does not seem all that hilarious as it did when I was small. My teachers were proud I pulled this through. For me, the achievement was that an interview with these two adorable-crazy-awesome chatterboxes was the closest I have ever gotten to anyone I have ever claimed being a fan of. And till date, they both are the most amazing RJs I miss listening to, given my habit of sleeping late, getting up later. The are the craziest partners on air, but also gave me my daily doze of local updates, along with unconventional, humorous, and sometimes serious opinions. Recently, when they won an award for their programme on Human Trafficking at an international forum, I felt a personal pride, and promised myself to search for this interview again. Forgot. Here it is now! I did this as a fifteen year old, and from the perspective of a school student. Most questions hence are about school life.
(Their full names- Saurabh Bhramar and Anant Jha)

A pic I received from Radio Mirchi 6 years back to be published along with the interview

They are hilarious, they are famous, they are the cool dudes of the city & they come with a statutory warning- “Kuchh bhi karna, par in ko mat sun-na.” No peanuts for guessing, they are ANANT and SAURABH, the RJs whose voice acts as the morning alarm for most of the ardent radio listeners of Delhi. The Dilliwalas are absolutely in love with their antics, which help start their day on a bright note. While the listeners almost guffaw in response to the hilarious conversation between the two of them, Saumya Kulshrestha, a student of LPS, thought of taking a very serious interview of the two of them. The interview follows.....

GENERAL INTERVIEW

Q:1) We as school students would like to know that how important is school life in shaping a person’s future?

A:1)We believe that school life is very important in determining one’s future as you get to know the subjects that you hate and wouldn’t want to work in any of those fields. The things which a student learns between classes and in their interaction with other students is more useful than what they learn from the textbooks.

Q:2) Tell us what aspect of school life charmed you the most?

A:2)Summer and winter vacations. All companies should also follow the same routine.

Q:3) Was RJ-ing always a dream or you stumbled upon it?

A:3)Totally stumbled upon it. If somebody could pay us to talk, it couldn’t be that bad.

Q:4) Radio or rather FM is an important mode of dissemination of substance based information. How far do you agree with the statement?

A:4)We totally agree with the statement although we can’t agree on what it means. Wasn’t “dissemination” a biological term???

Q:5) You usually play new songs on your show. If you were to present a show fully dedicated to old classics, what kind of songs would come out of your song box?

A:5)We would love to play songs by Britney Knowles, Beyonce Spears, Shakira Bano, Materazzi and Mohd. Barfi. We love their songs.

Q:6) We & all your listeners are complete fan of your antics. Tell us are you as hilarious in your real life too? How do your kith and kins react to your funny comments spoken out on a citywide forum?

A:6)We are very serious people and take everything in life very seriously, if people don’t take us seriously then there is something wrong with them. Our kith and kin (body parts???) think that we work in a call centre.

Q:7) Is witty conversation between you premeditated or spontaneous?

A:7)We meditate before we speak so I guess it is premeditated and since we don’t know what we are saying, all of it is spontaneous.

Q:8) If you were given a chance to direct a movie tomorrow, what would be the subject & who would be the leading people of the movie?

A:8)It would be a film based on wildlife in the film industry narrated from the perspective of a couch. According to our cinematic adviser, Guru Rai Bahadur Mahesh Butt sahib it would be Angelina Jolie as the couch, and the man with animal instincts, Shoaib Akhtar as the wildlife.

Q:9) A VJ or a television anchor gets a lot of importance because they are recognized by the general public by their face. Do you feel being an RJ somewhere deprives you of that fame & glamour?

A:9)No. we have the perfect faces for radio. Not doing television has been a conscious choice but eventually when we stop talking we will be doing silent films.

RAPID FIRE- one sentence answers please (as brief as possible)

Q:1) Your take on these technical terms from various subjects, probably taught to you also in school.

a) Catenation (Chemistry): When the entire nation is run over & governed by cats it is known as cat-e-nation.

b) Disaster Management (Geography): People who make disasters happen on a large scale.

c) Polynomial (Maths): A polynomial is an equation that has more than two variables and lots of answers.

d) Capital Punishment (Civics): When a student is given the arduous task of learning the name of every country’s capital in the world it is known as capital punishment.

e) Oxidation (Chemistry): When humans start dating oxen!!!

Q:2) What if not an RJ?

Ladies tailor at Lajpat Nagar.

Q:3) Three words that define an RJ.

Licensed to talk.

Q:4) Indian bolly stars who have the maximum potential to be an RJ(except Preity Zinta & Vidya Balan).

Tusshar Kapoor in Golmaal and Rani Mukherjee in Black.

Q:5) Best thing about each other.

We love dating each other’s girlfriends and spending their money.

Anant and Saurabh- with their award at the New York Festival

PS- Sincere thanks to Kriti Arora and Sonam Sharma for all their help with this.

A Glutton's Journals- Ajmer

2011-11-22T03:20:00.003+05:30

A food aficionado on prowl

I belong to a family of food crazy people. Not only my immediate family, but even near and distant kinfolk- all of us obsess about food with an almost religious fervour. A section of us have a chef residing within them, which tries to churn out mouth-watering delicacies for other people's benefit; and another section of us are the unabashed eaters, the perfect heterotrophs, who live off the cooking of other people. I obviously belong to the latter category, as explained explicitly in Mageirocophobia. I hate cooking, but I can't eat bland food, and so, what ensues each night at my home is a long and tiresome discussion, where I reject half the dishes my mother wants to cook. I give her my list of demands, which, mind you, are not easy to meet.

