tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997578135195244352024-03-14T03:25:00.350+05:30somewhere in the crowd...We live in a Big, Social Jungle.
There are people running about, some preoccupied, some happy and some frowning.
And then there are some who stop,look around, think about and see what is not. Then they talk. And more often than not, people listen.
I'm just another one of those.
I'm a storyteller. And these are a few of my thoughts...AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-68384290025378993922011-08-09T17:24:00.001+05:302011-08-09T17:25:21.199+05:30Your Children are not Your Children<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">Followers of the Buddhism philosophy believe in the concept of reincarnation. When a Master passes away, he is believed to be reborn. The Master’s devoted disciples set out on quests to find this ‘special’ child and after a number of spiritual tests by enlightened masters, the reincarnation is confirmed. Then comes the painful part- the parents give up the child to the monastery so that all of humanity can benefit from his teachings. It is their way of life.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://theboldcorsicanflame.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/monks-at-sera-jey-temple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="http://theboldcorsicanflame.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/monks-at-sera-jey-temple.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Every child is born with a mission, to fulfill a destiny. <br />
Think about it. First as a child, then a parent. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Do you remember the good old days when you used to climb the compound wall or neem tree in your school? It was a moment of exhilaration, when you were free to be anything you dream of- a sailor, a pilot, an astronaut or an actor. But as we grew up, we learned to look at those role-playing games as frivolous childhood acts. And when it’s time to choose higher studies or a career, it’s not even a considerable option. The pilot, sailor, astronaut and actor are dead long before they are allowed to fully take birth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.composedvolcano.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/children.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="http://www.composedvolcano.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/children.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">With time, the child becomes a parent, weighed down by a hundred thousand worldly responsibilities. Perhaps the only fleeting moment of bliss is when you look down upon your baby sleeping peacefully in the cot- its large eyes closed and its little fingers twiddling in sleep, trying to touch the edges of some unfathomable, breathtakingly beautiful dream. And just then, you wake them up. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Concentrate! Finish your homework first!”<br />
“You want to go for a movie? Did you forget the marks you got in your Math test?”<br />
“You want to be a painter? Have you lost it? Do you know how much you will have to struggle? And what if you don’t make it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s a vicious circle. You were asked these questions once upon a time, many a long year ago. And now you do the same. Perhaps that is where the problem lies. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t get me wrong. As a parent, you always have your child’s best interests at heart. But sometimes, it is that speck of possessiveness that cataracts your vision. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As children and as growing adults, it is very necessary for us to fail, make mistakes, even fall down and bruise ourselves. Because that is how we grow stronger and learn better. It’s human nature. It’s a basic animal instinct for survival. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bUM9vyCSPTM/TJpMk_y7JDI/AAAAAAAAAKM/8r25C-RmjlE/s1600/last.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bUM9vyCSPTM/TJpMk_y7JDI/AAAAAAAAAKM/8r25C-RmjlE/s320/last.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">If you tell that stubborn child not to touch a hot stove, he will touch it once and see for himself. And then he will learn. Ditto in life.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Every child has a dream. Every child is an individual, a fully empowered spiritual being who will blossom into an adult, just like you did. And every parent must learn to appreciate that. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yes, every child has a dream. Some may be achievable, some overly ambitious. Some may come true, some may not. But no one, not even the life-giving parent has the right to snatch it away from them. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It is but natural that parents wouldn’t want their children to walk down a path that they have already trodden, and failed. Or maybe not even tried it. But I say, let them see for themselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Maybe the child has discovered a newer route, a fresher perspective or a creative solution. Ask yourself- is it right for you to cast your shadow upon every little spark of a flame that your child conjures? Because, if you continue doing that, there will be a point in his/her life when the spark dies away forever- and the child (adult) is condemned to live in a shadow forever. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My father is a businessman- every day, his network of transport vehicles make their way across India’s highways. My mother is a doctor, teacher, social activist and homemaker. But that notwithstanding- they gave me the freedom to move out of home 5 years ago, when I was not yet 18. They let me walk on the road of my choice, sometimes even make a few mistakes to learn from. All the while, they trusted me to make the right choice. With their blessing, I did.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Today, I work as a Writer in Mumbai. I’m independent. And I’ve never been happier. But what makes me really proud is that my younger brother is following his dream today- he is well on his way to become the world’s next Master Chef. This was possible only because of our parents. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Maybe the only way I can thank them today is by spreading this message I’ve learnt from them. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In the words of the poet Khalil Gibran,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Your children are not your children. <br />
They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself. <br />
<br />
They come through you but not from you<br />
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You are the bows from which your children<br />
As living arrows are sent forth…”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.thegraceplace.com/files/Images/Youth/High%20School/Parents%20Page/Family%20Picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://www.thegraceplace.com/files/Images/Youth/High%20School/Parents%20Page/Family%20Picture.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><i>-Avinash Agarwal</i></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span></div></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-73990670374874529722011-08-08T13:41:00.002+05:302011-08-08T17:17:30.865+05:30I was asked to write about the 'Benefits of Writing'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Some write to make money. <br />
Some write to fill papers to submit. <br />
Some write to move other people. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Writers write because they have to. Period. It’s who they are, it’s what they do. For them writers, writing is not merely an art of a meager form of expression. It’s a gulp of fresh air, a breath of life. It’s the opening of the windows to their soul, letting caged birds fly out as full-fledged ideas. And letting whiffs of wind come in, bringing with it hatchlings of unnamed, unfulfilled emotions like specks of dust. It is these that grow, evolve and blossom in the lonely nest of a writer’s mind- to take flight as birds of tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.keralavillagehomestay.com/uploadimages/Writing.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.keralavillagehomestay.com/uploadimages/Writing.gif" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There are no benefits of writing. Nobody writes to benefit from it. And if they do, they kid themselves. Writers write to write. Writing is its own reward-and its own punishment. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Some write to make money. <br />
Some write to fill papers to submit. <br />
Some write to move other people. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then there are those who write because they have been sentenced to a lifetime of it- for it is in this impenetrable jungle of an unmovable silence that it all begins to come together as one sound- the rustling of a pen scribbling on paper. And the words etched across the page. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You could call that a benefit of writing, yes. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>- Avinash Agarwal</i></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br />
</i></span></div></div></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-5005972404012026982011-05-23T12:31:00.001+05:302011-05-23T12:33:35.691+05:30I can't. I can't<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
“I can’t. I can’t.” Her voice rang out in the deafening silence that followed. The two words were no more than a gasp of pain, a desperate plea for help. But they ricocheted off the walls of her heavy heart and resounded hauntingly in the auditorium. Not a whisper, not a murmur was heard. It seemed like not one of the 500 plus audience was present. But we were there, of course. I was seated in the front row, my breath caught unawares, like many others.<br />
<br />
Arpita is an exceptionally pretty, charming young woman in her early 30’s. She has short, jet-black, shoulder-length hair. She wears gold-rimmed spectacles which try but cannot conceal the enthused spark of life in her eyes. She dresses extremely tastefully- bright, pastel shades complemented with vibrant accessories. But I haven’t mentioned one important detail here. And that could change your entire perspective of her.<br />