More than home, we (myself and fellow heterotrophs) love exploring newer places which offer interesting answers to our quest of satiating the glutton inside us. From grand and opulent eateries to nondescript, unnoticeable crevices in dingy streets oozing the aroma of unmistakably delicious food, I have had my experiences everywhere. Few of the food experiments did backfire, leading to a sore stomach or a persistent bad taste on my tongue, but many experiences yielded the kind of food whose very thought makes me salivate.

Two such distinct food experiences I had on my recent trip to Ajmer. The first fanned my appetite, the second one provided the happy climax to a perfect meal.

KARARI RUMALI @ Havmor Restaurant, Vega-The Mall, Soochna Kendra Chauraha, Ajmer.

First look of the Karari Rumali, with mint dip hiding under its shadow

Karari Rumali is the first item listed on the menu of the Starters available at this restaurant. The taste comes later, what this dish immediately scores on is the visual appeal it creates. We eat first from our eyes, then nose, then mouth- that is how the saying goes, isn't it? Enormous in size, bigger than perhaps the conventional size of rumali rotis, its crispness enters your ears as the whole family sitting around it breaks off little chunks, and savours them with an brilliantly prepared mint dip. In a restaurant filled to the brim, you can see many similar preparations being gaily eaten away at other tables. For me, it was a good starter. Crisp and light, with no strong flavors, and the sprinkling of the a yummy concoction of tangy spices on top- it tickles your tummy just enough to make way for the heavy main course soon to come. I could associate its texture and flavors closest to a Rajasthani khakra, though the sophistication of its taste surpasses that of a traditional khakra by miles.

DOODH (milk) @ Bhootiya Halwaai, Alwar Gate, Ajmer

Finding favour with a decent crowd, even post eleven at night- Bhootiya Halwaai

After a sumptuous, filling meal, our car drove down a desolate road, with no trace of life whatsoever. At the far end, I could see some light, some human forms, and then a shop with the eeriest name possible- Bhootiya Halwaai. Weird. And even as I got excited, I learned that there is only an embarrassingly tiny legend behind that marvelously intriguing name of this shop. The shop, it is said, serves such amazing thickly boiled milk, that even spirits (bhoots) can't resist its lull and aroma. In some unearthly incidents, it was discovered that all the left over milk mysteriously disappeared from the shop each night, and this was deemed to be the doing of bhoots, and not some hungry/thirsty thief. I don't know about the spirits, but I loved the milk which was served in mitti-ke-kulhad, little earthen cups, which people smash against the ground after consuming its contents. Sweet, boiled, thick milk is one of the most traditional after-dinner-before-bed preparations finding favour with Indians since ages, and I am glad I preferred it to a boring ice-cream for ending my meal. Bhootiya Halwaai knows perfectly how to please his customers, and the lurking spirits too.

These two are the first entries in my food journal. A lot more might just follow. After all, I live to eat, and proudly so. It kind of shows too.

Mageirocophobia

2011-11-16T02:34:00.001+05:30

Julia Child! I seek your blessings...

"Khaana banana aur bana paana do alag-alag baatein hai"

A micro second after my cousin commented this, with his sharp, gloating, humor filled eyes set firmly on me, about half a dozen people seated in my living room split into laughter bouts loud enough to drown any other sound which competed for attention. Cause was the usual discussion over my non-existent culinary abilities. This discussion invariably starts with me politely offering my aunt a cup of coffee (or tea in some other cases), made by me, with appropriate disclaimers of a potential taste hazard being put promptly in place. My polite offer is always accompanied by a humble, almost begging request, to gulp down my coffee like a medicine just in case the taste is too atrocious, and surpasses even the bitterness of coffee beans at choking one's taste buds. So while my aunt displays her grace at sipping my coffee with a smile, which (deceivingly) conveys that I did a good job with putting milk, sugar and coffee together, some other guests are not always so gracious. If ever I prevaricate over questions of cooking, I am reminded of my 'gender' with an almost irritating promptness, as if I am dumb enough to not have realized my feminine attributes and obligations in the past 21 years of my existence. But 21 years, this is where the problem lies. I am almost marriageable now, though the auspicious nuptials will not knock on my door for at least half a decade more (they better don't!). In this half a decade (audaciously assumed), I have to not just learn cooking for survival, but have to master the culinary art with high grades. What will otherwise be the decisive accessory on my marital resume?

As I ponder over this, I almost get those visions in my head, straight out of loser bollywood movies, where the very first glimpse a hero casts on his would-be is as she heads in his direction, with her eyes demurely lowered, carrying a huge tray of snacks and tea in her hands (Pick up any Rajshri movie for example). Even before their eyes meet, the aroma of delicacies, I am sure, wafts in the air, and a quarter of the decision about accepting or rejecting the girl is taken then and there. (The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, have they not been teaching this to us since time immemorial?) This, given that traditionally, it is a girl who is supposed to have cooked up half a dozen snacks- or is at least boasted to have done so. Even in the not so traditional families, it is the girl who is supposed to serve her would-be/could-be in-laws even if it is admitted that her culinary abilities suck. This is what took place with a close friend of mine, whose nuptials are soon to take place. This, however, is a scarier vision. My clumsiness, especially when it comes to food, is world famous. Ask my cousin why I always get my sub packed, and he will tell you in between loud guffaws that it is because I can create quite a scene while attempting to savour it, even while I am careful at my best.

The worst sufferer of my clumsiness has been my own self. Some three years back, I decided I wanted to dabble in the domain of cooking, beginning my culinary journey with my then-favorite Chinese cuisine. I made Chilly Paneer in gravy, and added that ominous essential ingredient, cornflour in a little excess- I like my gravies thick. However, before I could safely transfer the extremely hot dish onto the dining table, I fumbled, stumbled, and the piping hot gravy splashed right onto my arms and shoulders. The extra cornflour proved to be extra fatal. as it stuck to my skin like burnt, molten plastic, and had to be pulled out along with some skin in a triangular patch which is still discernible on my right arm if carefully checked. My culinary adventure came to a screeching halt. And since then, Chinese has been sacrificed as my favorite in favour of the cheese-rich Italian cuisine.

My bharta did not look as perfect. Sigh.

Why the musings today? That is because today is the second time I attempted to cook the good, old baingan ka bharta , and today is only second time in my existence that I burnt it. I am consistent, amn't I? Just as I was smiling about how simple the recipe seems, I faulted on the technique. If not for my mother, I would have idiotically continued watching Bodyguard, as the bharta simmered away to its eventual demise; as it morphed into black mass of in-edibility. Now that I think of it, Bodyguard is not even a movie worth sacrificing a yummy bharta for. Good news, my mother saved it. Bad news, I had to carry sheepishness in my heart to sleep.

So, while food is what I live for, cooking certainly is dreadful for me. The rebel in me often fought against the imposed learning of this supposed art. I vouched for keeping a servant as I honed my other skills. However, in today's age influenced by the MasterChef India Series, where martial arts instructors, corporate trainers, office errand boys, painters and anchor persons are asserting their skill in cooking professionally competitive delicacies, to claim ignorance in this basic art in nothing short of a crime. For now, I am thinking of becoming my mother's permanent kitchen assistant. The earlier rebel inside my is consumed with envy as I see my 6 year younger sister chop and cook with more expertise than me, and have those culinary discussions with my mother in which I feel like an alien. For now, I think I will take advantage of my short break, and take small steps towards accomplishing what is not short of a herculean task for me. So I will be my mother's unerring kitchen assistant. It would help me more than it helps her.

Sigh. The compulsions. Ugh!

The only silver lining is a vision..I lay down a an exquisite dinner table, with a dozen guests seated, ogling with their eyes at the perfectly garnished dishes I lay down with a smug smile on my face, knowing just by the wafts of the subtle aromas that I what I have cooked will be eulogized by the dinner guests till days later.... Dreams.....!

How about an inspiration to begin my foray into cooking with? Chef Vikas Khanna, the latest talk of the town just seems about perfect! Any bribe which includes his mention will certainly make me the best cook on the planet!

PS- Mageirocophobia translates as the fear of cooking. It ain't all that acute, but it does describe the dread in my heart to some good extent.

Keep The Change- A Review

2011-11-13T03:53:00.000+05:30

So desperate was I for a doze of fiction in the busy exam season of my life, that the first book I lay my hands on, I finished it in less than a day.

I did not read the whole book in one day; part of it had been read earlier by me. Keep The Change, authored by Nirupama Subramanian, is a book I started reading in the breaks during my brief stint as a Derivatives Trader. In its initial pages, it did not arouse enough interest, and so was comfortably abandoned to give way to the more bulky text books I needed to mug up for my CS(M) exams. Once they got over, it was only natural that I returned to this book. And now it seemed more entertaining, for I found myself flowing with the story-line.

Keep The Change is a book I would classify under the mundane chick-lits, with nothing really new or exciting to offer. It tells the tale of a Chennai born, conservative, unmarried and ambitious B.Damayanthi, whom fate leads among the demanding corporate realms of Mumbai from the stagnating accountant's job she held back home in Chennai. Employed now at FirstGlobal, a leading bank, it is quite simple to predict the kind of turns her life would take. Enough of new age literature has been written delineating the insides of the corporate world; and there is nothing novel this book presents. Interspersed into the demanding, hectic, unrewarding and unpredictable office life of Damayanthi is of course, the essential ingredient of love, which she craves for, sorry, lusts after. She stumbles, both in office and her supposed love life, and learns her lessons. And when she does, the story ends. Simple as that.

Damayanthi Balachandran is sent to live her new life in the Mumbai milieu with cautioning parting words of her mother, concerned with her marriage more than anything else in the world- "Be good. Don't do anything silly." To her (supposedly correct) judgement, Damayanthi translates these words as "Stay away from sex and alcohol." The plot then unfolds to show how she deals with a size-zero flatmate, Sonya Sood, who is completely anti-thetical to her her own self; a friend, Jimmy, at work place who looks after her and often imparts arcane words of wisdom; a senior, CG, whom she wishes to impress and attempts to understand and re-understand; a typical, parasitic office senior, Harish, who sucks of her work and leads her to depression; and the hot and immensely desirable Rahul, whom she clearly lusts after, but checks herself in time.

Typical. Predictable. Mix all those characters together, think of a story, and you might as well have created the same one as Nirupama Subramanian does.

The author is herself a South Indian, who had a brief stint at a bank. So the setting of her narrative was quite obvious. The story, as made quite evident by now, was nothing spectacular. So, what kept me hooked onto it till the end? The first reason, is of course, the desperation of wanting to read and the guilt I develop over unfinished books.The second reason was the mode of writing which Ms. Subramanian employed. The whole book is written in the form of the protagonist's journals, which I know is not a strikingly new technique, but it added a layer to the story line. Her, Damayanthi's journals are written in as her letters to an imaginary friend, Victoria, with whom she manages to have a two way conversation. This two way conversation is sustained on the imaginary persona of Victoria, which Damayanthi creates as an image of everything she aspired to be. I know I have attempted such relatable weirdness in life, so it felt kind of good.