<br />
Arpita suffers from Multiple Sclerosis. She is sentenced to a wheelchair. Maybe, for life.<br />
<br />
Changes everything, doesn’t it? Maybe. Maybe not.<br />
<br />
Arpita stood on stage that day, speaking to a 500-strong congregation in Mysore. “I can’t. I can’t.” were the two (four) words she started with. But in a way, they echoed the whole story of her life.<br />
<br />
Multiple Sclerosis (MS) is an inflammatory disease of the central nervous system. Researchers are not sure what triggers the inflammation. Symptoms vary from muscular spasms to bowel-bladder, eye, brain, nervous, reproductive and speech symptoms. Despite our 4G and mind-engineering-space-nano-nuclear technologies, there is no known cure for Multiple Sclerosis. Arpita is one of the 2 million people worldwide who are affected by MS.<br />
<br />
The difference in the before and after of Arpita’s story is shocking. Nightmarish, even. She was living a life that was as fulfilling as could be. At least, it appeared so. That was when MS struck. She was left without a job. She had to abort her unborn child. Her husband abandoned her.<br />
<br />
BUT.<br />
<br />
That day, Arpita had come walking onto the 4 feet high stage with the help of 2 volunteers, leaving her wheelchair far behind. She was welcomed onstage with a thunderous applause and a standing ovation before she had begun. Then she stood up straight- without any volunteer or stick. And she started speaking. “I can’t. I can’t”<br />
<br />
For the next 8 minutes, I saw not what my eyes were seeing. I saw only what Arpita showed me. Her words painted a picture of the millions of MS patients and even larger number of ‘differentially-abled’ men and omen around this world. Ripping apart the rose-tinted, song-n-dance, happily-ever-after sequences of movies on the subject, she scripted a film reel from her own life, shot on the sets of stark reality.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j0kbURRgUK4/TVuravnNfVI/AAAAAAAAAyM/I4bqDTybv6U/s1600/point_spotlight_dynamic22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j0kbURRgUK4/TVuravnNfVI/AAAAAAAAAyM/I4bqDTybv6U/s320/point_spotlight_dynamic22.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
A story like this would logically progress into a moralistic monologue, where I tell you to be nice to them, look out for them and help them stand up, in every way possible. But that is precisely what you and I must stop doing.<br />
<br />
Arpita had contested in the International Speech Competition at the India-Sri Lanka level and made a place for herself in the top 6 Finalists from among 8500 contestants. She did this without any reservation quotas or special privileges. And so can every one of the ‘disabled’ citizens of the world, in the field of their choosing. Maybe even better the others.<br />
<br />
Yes, they might need a walking stick, a wheel chair, hearing aids or another form of physical support. But please, that is all.<br />
<br />
They do not need constant reminders of their differential ability. <br />
They do not need our sympathy or pity.<br />
<br />
They want acceptance, just like anybody else.<br />
They want love, just like anybody else.<br />
They want equality, just like everybody else.<br />
<br />
The shining story of Arpita is testimony enough to this. I can vouch for that.<br />
<br />
Maybe that was why, after the ordeal of standing on stage for 8 whole minutes, Arpita concluded her fiery speech with the spotlight shining on her being like a mystic halo, both her arms raised shoulder-high, and the closing words, “I can. I can.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">-<i>Avinash Agarwal</i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><br />
</i></div></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-65858984914726735752011-05-06T18:23:00.000+05:302011-05-06T18:23:32.797+05:30Revenge is sweet. But STOP tasting it<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<br />
<br />
“OSAMA GONE, BUT WHEN WILL MUMBAI GET JUSTICE?” screamed every newspaper and tabloid on the morning of May 3rd, 2011. At the end of a decade-long search and the world’s largest man-hunt, Osama bin Laden had been terminated. Shot in the head, some reports claimed. Well done, indeed.<br />
<br />
India stood up along with the rest of the world in applause and then turned around to question herself, as if on cue. ‘When will I get justice?’ every voice seemed to shout out loud. The frustration pulsating through the nation was visible- 18 months after 26/11 and no ‘good’ news. Justice delayed is justice denied, as they rightly say. But that brings us to one valid question- What is justice?<br />
<br />
Google gives me 397,000,000 results in 0.07 seconds for the word ‘justice’. Not a single one of them makes any sense to me. Oh, the words are all right. But what does it really mean?<br />
<br />
Those who are guilty must be punished. Agreed. But to what end? Are we killing the disease or the patient? Do the complicated, often-misinterpreted-misquoted principles of ‘morality’and ‘righteousness’ give us the right to kill people who kill other people? We now want all the Ajmal Kasabs to share the same fate as bin Laden. And rightly so. They are guilty as the devil.<br />
<br />
But I fail to see why we have turned a ‘March for Peace’ into a ‘War against Terrorism’- because there’s a world of difference between the two.<br />
<br />
If I was given a choice between a tomorrow where a ‘War against Terrorism’ was being waged as opposed to a ‘March for Peace’, I would choose the latter. Without a second thought.<br />
<br />
I believe there is more to a ‘March for Peace’ than holding hands and walking the length of Rajpath Marg or chanting slogans at the Gateway of India. There is more to it than just a brightly burning candle reflected in a pair of misty eyes.<br />
<br />
No, I’m not trying to undermine the sentiments of those who have loved and lost in these despicable acts of ‘terror’. Never. What happened was cowardly, disgusting and downright evil. There is nothing more painful than the unexpected loss of a loved one-for someone else’s ‘cause’. It’s a wound that the balm of time may never be able to doctor. The culprits must be brought to order- in this life or the next.<br />
<br />
But the real question here is- What do I do? How can I make a difference?<br />
<br />
Well, you can’t. You can never make a difference.<br />
Not until you become we.<br />
<br />
It’s amusing to observe that, despite the million years of evolution, techno-lution and a whole lot of other so-lutions, there’s this habit that is still embedded deeply in our physiology. It’s our habit of developing a habit.<br />
<br />
No longer can we walk past a nasty incident with a shrug and say ‘Thank God it’s not happening to me.’ Well, it very well could- tomorrow or the day after. And you wouldn’t want the next not-so-good Samaritan saying the same thing, would you?<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Let’s not get used to a bunch of brainwashed midgets deciding when or how we die. Let’s not switch our mental channels every time the same old topic comes up. Let’s not wait for them to strike again, harder and closer.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Let a name, a turban, a beard, a cloth or a holy building not be a reason to fight any more. Let’s kill the devil that lurks in the hearts and minds of men and controls their bodies. Let’s cure the madness that is slowly taking over the soul of humanity. Let’s not forget that a better universe starts with a better U n I</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Let peace, love and respect not be hollow words any more. Let’s have a vision, not just plain sight.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Let’s fight. For what is right.</div><div><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.johnworldpeace.com/WorldPeace/world-peace-090420w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.johnworldpeace.com/WorldPeace/world-peace-090420w.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">-<i>Avinash Agarwal</i></div></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-38913365292190312952011-03-16T17:19:00.000+05:302011-03-16T17:19:07.223+05:30The Housewife, a Homemaker<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When Ma’am asks Chotu in school, he says, “My father is a doctor. My mother is a housewife.” House wife?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Chotu doesn’t really know what the word means. Nor do most of his classmates. Yet, that is what their answer always is. It’s not wrong, though. She is a housewife, Chotu’s mother. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Her day begins well before sunrise, when Dadaji goes out for his morning stroll. He likes a hot cup of tea with an extra spoon of milk before he leaves. Then, she has just about enough time for a quick shower before Dadiji begins her morning puja. She has to make sure that the d<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">iyas </i>are washed and fresh flowers are ready in front of the deity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">By the time the clock in the drawing room strikes 6, Chotu and Pinky have to be woken up. Juggling two pieces of semi-burnt toast, pacifying the froth on the sweetened boiling milk and the groaning-moaning kids in their blankets, the Housewife forgets she can indulge in two odd minutes of sitting and breathing deeply on the sofa. It’s a luxury she could well afford, but only accompanied with a pang of guilt. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">9 am on the clock says that its time for a leisurely breakfast with the Husband before he packs his suitcase. A non-committal grunt is his ‘Thank you’ and ‘Bye-bye’ and ‘see you in the evening’, all packed into one. He doesn’t remember to meet her smiling eyes before slamming the main door shut behind him. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The two hours before and after lunch are her loneliest hours of the day. The maid, if she has come, is busy with the washing and cleaning. Lunch is ready. Dadaji and Dadiji are relaxing with their mid-morning or afternoon siesta in their room. And that is when it all comes flooding back to her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Housewife was once a school-going girl, not unlike Pinky, who used to announce her ambition proudly during Essay writing in Language class. One day an astronaut, another day an architect, the third day a lawyer and a painter the next; she felt no shame in dreaming new dreams and no fear of them possibly never turning real. It was only a dream, right? Fair enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Housewife was also a college-going woman once, not unlike the one Pinky shall soon be. Laughing a little too loudly in the canteen, smiling shyly at that boy from the corner of her eye and still carrying in her bag a little diary where she writes down her silly dreams. Somehow, against all odds, they had found the light to blossom from seeds into saplings. The road to her future was still an empty highway with endless crossroads. The world was her oyster. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> is a developing country, they all said. You will be free to do whatever you want, they said. Fair enough. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And then it happened. One ‘meeting’, four functions and seven <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pheras </i>later, she became that what she is now- a housewife. The little private world in her head came crashing down on top of its head, but so stealthily, so quietly that she didn’t even realize it. She still doesn’t. Twelve years have gone by, with no promotion, no incentives, no leaves and no appraisals. But she still gives this job her best. Every day. Fair enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She has to ask for permission first, to step out of the door for anything other than fetching vegetables or to have a little chat with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bhabhiji</i> next door. So she doesn’t ask anyone. And she doesn’t go anywhere. Who will take care of the house? Will it look decent if I step out too often? Why all the trouble just for some freedom? Fair enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She commits the sin of losing herself just a little bit everyday, sometimes watching that interesting little episode on TV and sometimes while talking to her friend from college over the cordless phone. The TV is full of strong-headed women who make the world dance on their fingertips and telecast the blasphemous message that women are the embodiment of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maa Shakti</i>. They can achieve what they want. Nothing is impossible. Fair enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Her friend Anita is now in the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>, freelancing as a designer. Anita gives her updates about their other classmates. Two of them are in the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>, having recently started their own little firm together. Another friend of hers is now a big shot lawyer, driving her own Honda Accord through the rowdy streets of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Delhi</st1:place></st1:city>. The others are in her city, but not really the ‘career type’, so they make up for it with their monthly kitty and bi-monthly outings. She doesn’t go there, though. Her husband doesn’t like her mixing with ‘those types’. Fair enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Housewife has but a few minutes to reminisce and maybe smile a broken smile until there is a faint call from the other room, beckoning her for a glass of water or some <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kadak elaichi chai. </i>The lazy afternoon gently slips away into evening and the children are back home. Fantastic, exaggerated tales of school woven over hot Maggi and Bournvita milk, notes in the diary about homework not being done and Chotu and Pinky’s upcoming class tests keep her occupied all the way till dinner time. After dinner, an hour of TV is the ultimate reward (the kids watch their cartoons, the Husband watches his movie, Dadiji’s soaps or Dadaji’s news) and maybe an ice cream if it is Saturday. Then goodnight it is. Tomorrow is a busy day. Fair enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The next morning dawns as if new, and the schedule is lived through all over again as if new. There are no complaints registered, no protests voiced, no regrets felt, no love lost. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Wait. Does this sound familiar? I can promise you I haven’t plagiarized! Yet, the funny thing is, she is not a figment of my imagination. You will not hear this story over adventurous jungle bonfires or read it in romantic novels. In fact, you will probably not even catch more than a glimpse of the main protagonist of this story, the Housewife. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But maybe, just maybe, on a rainy evening when terraces and verandahs are filled with men sitting on armchairs and smiling contentedly, while children stick their tongues out with the efforts of balancing flimsy paper boats on the dancing puddles of water, you will catch a glimpse of her. There she is, the Housewife, wiping the sweat off her brow while frying hot <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pakoras </i>and stirring sweet tea for the Husband and kids. You can see her through the grilled window of the kitchen, absorbed in the activity of her activity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Oh yes, she’s a very happy woman. She smiles all right. But don’t be misled, because somewhere in between those 100-watt smiles and good-natured, open mouthed laughter through the day, there is a brief moment of darkness. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The darkness is not black or evil or permanent, but just like a fleeting moment when a matchstick flame goes out and another is lit. It’s like one person’s dream has gone away into nothingness, replaced by another dream. Only, it’s not her own. Fair enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">They call her the Housewife. Some call her the Homemaker. The latter, though closer to the truth, still doesn’t capture it in its entirety. This is a story from somewhere in a quiet house on the corner of a bustling street in the very heart of our ‘Shining India’. It may feel like a tale of yore or urban legend, but take a closer look. She is a real, living person. And this is a real, life story.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So the next time someone asks Chotu, “What does your mother do?” and he says his mother is a ‘Housewife’ or a ‘Homemaker’, I don’t really know if little Chotu is right or wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Do you? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">- Avinash Agarwal<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-91510635843714733182011-02-18T15:16:00.003+05:302011-02-19T11:12:16.682+05:30One Quack, Two Hoots and a Bucketful of Tears- The 'Lame Duck' Speech<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><t>T</t>his Wednesday’s press conference <i>(<a href="http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150094905440636&comments" target="_blank">speech</a>)</i> in New Delhi was one that touched the hearts of every living, sick and (especially) demented Indian. Addressing the editors of electronic media was Mr. Manmohan Singh, the currently <s>powerless</s> in-power Scam Minister of India.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://en.keralabhooshanam.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/ManmohanSingh2_0.jpg"><img src="http://en.keralabhooshanam.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/ManmohanSingh2_0.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>PM (Poor Manmohan),<br />
who quacked on16th February</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“It’s a real pleasure meeting you on this auspicious occasion of Eid. May this day bring you added peace and prosperity,” he started. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">On hearing this- Hassan Ali Khan, Vilasrao Deshmukh, Lalit Modi and A Raja burst into spontaneous applause, moving the gathering into giving him a 3 minute long standing ovation.</span>Ajmal Kasab, India’s peace messenger and new face of the <i>Atithi Devo Bhavah</i> Tourism campaign, reportedly, was moved to tears when he saw the broadcast on Loo-Tube whil</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">e on his <s>prison</s> guesthouse pot.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The visibly nervous Singh cleared his throat and continued with a little more confidence. “First of all, I’d like to thank the media and press of this free country for bringing these issues to attention.” An immediate SMS was beeped to every media editor present in the hall- ‘You’re going to pay for it, you filthy-nosy-yellow-journal-b*stards. Love and (t)hugs, The UPA.’ The CBI has started investigations on who could possibly have sent this threatening message. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ignoring the worried murmurs reverberating through the hall, Singh continued. “Whatever some people may say about us being a lame duck government and me being a lame duck PM, we take our job very seriously,” he quacked. The hall went quiet in anticipation of the next few words.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I am not as big a culprit as made out to be. I am not afraid to appear in front of the Joint Parliamentary Commission (JPC). In fact, we met up for a drink just this 26th January. I was so sloshed that Soniaji had to…” and hurriedly covered up the rest of the words under a severe coughing fit. “Sorry, I got someone else’s speech. These damned Portuguese… leaving their speeches lying around everywhere,” he muttered, wiping the sweat off his brow. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Why only talk about the 2G and Adarsh scams? Look at our growth rate—it's touching 8.5% this year. Thanks to programmes like the Vibrating (or was it Vibrant) Gujarat and the Bhains-full Bihar…,” he was then interrupted by an audible whisper from the backstage, “They’re the opposition you f**l! Talk about my son Rahul now!”