The third reason is the language of the book. It is easy, contemporary and witty. Humorous too, and effortlessly at that. At the end of reading, I was left with a many pithy one liners which I would love to employ in appropriate situations. The author is immensely successful in creating Damayanthi's character as any other woman you might see slogging away in the corporate world, with an apposite peek into her psyche as and when necessary. Her inner self is an important character in the story, called the Little Voice. Besides her and her inner self, the development of other characters is just under satisfactory, as it leaves a lot of scope for a reader's own judgements and imagination to aid their picturization. May be that is how the author intended for things to be.

The fourth reason was Damayanthi herself. She came across as a loveable and familiar 26 year old, who is trying to find the stability in her existence, as she juggles between the stereotyped orthodox notions and regulations of her home, and the forward, dynamic, sharply competitive and challenging life of the corporate world. This is a situation which would give a sense of deja vu to many.

I would give it 2.75 stars, as 2.5 seems too less and 3 too much. And this, on a scale of only chick-lit literature, if I can call it literature at all. Read it like you would watch a movie. If at all you do.

What I would preserve from the book are the following lines, along with the context they emerged in

"Regret is a more miserable bedfellow than guilt"

"I am still trying to understand my non standard deviation from the desired behavior and do a variance analysis of the factors that can lead to an above average specimen of the male species to call a girl at the end of the bell curve."

"There is no direct cause and effect relationship between many things that happen in this world. Things just happen and we try to rationalize them afterwards, to make some sense of this random existence."

So, I finally finished the book I was gifted two years ago on my birthday.
Now onto
1. The Winner Stands Alone, by Paolo Coelho
2. Kadambari, by Banabhatta.

A Blind Wish

2011-11-11T03:46:00.006+05:30

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

(- Lord Tennyson,

The Charge of the Light Brigade)

In this blog post, I have nothing original to write, but a personal inspiration to present. The Blind Side, starring Sandra Bullock, is one of the best movies I have ever seen. I caught the first show of this movie with my little sweetheart, Aavika, and I can only thank her for endorsing this movie when I had a dozen others to choose from. The plot runs around the relationship shared by a white mother and an adopted black son, who has not so pleasant a history to cherish as on his memory-scape. A keen essence of the movie is how in the most unlikely of relationships can one locate an identity for oneself. Personally, the valuable lesson I learnt was that when we extend our hand to someone, we when offer help, or support to those in need, it is not them we should expect to feeling grateful. It is us, who should feel grateful, for having been capable and privileged enough to help. In the pragmatic world, often a lot of us forget this thing.

Another very, very dear thing this movie left with me is an essay. Little, but worthy. The protagonist of this movie writes this essay, extremely critical for his grades, the base of which he chooses as the poem an excerpt from which is quoted at the beginning of this post. The Charge Of The Light Brigade is an oft quoted, classic poem written by Lord Tennyson themed on the Battle of Balaclava, which took place during the Crimean War of around the 1850s. The extrapolation of the poem is a thought invoking one, and made me think and think deep. Even those who claim to be genius at pansophy could not have extracted and applied the meaning of a poem on a theme as anachronistic and difficult as a war to the common life of an ordinary youngster who has battles to fight everyday and a world beyond his reach to understand. And yes, an extrapolation glazed in the beauty of simple words of a below average, struggling student. I made use of the pause button to note it whole down; that is how twisted I can be at times. But with due selfishness, I am glad I did. Here it is.

"Courage is a hard thing to figure. You can have courage based on a dumb idea or a mistake, but you are not supposed to question adults or your coach or your teachers, because they make the rules. May be they know best, but may be they don't. It all depends on who you are and where you come from. Didn't at least one of the 600 guys think of giving up and joining with the other side? I mean, Valley of Death, that's pretty salty stuff. Thats why courage is tricky. Should you always do what others tell you to do? Sometimes, you might not even know why you are doing something. I mean, any fool can have courage. But honor, that's the real reason you either do something or you don't. Its who you are and may be who you want to be. If you die trying for something important then you have both honor and courage and that's pretty good. I think that's what the poet was saying, that you should hope for courage and try for honor. And may be even pray that the people telling you what to do have some too. "

In the most basic of ways, this piece elevates my spirits when I am on the verge of giving up on dreams and wishes the realization of which seems to be an arduous uphill task. If the dream seems difficult, its realization will be worth it. It is easy to take the easy path, isn't it? I mean, I did many times settle down on the easy course and allowed the comfort of that route to shape my future. My problem is with uncertainty. It is a condition I can't handle. Often I feel pressured when the conduct I observe and the decision I follow come imposed from above and are not a product of my thoughts and discernment. But my dreams have flowered in that very framework. And now, they are my dreams. They seem difficult, but that just about makes them worth it. I am still not comfortable with uncertainty, (which now for me with last a mammoth 3 months) but then, who is? We just develop strength and faith to deal with it, and diligence to overcome it.

So while the passage above me teaches about courage, an interesting caveat it adds is about honor. Dreams, goals, aims, are a universal phenomenon. But at times they are relentlessly pursued. Foolishly pursued. I mean, any fool can have courage. We can aim for the stars, but may be sometimes its important to bear in mind that humanly, it possible to go only as far as the moon.

I appeared for my last Civil Services (Mains) Exam on Wednesday, and now I have simply no idea what to do with life. About that I will ponder later. For now I could do with thanking a few close ones

1. Dad, for the cups prompt cups of lemon tea served night and day.

2. Ma, for being the best Sanskrit teacher in the world.

3. Maitreyi and RLA college libraries, for supplying books which have vanished from everywhere else.

4. Vijaya Ma'am and Dr. Sales, for showing the first streaks of confidence in me.

5. Twishmay Shankar and Anup Bishnoi- for telling stories that helped me draft perfect essays.

6.Pallak Jagga and Mayank Saroha for staying connected and sending ceaseless confidence boosting wishes.

and,

7. Cheistha Kochhar, for not just answering random, esoteric, perplexing questions all along, but for also being an inspiration for perfection.

I do not know the news I will hear in February, but all you people, are enormously special. Thank you!

Oh Ridiculous Love!

2011-11-08T01:07:00.002+05:30

No. I am not at all attempting to shed my image as a cheesy, hopeless romantic. Nor am I trying to opulently put on display some new found sagacity in matters of the heart, arrived at by some personal bitter experience. I am only amused at something I read. And in the present context of everything happening around me, I find it worth recording on my blog.

What is happening in my life is irrelevant. But largely, suffice to say that love-lorn hearts (including my own) are strewn around me; most with an ache- the others brimming with (transitory) bliss. In this transitional phase in life, transitioning towards maturity, we, inter alia, grow from being a student to a professional, from being carefree to being responsible, from being a dependent to an independent...and alongside, with a presumptuousness we form philosophical perspectives on various aspects of life. One of these perspectives, inevitably, is about love. The grandiloquence of it, or the mere futility of it.

Though my beliefs ascribe to the former category, there was a King in erstwhile times, approximately around the seventh century A.D., who immortalized himself in a single line, perspicuously displaying his disapproval of any heart that ever loved- "Dhik tam cha, taam cha, madanam cha, imaam cha, maam cha." In particular, he displays his disapprobation toward those who are attracted towards others, disregarding and being unfaithful towards their own beloved ones. Story says that Bhartihari, a distinguished scholar and poet, besides being a King, composed a verse after discovering the infidelity of his wife, which approximates in English as-

"She, of whom I think ceaselessly, is indifferent to me,
She yearns after another man, who himself is attached to a third one,
While some other woman pines away for me,
Fie on that woman, on him, on the God of love, on my wife, and myself!"
(यां चिन्तया सततं मयि सा विरक्ता
साप्यनमिच्छति जनं स जनोन्यसक्तः
अस्मत्कृते च परितुष्यन्ति काचिदन्या
धिक् तां च तं च मदनं च इमां च मां च )

What the poet alludes to in the above verse is a time tested consternation; I call it time tested because what the poet experienced in his mature years, a lot of my friends are experiencing in their yet young times. The extrapolation of the above line approximates to the poet's feeling that true love in this world in rare. Man tries to locate his happiness in that of his loved ones, and when he discovers them to be unfaithful, he turns wholly averse to the very concept of love. Sounds familiar? It does to me! When people question me (and sometimes when I question myself) about the idealistic nature which we attribute to a feeling as subjective and formless as love, at times I have no answer but just a smile which seeks to convey an incorrigible belief in the truth of this feeling. Sometimes that smile is to check within myself if the belief/faith is still there. May be according to the poet above, true love can exist only if it satisfies a condition of double coincidence of desires; which are not as rare in the present world as would be in a barter economy. May be I hold consonance with this thought. But may be I don't.

I only seek to shy away questions of how and why which tirelessly attempt to generalize the wonder that love is. Unfortunate is the fact is that that people start generalizing the notions of love only after they think they've been scathed by it. So, a lot of times, they don't generalize, but demonize it- curse whom they once loved, curse the feeling itself. I know things get harsh and hard sometimes, but they are always meant to. This one thought should never be lost sight of. There stands no example of an enduring tale of love which has not been tested amid the worst of circumstances. It stand tall if it survived the test, and it crumbled if it could not. The fact also is that it crumbles only to give way to something more worthy in its place.

This might sound like an overtly optimistic thinking; but I do not know a better way of living. I, from whatever I have learnt in life, will always avoid generalizing love. I usually believe in love stories which propagate the love is forever doctrine, in the most convincing way; but have also caught myself sometimes philosophizing about it having an organic character - something that lives, breathes and has a life span. The eternity is then justified as something sublime, which ends with the people in love, but ends for sure. Love sometimes is a strength, the other times the biggest weakness of a person. A firm believer in love is only once in a lifetime dogma, I have often urged, and encouraged people to move on; and have even witnessed perfectly successful love stories emanate out of the second or even the third tryst of love for some people. Holding on and letting go are both contradicting essentials for knowing and experiencing love. There is a lot which is ideal about love, nothing that can be idealized about it. Our best bet is to live it while it lasts. To hold on till we can. To be happy, and spread the smiles. Thereafter, if ill omens do manifest, faith will lead you on. And if it does not, you should know that you have to let go. Love is a feeling to make your life beautiful and worth living; not to turn it into a grotesque painting with all the wrong colors at all the wrong places. And if the latter is what you feel has happened with you, did you not know that the artist capable of redrawing the painting resides very much within you?