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sweating profusely now, the Scam Minister continued, “Food inflation is a thing of the past. But look, even now our little Rahul takes an onion with him every time he lunches at ‘The Dalits' in Uttar Pradesh. If we don’t think of the common man’s plight, who will?” </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This line was greeted by a ‘Quack Quack’ here and a ‘Hoot Hoot’ there.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here a ‘Quack’, there a ‘Hoot’, Quack-Hoot, Quack-Hoot…</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ending his 3 minute-long, speech-cum-rhyme, Singh concluded, “I, the Scam Minister of India, wish to assure you and assure the country and assure the whole wide world that our government is <b>DEAD</b> <s>serious about bringing all the wrong-doers to justice.</s>”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We at NTMN are touched. Really. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Take one look at the horrors enveloping the outside world and you’ll know why—one ex-US President cheating on his wife and one invading the Middle East when he ran out of video games; a Russian President clowning around with a gymnast-turned-politician; a French President riding his girlfriend coasters at Disneyland, Paris; Italian PM Silvio Macaroni Berlusconi ‘never paying for sex’ and getting it free from underage prostitutes ‘Heartbreakers’; Egyptian Presidents imposing 30 yr long rules…</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We feel that our Scam Minister Manmohan Singh is a shining beacon of light in these turbulent times. With a track record as blank as his expression and dreamless <a href="http://www.newsthatmattersnot.com/2010/11/pm-wakes-up-from-sleep-after-6-years-as.html">7-yr-long sleep</a> on his PM-marked chair, we are sure he’s going to take us a long way <s>down</s> ahead. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The media conference ended on a high note late on 16th night with special appearances by Sharad Pawar and Lalit Modi. They also brought along a troupe of IPL cheerleaders for entertainment, who were at their unemployed and desperate best with the One-Day Mataram (World Cup thingy) around the corner. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We salute the One Quack brave enough to finally speak up . </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We give Two Hoots to his speeches and empty promise of impeaches. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We look on as someone out there (let’s call him the Common Man for lack of a better word), cries a Bucketful of tears. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And to all the Slumdogs who are now Millionaires. JAI HO. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- Avinash Agarwal</i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This article was written for News That Matters Not. Click <a href="http://www.newsthatmattersnot.com/2011/02/one-quack-two-hoots-and-bucketful-of.html">here</a>.</span></div></div></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-55556905219846500392010-11-01T16:15:00.004+05:302010-11-02T12:25:03.162+05:30The Brunch<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">It is an hour before noon. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> The Restaurant sits contentedly at the edge of a dark green-blue lake. There is almost no wind today, making it hard to see any movement in the trees lined up thickly on the other side.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A narrow, wooden bridge pokes out from the side of the Restaurant leading to the lake and coming to an abrupt stop somewhere near the edge. The water in the lake is uncannily calm, almost motionless. There is only a hint of movement, given away by the sunlight sparkling mischievously at its surface now and then. It is like a pink baby dreaming with her soft eyelids closed, indulging in only so much of a shy smile every few minutes. And like her little fingers which curl and uncurl slowly, perhaps reaching out to touch some unfathomably beautiful thought high up somewhere.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yellow-golden sunlight streams in generously through the French windows of the Restaurant, highlighting a rare speck of dust that might have escaped the stringent eye of the morning cleaner. It floats about hither and thither, enjoying being hopelessly lost in the big, big Restaurant. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I walk into the Restaurant, looking around with mild interest. It feels like I’ve been here before. I just can’t remember when, though. It must have been a lifetime ago. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The place is quiet, but not quite. There is a muffled clink of shining steel cutlery on warm silica plates. From the far end of the Restaurant, the soft notes of a Piano mix into the sweet air like a shameless intoxicant. I am invited in. I come in. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.ilwgc.com/Wedding%20Banquets%202008a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://www.ilwgc.com/Wedding%20Banquets%202008a.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I am ushered to my place by a pleasant man in a white uniform and I choose a nice chair facing the window, overlooking the lake. I am just about to park myself when I change my mind. I shift over to the other side, now facing the Restaurant. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I am here for Brunch. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">*<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Twenty minutes later, I am almost halfway through. I’m not quite full yet, but not starving either. I’ve chewed and swallowed up the Pancakes and honey with almost uncouth enthusiasm. I’ve dug into the Quiche deep enough to proclaim it belongs to me. I sip on the Orange juice in between bites, enjoying the slightly sour tinge trickle down my throat. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Appetite somewhat satiated, I put down my spoon and fork. Pausing for a moment to clear my throat, I look around once again. And I’m surprised at what I see. The scene’s almost entirely changed!<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The old couple dressed in a dull orange and brown are no longer there. <br />
The family of four that was sitting in the table diagonally opposite me now has two people.<br />
The young married couple that was cuddling and cooing some time back is now squabbling and hissing in hushed voices. The woman is close to tears. The man wears a disgusted expression on his face. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Seeing me looking around curiously, the man in the uniform walks up to me again. He asks if I would like to have something else. Shaking my head, I indicate that I would help myself. And I continue to look around. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">An old woman sitting alone catches my eye and smiles dotingly through her thick spectacles. <br />
She thinks I am the son she never had.<br />
<br />
A baby boy looks at me with interest as his mother wipes crumbs off the corner of his lips. He thinks he has met me before. Well, me too. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Why do I suddenly feel I’ve been here before?<br />
The setting seems so familiar. The food, though fresh, seems like it’s been eaten earlier. <br />
And the people, well, that’s the strangest part…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">*<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m about halfway through my meal when I stop, in between a particularly fulfilling bite. A little thought suddenly gets hold of me. I narrow my eyebrows and look around. Then I push it away to the back of my mind and chew. But I slow down and stop again. It’s that thought. It’s gripped me good. I can’t stop thinking about it. Because with every passing second, I realize how true it is.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In that sixty-odd minute meal, I was going to live my whole Life in short. Minute by minute. <br />
I only began realizing it when I was past twenty, but that really didn’t matter. There were still forty-odd minutes to go. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It started when I was out there, strolling in the lobby. I had almost walked past the door to the Restaurant. Then, I can’t explain why, I back-tracked my steps and made an impulsive choice to dine here today. A lucky coincidence, I think now. And no regrets about that. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I vaguely remember the first few minutes as if they were my first ever. Well, they were, in a way. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember the bright streams of golden-yellow sunlight, the sweet mix of intoxicating music in the air and the scent of a freshly baked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something</i>. This was my welcome into the Restaurant. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And all the while, something kept prodding me softly at the back of my mind. ‘You’ve been here before,’ it said. Now I know what it meant. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Again, the white-uniformed man helped me choose a seat by the window. I had almost sat down, but something stopped me mid-way and I turned. I sat facing the People in the Restaurant. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to look around at the People while I was here, would it? <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There were glances. Some stealthy and swift, some warm and lingering. <br />
I smiled a few smiles and got a few more in exchange. <br />
I waved out to those I knew, and they waved back. <br />
I ignored some completely, and they let me be. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I am here for Brunch. So are they.<br />
<br />
And while we’re at it, I really don’t think it would hurt to get to know a few of the People-the old couple dressed in a dull orange and brown who would no longer be there in a few minutes; the family of four that was sitting in the table diagonally opposite me, which would later have only two people; the young married couple that was cuddling and cooing right now, but would later be squabbling and hissing in hushed voices; the old woman sitting alone, who<br />