PS- If you read through till here, and you liked even a little of what you read, and you are a person in love, and you are slow-and-not-so-expressive, take this at the perfect opportunity of letting someone know, in may be a little sentence that he/she is special to you. Trust me, it might mean the world to someone. Even if it is just a friend, sometimes you simply need let people know.

A Little Fear Is Okay

2011-10-28T01:22:00.002+05:30

Okay. So after thinking about it a lot, oscillating between a yes and a no for about the millionth time, I have decided to go ahead, and post this. It is a bit of forced experimentation into a language and a mode of writing which I am least comfortable with. But, trust your friends for shaking you out of your comfort zones into the untrodden territories at the attack of one 'Please' which is so confidently sent your way, that you cannot do anything but comply. So it happened with me. I was asked by my friend to draft a motivational piece of writing, for someone who needed some inspiration for a supremely important endeavour, I was more than happy to oblige till I was told that it had to be in Hindi/Urdu, and preferably a poem. I did wail and complain for a while, but this friend of mine, referred to as my Goddess in one of the earlier posts, is one person I cannot even dream of turning down. She never turns me down- answers me even when I want to know the meaning of terms as obscure of 'deficit financing', 'sensitivity training', 'economic terrorism', 'maglev' among others. For those who do not find these terms obscure, shrink your brain to the size of mine.

So, back to the point. I did, finally, write. In Hindi, perhaps using Urdu words, and trying to make the whole thing rhyme. In a little less than fifteen minutes. Well aware of how dangerous this might be for the reputation of my blog, I will risk posting the five verses I composed, here. Cheistha (my Goddess) liked it. Thats one of the reason for posting it here.

The second reason, I am myself a little scared in life, and can do with a little bit of motivation myself. Lets see, if I can motivate myself. Also, for all my fellow IAS aspirants, heart-felt good wishes for the Mains Exams which begin tomorrow. For those of you who are as scared as me, let the fear keep you humble, keep you focussed. Keep a part of it with you, just don't be overwhelmed by it. A combination of a little nervousness and a little more confidence is lethal. Works, always.

Without further ado, here is the poetry. Curse, don't laugh. First time :)

Rehne do dil mein darr,
Paaon zameen pe rakho,
Phir ik nazar uthao,Aur arsh par hi rakho.

Har udne wale ke zehen mein
Girne ka darr lazmi hain
Tum alag ho, ki dar ke saath bhi,
Darr ke upar udte ho.

Hai wahaan ke tareeke aur,
Jahaan vishwaas bas chehre ka naqaab haiBharosa dil ka gehna hai
Tum dil hi mein sajaaye rakho

Yeh dil ka bharosai hai
Jo muskaan-e-bayaan ban jayega
Ek kaamyaabi ka kinara,
Had-e-nigaah mein rakho.

Main aawaaz hoon tumhare dil ki
Mujhe aawaaz do chahe jis waqt
Woh guzra waqt nahi hoon
Ki mujhe se mil bhi liye, aur yaad bhi na rakho

PS- I know the last verse sounds like Ghalib. It is not attempted plagiarism. I guess Its just the inevitability of romancing him for some years now.

Diwali Homecoming

2011-10-26T01:27:00.002+05:30

Shubh Deepavali

So, here. The festive season begins with full gusto from tomorrow. A little prelude to this Great Indian Festive Season is provided by the Dussehra, Diwali sets the pace, and all the brightness, gaiety, and celebratory fervor finally culminates into the arrival of a brand new year, heralding with itself brand new hopes and aspirations. I especially wait for this time of the year- when the weather is perfect, the mood is happy and time is ripe to rekindle old associations. Visiting relatives, calling up friends and exchanging gifts- besides the pooja, these happen to be my favorite aspects of Deepawali. However, since the past few years, as I have been gaining consciousness, I have also witnessed a marked decline in what was supposed to be the very purpose of these festivals- togetherness.

The morning of my Chhoti Diwali began with a text, not from a kith-or-kin, but from my efficient mobile service provider. The information intended for my perusal was that the standard rates of smsing would apply on 25th and 26th October, and it being the auspicious festival of lights, the upper ceiling on number or sms per day would not apply. Wonderful. This meant that more messages than I expected would be coming my way. And this, is not a very welcome thought for me.

I am not much of a texting person. True, I send out a lot of texts, but they are the last ditch attempts at keeping in touch with people who are too busy to make/receive calls, and way to busy to find time for more personal interactions. We are so preoccupied in life with I don't know what that even festivals are not spared the brunt of our busy schedules and our new age techniques of keeping up. Diwali, Holi or Christmas- the way we share wishes and happiness is by sending texts. Corrections- not sending, but 'forwarding' texts, in bulk. This serves as the perfect death of any personal touch, any warmth which is intended to be conveyed. I on my part (and a few other people like me, who I hope do exist) only cursorily glance at these texts. What I do read with a smile are the names of people forwarding me those texts. Rudely enough, I do not always reply back. Cutely enough, I call as many of them as I can. Not everyone picks up- the poojas, the socializing, cracker bursting keeps them busy. Everyone I have not been able to reach out are finally texted- and I type and send texts, not forward them. Somehow, I can't bring myself to.

There was a time when cards labelled 'Season's Greetings' would be delivered by the postman on our door, and a corner in the house was reserved for displaying these greetings. They were tangible, not like the e-cards which have an expiry of 15 days from the date of sending. Each person was wished personally, either through a warm hug, or a chirpy greeting over the phone. Diwali wishes were not posted perfunctorily on one's status for the world to itself take notice of. It is all very sad, especially for people like me, for whom keeping up with the pace of the progressive deterioration in relationships is a daunting task. Our families mandatorily command our presence; and what is not mandatory is easily ignored.

When in tenth standard, there was this particular question in English literature which used to be important from the board exam point of view. "Festivals keep humanity afloat. Justify." This was supposed to be answered with reference to A Christmas Carol, the last chapter in our English text book. It might appear naive, me ruminating upon what I did write as a high scoring answer in an internal exam, but all the points I argued are seeming more valid today than ever. Festivals are really about coming together, taking out time to do those things which the usual drill of life forbids us from doing. And I do not allude towards mindless partying in the least. Deepawali, in particular, is a festival which celebrates the homecoming, the re-union of our greatest mythological hero, Rama with his kingdom- akin to his extended family. We would be blessed if we could preserve the original spirit of this festival; that of sharing; that of dispelling darkness, that of making special people know that they are remembered and cared for.

If not for my exams four days hence, I would've had a really busy day ahead. Beginning from my Nanaji, to my school and college friends, each one would have been called up, and inquired after. I will make a few special calls though. And wait for a few special people to call me up before I call them.

For all my blog readers, warmest Diwali greetings. Try and abstain from formal forwarding this season. Visit people, call up friends, get updates on their life. What better time than now to share those genuinely missed smiles. Be not crippled by the all-pervasive facebook. Nothing matches the happiness on the face of relatives you meet, nothing matches the ring of laughter you share with your friends over the phone. Take out time, light Diya's with your family, and this darkest night of Shravan, make sure you dispel all the darkness from you heart. Have a happy and prosperous Deepawali.

May they shower their choicest blessings on you

Hazaaron Khwahishein Aesi

2011-10-10T13:33:00.001+05:30

Almost like a personal loss...
Ghalib-e-khasta ke bagair, kaunse kaam band hain
Roiye zaar zaar kya, kijiye haaye haaye kyun.....

I did resolve to positively control my urge of wanting to record my responses on things which affect me on a day to day basis till my UPSC Mains exams concluded. For this, I had nearly cut myself off from the world, categorically from the things which I knew would affect me. All it took was a phone conversation with one of my friends informing me of the demise of Jagjit Singh to have this resolve momentarily forgotten. While I did stay aloof from the world, Jagjit Ji's voice kept reverberating in my room, and within the walls of my head, to help create the calmness which I desire to continuously remain committed towards my dream. That voice resonates still, but it sounds a tad hollow.

They say, melodies closest to us are the saddest in nature. It is something I firmly believe to be true. The saddest of my thoughts have found expression in verses of Ghalib, Zafar, Firaaq Gorakhpuri, Faakir, and Nida Fazli whose poetry had been conveyed to me via the enchanting voice of Jagjit Ji. This habit of addressing him as 'Jagjit Ji' I acquired in school, where, for me and my friend, Pari, Jagjit Ji had a hallowed status. I've spend many a music lessons in school humming away numerous ghazals and nazms of his'. In fact, this difference between a ghazal and a nazm was communicated to me by the maestro, Jagjit Ji himself in a TV programme. Most of the times, I felt intimately attached to the melodies rendered immortal in his voice for I found an inner feeling or a personal experience being whispered again in my ears in Jagjit Ji's magical voice. That is what his ghazals can do to you. They can lend an aura of romance, or be your confidante in mourning, in loss, in sadness.

I owe many memories to him.

"Us mod se shuru karein, phir yeh zindagi,

Har sheh jahaan haseen thi, hum tum the ajnabee"

This was my first solo stage performance. I was about fourteen years old, attired in a pink suit, standing on stage and singing away this ghazal to glory. It fetched me the first ever "Best Singer Award", which I went on to win for the remaining four years of my cultural life in school.

"Tu apne dil ki jawaan dhadkano ko, gin ke bata,

Meri tarah tera dil, beqarar hai ki nahi,

Daba daba sa sahi, dil mein pyaar hai ki nahi"

Whenever asked instantly to sing, I can think of nothing but this composition. It is a song I would sing for my beloved sometime.. It is a song I call my own.

"Teri khushbu mein base khat main jalata kaise..."

Each time I heard this song, I knew my heart sank. Jagjit Ji's voice carries an unmistakable tone of pain, which is effortlessly contagious for all the listeners, me being no exception.

"Dil hi toh hai, na sang-o-khisht, dard se bhar na aaye kyun,

Royenge hum hazaar baar, koi humein sataaye kyun"

I knew I had grown up when I understood the meaning of these lines enough to draft a blog on them. An iconic composition- it is perhaps the only thing we as audience remember of Mirza Ghalib, a show that once aired on Doordarshan.

"Duniya jise kehte hain, jaadoo ka khilauna hai,

Mil jaaye toh mitti hai, kho jaaye toh sona hai"

The meaning of equanimity I could never comprehend. But a lesson or two in life I definitely learnt the first time I heard this ghazal some 7 years back. It has since not been off my play list.

"Baat niklegi toh phir, door talak jaayegi..."

The surge or emotions I felt whenever I heard this one I can not even attempt to describe. This is one of those compositions I have always wanted to sing, but have refrained from doing so for not wanting to spoil its sacred perfection. Even now, I can cry with comfort while listening to this. Is it not bits of my own life this nazm describes?