thinks I am the son she never had; the baby boy who looks at me and smiles, for no real reason. I cannot help it. I smile back at them all. Warmly. There’s a connection, I think. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Occasionally, the uniformed man keeps coming up and I refuse politely. I prefer to go and choose for myself. I’ve got a lot of choices here at the Restaurant. I wasn’t going to let some uniformed man make them for me. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I steer my way through the Brunch, sometimes wolfing it down, sometimes savoring every little sliver of a bite. Sometimes I’m distracted. Sometimes I’m all attention. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The crackling cereal, the spongy cakes, the warm milk, the sour juice and the honey I sweeten it with. It’s all here. Whatever I want. Whatever I choose. <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And now, here I sit. Chewing mechanically, the nerves in my forehead pulsing. <br />
But I’m lost in thought. Where was I?<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Ah yes, I’ve sat for about twenty minutes. Another forty to go, I’m assuming. <br />
I might sit here till late afternoon, staring into the lake and sighing contentedly, if I feel like it. <br />
Or I might be spilled upon by a fellow diner or the uniformed man and leave early in a huff. Who knows? <br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I am here for Brunch. <br />
It’s no special occasion today. But then, I think I should make it one. <br />
After all, I’ll be here in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> Restaurant for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> Brunch only once. <br />
I better make it worth my Life. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">-Avinash Agarwal<br />
Now about 22 minutes into the Brunch<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-61081570824716924682010-10-28T12:49:00.000+05:302010-10-28T12:49:50.104+05:30Vienna- By Billy Joel<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div>This is a song titled 'Vienna' by Billy Joel .</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I don't know why it's called so, but there's something about this song that numbs me every time i listen to it. It's one of the few songs whose profound lyrics have the same beauty, same rhythm and same effect even when read as a simple piece of writing. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Here it is-</span></div><div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Slow down you crazy child</span></i></span></span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">You're so ambitious for a juvenile</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">But then if you're so smart tell me why</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Are you still so afraid?</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">You better cool it off before you burn it out</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">You got so much to do and only</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">So many hours in a day</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">But you know that when the truth is told</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">That you can get what you want</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Or you can just get old</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">When will you realize...Vienna waits for you</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Slow down you're doing fine</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">You can't be everything you want to be</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Before your time</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight (tonight)</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Too bad but it's the life you lead</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">You're so ahead of yourself</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">That you forgot what you need</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Though you can see when you're wrong</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">You know you can't always see when you're right(you're right)</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">You got your passion you got your pride</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Dream on but don't imagine they'll all come true</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">When will you realize</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Vienna waits for you</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Slow down you crazy child</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">It's alright you can afford to lose a day or two</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">When will you realize...</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Vienna waits for you.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">And you know that when the truth is told</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">That you can get what you want</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Or you can just get old</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through</span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">Why don't you realize...Vienna waits for you</span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span">When will you realize...Vienna waits for you</span></span></i></span><span style="font-family: "Lucida Calligraphy"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="apple-style-span"><br />
</span></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="apple-style-span">What say?! </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">I'd love to read about what You have to say to this :) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Waiting for your comments...</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-41260452863554967772010-10-27T17:58:00.007+05:302010-10-28T10:28:56.468+05:30King and Queen- JACKED!!!<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is the story about a King and a Queen. <br />
It happened in a land far, far away. You’ve probably heard it before. But you HAVE to read this. This is different. It’s MY version. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The King, old and weak, lay on the side of his bed, counting his days. The young, pretty Queen unfaithfully sat beside him, also counting his days. For long, they stayed quietly, hiding in their monochrome Castle, behind a row of faithful soldiers. The horses sneezed, the elephants trumpeted, the camels farted. And then it began. I was White. With fear.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TMgZ021IkMI/AAAAAAAAAEI/CS9k_Cys1QY/s1600/TurnedChessPieces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="248" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TMgZ021IkMI/AAAAAAAAAEI/CS9k_Cys1QY/s320/TurnedChessPieces.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Army. Was. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
<i>(This is actually the story of My pathetic army on the Chessboard. I was White. The other guy was Black. And that’s pretty much there is to know about this game) <o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On just-another-regular-day at the office, I sat in front of my Computer. You know the feeling when there is so much pressure, so much stress, so much tension, that you settle for just about anything for relief? Well, I didn’t. So I settled for some Chess. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Boys and girls, let me tell you, NO addiction is good. <br />
However brainy or smart it seems, let me repeat. NO addiction is good. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, keeping all my ‘Pending’, ‘ASAP’, ‘Submit by EOD’ documents on hold, I got ready to explore the joys of Online Chess. I filled out a form of my preferences (Beginner, Amatuer, Rookie, Foolish, Inexperienced, Virgin) on the Matchmaking section of the site, and somebody clicked almost immediately. Talk about ‘Desperate’. I didn’t have time to see who and how he/she was, but with good faith in the choice of chesscube.com, I believed that they had my best interests at heart. I said ‘I Do’. Then I clicked. And then we began. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was like my first time. I was White with fear (I think I mentioned this). </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
I really don’t want to go into the details of the game. But I knew my poor army was fighting a losing battle. It wasn’t my fault. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Two of my soldiers, holding hands on the bright, gay, spring day (No pun intended), went ‘Tra-la-la’ ing onto the monochrome battlefield. In seconds, they were butchered. We got back </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">only</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"> their helmets.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Seeing red, ALL the 2 of my horses, elephants and camels charged. Well, actually, I made them. (I didn’t realize I would have only 2 of each. When were the damned reinforcements coming?) The Black villain on the other side of the board sent forward his Queen. Let me describe her to you- Tall. Smart. Powerful. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Stunning.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">A real Black Beauty. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, I thought I’d impress her. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I tried out some fancy tricks that I was sure she’d never seen before. I made my camels march diagonally- one on a White square, the other on a Black one. Then, through the gap between them, I brought in two huge elephants, stepping in time to the drum rolls in my head. The Black Queen and her army stood, watching in amazement. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I decided to show off some more. For the Grand Finale, the Ultimate Closing Act, I got both my horses (knights) out in the front. Someone had told me that they could jump over other soldiers, so I made them SOAR high and brought them right out in the front. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For those of you who’ve played this game before, you know how this will end. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For those of who who’ve never played this game (or never played LIKE THIS), this is what happened.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Black Queen, that little heart-breaker, watched gleefully as I danced and pranced my heart out. I thought I almost had her in my arms when she stepped up. In one giant, sweeping motion, she wiped the board clean. (WHO gave her the power to go wherever the hell she wanted to?!) This time, we didn’t even get the helmets back (I’m also mailing the sponsors of chesscube.com for a full refund)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But, in my defense, it wasn’t my fault. Not entirely. Like I mentioned, I was playing in Office. And in Office, there are people strutting around, whistling, listening to music, chatting (Yes, my office is employee-friendly). Then there are those Smart-Alecs who are good only with words, but not during action (I am NOT referring to me here)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Seeing me involved so deeply, a couple of people walked up and started giving VERY useful advice. Or so I thought. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(If my Dad’s reading this, I want you to know, Papa, that I should have paid more heed to what you told me when I was leaving the nest for the Big, Bad World outside. You had said- “An Opinion is like an A**hole. Everybody has one.”)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But being the friendly, sociable Me, I listened to EVERY one of those <s>A**holes </s>opinions that came my way. The funny thing was how, a minute/move later, each and every one of them would suddenly say ‘Oh’ and walk away. After careful introspection, I noticed that this happened every time a soldier of mine was killed when I followed their advice. Some were even courteous enough to say ‘Oh, I didn’t see that pawn there’ or ‘Wow! Mr. Black is Smart!’ but it didn’t help. Nothing could soothe my pain. Those were my men out there! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, after a good 25-30 minute tussle, I was out. But not down.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TMgafak3RrI/AAAAAAAAAEM/AFTFXV5q-V8/s1600/funny-chess-game.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="398" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TMgafak3RrI/AAAAAAAAAEM/AFTFXV5q-V8/s400/funny-chess-game.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is MEEEE. Or at least, that's what it looked like.<br />
The odds really were a Million to 300! </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You see, this noble game teaches us certain painful truths about life. And I learnt a whole new set of rules from Mr. Black that day. They were as follows-</span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
1. Chess is a game for 2 people. ONLY</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2. Don’t be White. Don’t fall in love. Don’t be nice.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"> Be a heartless, cunning, ruthless Black Beauty</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">3. Don’t show-off. Not until it’s time. Actually, not at all </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">(My skills include sliding camels, music-sensitive elephants and jumping knights. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">No use in this game) </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">4. Dad is right, but only partly. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">An Opinion is like an A**hole. Everybody has one. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Most chess players have two, sometimes more (Opinions, I mean) </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">5. Don’t trust these online matchmaking sites, even if they operate through a chess portal. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%;">You see what they me?! </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 115%;">I was a Beginner, Amatuer, Rookie, Foolish, Inexperienced, </span></span><s style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Virgin </s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"> (Oh well, after THAT game, I wasn’t a virgin anymore. If you know what I mean!)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In short, this was the Moral Story of a King and Queen. JACKED!!!</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;"><b>PS:</b> I'm actually much better that Chess than I've shown here. I also know Castling. Did I fool </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;">you into thinking I'm a Bad player?! Hahahahahahaha! Gotcha! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>PPS:</b> This is dedicated to Purba Aunty, who motivated me when i faced those incredibly tough times and hit so many walls. I want to take this opportunity to thank her for always believing in me. I will continue to make you proud... (Extract from my Acceptance speech when I win the World Chess Championships :P)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-4888897410088201652010-09-17T17:58:00.002+05:302010-09-18T10:30:56.267+05:30Champu- Season 3<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(This is a Continuation of Champu- <a href="http://somewhere-inthecrowd.blogspot.com/2010/09/champu-season-1.html">Season 1</a> and <a href="http://somewhere-inthecrowd.blogspot.com/2010/09/champu-season-2.html">Season 2</a>…)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> My unholy activities gradually came under the scanner. I was pushed into the category of ‘those boys’. We were regularly threatened, sent out of class, but came back the next day with the same grin like that never-say-die credit card salesman. However, my biggest fear was of the complaints going home or parents coming to And it came true, inevitably. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Parent-Teachers Day dawned bright and clear. The smiling sunshine seemed to enjoy heating up the room around my already feverish self. The birds chirping seemed to be recounting my evil tales of evil deeds and my subsequent defeat, for their babies to learn from. Today was the day. My parents had been called. I was going with them to meet the teachers and collect my report card. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was a wanted criminal. There was a price on my head.<br />
But I still had that innocent face. To add to that, I also put some oil on my head.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Tucking in a neatly ironed shirt, combing my well-oiled hair in a perfect side partition and polishing my shoes (one last time), I entered the school gates with my parents on either side. I was the embodiment of all the dreams a middle class couple has of their offspring. Or so they thought. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1033/1237403391_29511758f0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1033/1237403391_29511758f0.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We waited outside the classroom</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"> for our turn. There were two sets of parents waiting before us. The seconds ticked by as all the ghosts of my past, present and future seemed to converge in the form of one, crisp female voice and called out, “Come in, Avinash (my name)!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I looked about the corridor for an alternate escape route, but they had all sealed themselves shut. In slow motion, between the two souls who had given me birth, I stepped in to face death. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The smell in the </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">gallows</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> classroom was like a dungeon shut for centuries, the air fowl and suffocating, the noose swinging about in silent glee. Okay, that might be a ‘little’ exaggerated. But I swear to this, when the class teacher looked up at me from the register, I saw her forked tongue. And red eyes and horns and tail. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My parents were expressionless. They were, perhaps, frozen in fear. Or they had accepted my fate. Oh no, wait. They didn’t know it. Yet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Good morning Ma’am!” chorused my well-behaved parents.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Good Morning,” the devil smiled back at them. My voice refused to leave my throat. Her voice sounded like a hiss and forked tongue-red eyeball combination flashed again for an instant as she took a closer look at me. Then something changed, suddenly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://oceanisdeep.files.wordpress.com/2010/07/funny_cartoon_female_teacher_photosculpture-p153834425853491395qdjh_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://oceanisdeep.files.wordpress.com/2010/07/funny_cartoon_female_teacher_photosculpture-p153834425853491395qdjh_400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Her smile disappeared falteringly. In front of my eyes, she metamorphosed from the Devil to my class teacher, a mere mortal. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">It was my costume- the neat shirt, oiled hair in side partition, innocent face and dumb-lamb expression. It had worked!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She was shocked as she read out my marks one by one, unable to find anything wrong with an 80 plus aggregate. A part of her was bursting to scream out loud about all my </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">terrorist</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> extracurricular activities, but the her logical brain refused to believe it to be true. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A full five minutes passed in sober conversation as she sank deeper into her chair, defeated and lost. I had got away. My parents were smiling delightedly as we walked out the door and I was jumping up and down and doing the hula, deep inside. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We were at the door, about to turn away, when I couldn’t resist. I turned back to give her a peek at my real face- horns, rolling red eyeballs, forked tongue and hideous expression. I heard her fall off her chair into the chasm. And that was the last I heard of her (Dramatized for creative purposes. We were back together in class on Monday, by the way)…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Champu had won. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TJNbXu1TNeI/AAAAAAAAAD4/-jXPmBCsjJU/s1600/24095_10150171256600331_572155330_11986305_7979090_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TJNbXu1TNeI/AAAAAAAAAD4/-jXPmBCsjJU/s320/24095_10150171256600331_572155330_11986305_7979090_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: normal;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That was almost 10 years ago. Now Champu has grown up </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">wrong</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> right, and his unholy activities are pretty much part of his public image. He’s also tried out many new looks, a few different avatars.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: normal;"></div></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But once a month, when the full moon rises on a starless night in the inky black sky, Champu rises up from the dead and then...</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">(JUST KIDDING! I'm pretty normal. Almost ;))</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>- Avinash Agarwal</i></span></o:p></span></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-78063070208717847062010-09-13T11:01:00.003+05:302010-09-18T10:40:23.602+05:30Champu- Season 2<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(This is a Continuation of Champu- <a href="http://somewhere-inthecrowd.blogspot.com/2010/09/champu-season-1.html">SEASON 1</a>...)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I grew up a little more. And I learnt a lot more, in direct proportion. I learnt the subtle art of acting, reacting and pro-acting. My innocent face turned out to be my biggest asset. Not my rapidly dwindling reputation, though. I was still in the good books only because of my marks. But that too was slowly and surely coming to an end. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Cut to Class 11- chemistry lab- the colorful acids in tightly shut bottles, the powders locked away in protective boxes, the gleaming test tubes waiting to crack into half, the pungent smell which had become a part of the room and the palpable suspense in the air. It was as if all the molecules and atoms were craving for some fun- a fire, an acid attack, an explosion at the least. And I heard their call. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">The first thing we were told that day was that “Sodium is highly reactive. If it comes in contact with sulphuric acid, water, or even air, it reacts like an explosive.” My ears cocked up hearing the last word and I began grinning in delight. We were asked to be extra cautious. I certainly was. About not being caught.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">About 120 seconds later there was an explosion in the Chemistry Lab of my High School. Someone had ‘accidentally’ dropped a whole chunk of sodium into the wash basin while the tap was on. I happened to be somewhere close by. Coincidence. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We gathered around to study what was left after the catastrophe, shaking our heads and ‘tut-tutting’ in disapproval. The Lab supervisor looked around with a murderous expression. I had forgotten she was here. She would have seen it, no doubt. She was ultra sharp and eagle-eyed. My heart skipped a beat and inner molecular structure went haywire, because just then, she looked right at me. A moment later, she looked right past me. I was harmless. Yes, very.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’d also like to confess that it was me who was responsible for breaking a test tube every time I was given one. I just couldn’t help it. It was like a gift. It came naturally. And I didn’t want to squander the talent. Sometimes overheating, sometimes the wrong mix of acids, and sometimes just playing the hot n cold game to see how much the glass could withstand. Oh, chemistry turned out to be very, very helpful in my mental, physical and emotional growth!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was about the same period of my life that I won my first ‘enemy for life’. Well, I can’t take all the credit. There was another accomplice involved. By another cosmic union of Orion and Jupiter, I had found my soul mate. He was a boy too, but in school, all that didn’t matter so much. </span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">He was just like me, a seemingly harmless cow. No one would give him a suspicious glance. He was thin, wiry and looked like a strong windy day would be his last. I was plump, harmless-looking and quite ordinary. In short, we made an excellent team.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our ‘enemy for life’ was a boy from the adjacent class. He had done nothing to us, or our parents, or our next generations. It must've been something from the previous birth that instigated the attack; something karmic, something terrible. So he had to be punished. I'll tell you about his unspeakably evil deeds when I recollect them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">So, we locked him in the tennis court just when the buses were about to leave one fateful evening. And that was the last I heard of him. I really don’t know what happened. I don’t know if he had managed to squeal his way out or spent the night there. But he survived the ordeal. I know because I saw him on Facebook recently, alive and smiling. So I sent him a friend request, assuming he had put his eventful past behind him. Or at least put his large ‘behind’ in the past. Alas, he didn’t accept my request. He ignored it, or maybe even ‘Reported the Abuse’. Pun intended! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> So that pretty much sums up my early education. Then what happened of my soul mate, you may ask?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Well, I turned out to be a little more evil than him, and was entirely responsible for two mishaps that happened in his life right about then. Both involved getting slapped by girls from our class. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The first slap came because I pushed him on her. Not just a regular push. A proper, two handed, in-the-middle-of-his-back push. And he must’ve fallen on her a little inappropriately, I can’t divulge further details. C'mon, you're smart enough to figure out that part! She slapped him almost immediately. I was very sorry. I even told him I was. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://slapmedia.net/images/Logo-Slap-low.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://slapmedia.net/images/Logo-Slap-low.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The second slap came when were singing a disgusting song about our ‘Kidney going into our lungs’ to another girl (She was the sensitive type) who turned around when she couldn’t stand it any longer and swung her arm. Unfortunately for him, I was standing a little further away. He got the brunt of it all alone. Sheesh. Bad luck! Yes, I was sorry again. I was also very badly shaken. Poor me! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Well, they say that the Law of Karma is always working. And justice prevails. Right? </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Wait and watch! ;) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(To be continued in <a href="http://somewhere-inthecrowd.blogspot.com/2010/09/champu-season-3.html">Season 3</a> )</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
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</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: normal; text-align: right;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21px;"><i>- Avinash Agarwal</i></span></div></div></span>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-21930831178379569712010-09-09T11:00:00.004+05:302010-09-18T11:00:02.074+05:30Champu- Season 1<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I was in school, I was like a seasonal fruit. A poisonous one. The one that hangs inconspicuously at the end of a branch, just within reach of an unsuspecting passerby…<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.untoldentertainment.com/blog/img/2009_09_24/nerd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://www.untoldentertainment.com/blog/img/2009_09_24/nerd.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not me. Actually, Yes me! </td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;">Sitting in a quiet corner of class, with a book in hand, I was the model student every teacher would have liked to rear as a pet, the types you saw featured in colorful charts on the walls of Nursery; the charts which prescribed ‘Good Habits’ and ‘Bad Habits’( I was, of course, the ‘Good Habits’ boy) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Homework on time, shoes polished the evening before school, notebooks with a crisp brown cover, nails cut every weekend and full attendance on record. If I was ever absent, everybody knew I was suffering from a terminal disease. Or something appalling had happened in the family- like a death or a marriage.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But there was another side to me. I didn’t know of it myself until it was out in the open and the world told me. Oh, I buried my face in the book all right, but I was endowed with extraordinary vision. I could peep out from the corner of my eyes at impossible angles. My ears were tuned to all the right frequencies, and I could listen to the most scandalous of news with a stone faced expression. But it went unnoticed. I was one who looked like he minded his own business, after all! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That was why, when I threw balled up pages at the teacher scribbling on the blackboard, nobody could even imagine it had been me. When a question was put up and answers were being yelled out as if it were an auction, I would put in a word or two mindlessly out of context; just enough to disrupt the flow and set the other juveniles laughing. Then, I would raise my eyebrows high into my forehead and very timely call out the right answer when heads turned towards me. And I would survive. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Soon, CCTV cameras were installed in classes and all over school. Not only because of me, I wasn’t that bad! But then, there had been a general outbreak of a bad behavioral epidemic that had reached its tipping point(To be more specific- towels flushed down the toilets, Potassium Permanganate in the Swimming Pools, ink on the compound walls, and, this takes the cake- stolen Mouse Balls!! (the 'mouse' in the computer lab, attached to the computer - yes, even they have b*lls!) . The management needed to catch someone. They wanted faces, they needed culprits. After all, they had to show they were in control. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TIhuxFLn47I/AAAAAAAAADg/UTL0wX9A43k/s1600/Champu+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TIhuxFLn47I/AAAAAAAAADg/UTL0wX9A43k/s320/Champu+2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WANTED. Almost. </td></tr>