And lastly

"Yeh daulat bhi lelo, yeh shauhrat bhi lelo,

Bhale chheen lo, mujhse meri jawaani,

Magar mujhko lauta do bachpan ka saawan,

Woh kaagaz ki kashti, toh baarish ka paani"

A duet with his humsafar, Chitra Singh, this song is the most intrinsic and irreplaceable part of all farewells conducted at my school. While singing this one, I could see very clearly the teary beads, hitherto controlled, trickling down the cheeks of each batch as it prepared to crossover from school into the next stage of life. When it came to my turn of sitting back and soaking in the memories while listening to this song, I acted the perfect coward and left the gathering as this song was being performed. I did not just want to listen to it. Like every other year, I wanted to sing it. Away from the gathering, that is exactly what I did.

This is list expectedly endless. And it should be. Ghazals would not have been an ordinary music lover's delight had Jagjit Ji not played the catalytic role in popularizing it. For me, he even helped being a source of faith. Fancily terming myself an agnostic, I could never keep away from the spell of "Jai madhav madam murari" or "Sabse oonchi prem sagai" when Jagjit Ji's voice accessorized them. Today, I think of I know by heart most of the songs he lent his voice to. However, I hope to death I have not discovered his entire treasure trove of music. The elation I felt whenever I heard any of his classics for the first time, and played it over and over again to know each and every harkat with which he made the song beautiful, I want to experience again.

No new ghazals are will lend me that coveted elation. No new ghazals are going to come our way.

"Hazaaron khwaahishein aesi, ki har khwahish pe dum nikle,

Bahut nikle mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle."

The melody resonates. I wonder why it feels hollow.

Jagjit Singh, Chitra Singh and Vivek Singh- Their son who died in a car accident at a a tender age.

I Miss You, Uncle Pai

2011-09-17T01:27:00.006+05:30

We do miss you.

The Google doodle today, i.e. 17th September, bears an imprint of perhaps the most intrinsic part of my childhood. I have no memory when I got introduced to Tinkle comics, I just know I used to have a huge collection of them; every single comic prized. Like many other children who grew up with me, I too was into the habit of calling the remarkable creator of these comics as "Uncle Pai", and had a secret resolve that some day, when I am worthy enough, I will have Uncle Pai pat my back. Unfortunately, earlier this year, this enterprising and affable educationist, formally recognized as Anant Pai, passed away. My secret, innocent childhood resolve, struck my mind again, as did the thought that the resolve was best forgotten. Uncle Pai, who had guided me through numerous science projects, given me witty stories to reproduce in class and connected me to many more readers my age via their personal stories, is gone. I always wanted to, but never wrote to him. May be today I should, however silly it seems.

Dear Uncle Pai,

A very happy birthday to you.

I have been one of your greatest admirers. When I was little, I never understood the manner in which you were enriching my life. Today, I do. In February, when I heard of your demise, I opened the neglected and dust ridden trove of my childhood books, only to glance back at the wonderful comics you made. Those comics did not even adhere to the definition of comics. They were educative, and yet, very interesting. For the most precious years of my young life, I have remained hooked to them.

Wasn't he the cutest?

I had a December ritual of rereading all the issues published during the year in just about a week. It was as if, I did not want any single story to be erased from my mind, so I kept on revising them. This much of dedication I never showed to my class texts- this loyalty was reserved for Shikari Shambhi, Kalia the Crow, Suppandi and Tantri the Mantri exclusively.

In my early days, I never enjoyed Anu Club. I needed to grow up to appreciate the effortless knowledge which came my way even through a very cursory reading of his experiments. My Science Projects, one I definitely remember on Sea Creatures, has been simply copy pasted from the informative features which were sine qua non of these path-breaking and endearing comics.

There was this feature, "It Happened To Me", which regularly appeared in Tinkle. Every interesting incident that took place in my life is carefully recorded in my journal, with me each time imagining as if I am writing it to Tinkle and young readers are gasping and laughing at my stories. You, Uncle Pai, made me pursue my diary writing habit with fondness, something of which, I am very proud. However, if today, I were to tell you a story for you to publish in the same column, then I would perhaps tell you of my very old friend, whose name is hazy on the pages of my memory, but whose face I distinctly remember. Some ten years back, he had come to Delhi from Nagaland to pursue the better quality of studies on offer in Delhi. My class teacher made his sit with me, but he never would talk to me. In a week I realized that he was very sad, and lonely; for he acutely missed his family, his friends, his toys. I was sad, and tried to be really good friends with him, but after school, he had nothing to do. No one to talk to, given that he was an introvert. So, I decided that every weekend, I would him give some copies of Tinkle to read- what better friends could there be for a lonely introvert. And this trend became the happiest memory of my bond with him. When he left school, he thanked me profusely, not for my friendship- but for sharing those comics. The excitement in those pre-teen eyes for getting some new copies of Tinkle to read still warms my heart.

The letter is long, but it won't end without me expressing remorse, and giving you a promise. The famous Amar Chitra Katha series you published- I could never lay my hands on it. I did, however, hear about the uniqueness of those books at introducing nascent minds to the royal mythology of our country which spreads much beyond just the staple epics- Ramayana and Mahabharata. I feel sorry for myself, as I had to take more circuitous routes, read more arduous texts to understand the same mythical stories which you told so simply through your inimitable story telling skills. I do, however, promise, that when I have children, the first books I would introduce to them would be your books.I hope my copies of Tinkle survive by then. And I earnestly hope that Amar Chitra Katha is still sold then by benevolent bookseller who are already facing competition from the electronic world.

Uncle Pai, I hope your legend lives on.
I sign off as a little member of this huge extended family you created.

Saumya.

Vasavadattas story- in Uncle Pai's peerless style