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</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Within a week, I found myself standing in front of the Class Teacher, giving a painful explanation as to why I was ‘making funny, unnecessary and distractive’ hand gestures in class while notes were being dictated. I got away at the strength of my reputation and a pathetic excuse that I would not like to mention on this public forum. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A couple of weeks later, it was the Principal’s office. Not directly, though. I was thrown out of class with another ‘friend’ for some little misbehavior I don’t even recall now. We were standing outside like sentries and enjoying the breeze of freedom blowing through the corridor. That was the precise moment when, like astrologers later told me, high above in the cosmos where decisions are made, planet Jupiter aligned right in the centre of the Orion constellation and apocalypse happened. The ‘Princi’ came on rounds. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TIht771KAqI/AAAAAAAAADY/xDXL0x54VCM/s1600/Champu+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Obviously, she spotted us; spotted ‘me’ to be precise. And she thought there must have been a mistake. How could the teacher throw me out of class? So she came to enquire. My history teacher was only too glad to let out her frustration. I bowed my head in shame as she ranted on about what an evil genius I was and how deceptive my looks were. I could have cried if I had really felt her pain. But I was ashamed. Really. And I didn’t do anything wrong after that. The whole day… <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(To be continued in the <a href="http://somewhere-inthecrowd.blogspot.com/2010/09/champu-season-2.html">Seasons 2</a> and <a href="http://somewhere-inthecrowd.blogspot.com/2010/09/champu-season-3.html">Season 3</a> ;) )</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>- Avinash Agarwal</i></span></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-41175497128589121832010-09-08T21:15:00.011+05:302010-09-24T17:59:39.820+05:30Letter from the CEO - bringing in the Indian flavor into the CWG '10<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><t>D</t>ear Indians,</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b> Sub.:</b> <i>Bringing in the Indian flavour to the CWG 2010 </i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Greetings!</span><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After so much criticism and mud-slinging on the Commonwealth Games Organizing Committee over the past few weeks, it is time to give <i>us</i> a chance to speak. After all, I’ve been <s>sleeping</s> silent with a huge burden for 7 years now, ever since India won the bid to host the Games in November 2003.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">H</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ere is a progress report that I have just dictated to my secretary. I hope the spellings are correct. She isn’t very qualified. We don’t have enough funds to hire someone else —</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www2.glasgow2014.com/NR/rdonlyres/70205C8C-642C-4F74-84A9-E6D581384ED7/0/mikehooper_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www2.glasgow2014.com/NR/rdonlyres/70205C8C-642C-4F74-84A9-E6D581384ED7/0/mikehooper_m.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>This is myself. As innocent as I look.</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal;"></span>All stadiums had been painted well in advance. However, since the rains in Delhi unexpectedly washed away the top coatings on 3 of the stadiums, a report has been filed against the India Meteorological Department for not doing their job. The inquiry is in progress. </i></span></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>1. Chairs, stands and pavilions have been done away with. They are unnecessary expenses on the already over-burdened, understaffed and un-corrupt Sports Authority of India. We have already exceeded our budget of $1.6 Billion. Tie-ups have been made with leading TV channels so that the entire nation can watch the </i><i> </i><i><s>joke</s> </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Games</i> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>unfold on Live TV and we can earn some more money. </i></span></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.dancewithshadows.com/politics/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/suresh-kalmadi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.dancewithshadows.com/politics/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/suresh-kalmadi.jpg" width="162" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Mr Kalmadi: as innocent as me.<br />
Never blame him.<br />
Blame Met deptt for rains,<br />
and the news channel exposé for<br />
the corruption.</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>2. All drugs have been seized from the Sports Authority of India BAI (Banned and Illegal) storage houses. These have successfully been forcibly fed to the construction workers to help them speed up the building process.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>3. The Indian Cycling Team still doesn’t have its bicycles and equipment. They should become more serious about their careers and the nation's honour, and start shopping on their own. How long will they depend on us? Don’t we have other things to do? 12 participants have already been suspended for making complaints and ‘grumbling’ about not having tyres, helmets, gears and other ‘unnecessary’ paraphernalia.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In July, with 3 months to go, I proudly announced that it was time for <i>‘bouquets<br />
of flowers to be given out’</i>, considering the amount of progress we had achieved<br />
in such short a time. RJD Chief Lalu Prasad had a truckload of <s>fools</s> flowers sent over to Delhi to help us complete the remainder of the work. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now, with barely a month to go, I feel that it has become a ‘<a href="http://www.telegraphindia.com/1100906/jsp/sports/story_12901744.jsp" target="_blank">battle against time</a>’.<br />
The deadline, which was initially December 2009, then extended to March<br />
2010, then July 2010, is now finally early January 2011. The last phase of the work<br />
is slated to be <i>complete</i> by then, so that the winners of the 2010 CWG could be<br />
invited for practice and training on the tracks they were supposed to compete on. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>We've ordered these stadiums to be complete by January 2011</b></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span>However, I request the rest of India and the world to remain unperturbed like<br />
me. I am getting ‘warmed up’ in a massage centre in Kerala and have never felt<br />
more at ease with my life. Coming to more important things, I must tell you<br />
to try out this Massage Centre in Cochin. It’s my guarantee you’ll forget all<br />
your work, responsibilities and issues. Within no time, you’ll be giving these<br />
masseuses the Thumbs Up and showing the other finger to the rest of the world. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What is mentioned in my above report, is a glimpse of India. So let’s enjoy these games with the Indian flavor. All roads will be blocked or under repair from the moment the participants and delegates land — till they take off. So the events might be a couple of hours late. Relax! There’s no hurry. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Also, I can’t guarantee you the roof won’t leak if it rains. Or that the terrace will stay put if it gets too windy. Come on, so what if there are a couple of fires and few people are burnt? It happens every day, get used to it for God’s sake! </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In conclusion, I’d like to remind you that the motto of the Games is ‘Come Out and Play.’ So it’s time to bring out the true ‘Sportsman Spirit’ and not crib about trivial details. Remember, just ‘Come Out and Play’! </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For any further questions, please contact your nearest local sports administrator.<br />
I’m not to be held responsible for anything. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yours sportingly, </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Mr. Mike Hooper </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(CEO, Commonwealth Games Federation)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>This story was written by me for <a href="http://www.newsthatmattersnot.com/">News That Matters Not</a></i></span></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-49463293965504718472010-09-03T17:59:00.005+05:302010-09-24T17:25:01.047+05:30Interview with WeBlog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="171" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TIDqIRtgFeI/AAAAAAAAADQ/Ls0_-oPqFsg/s200/19651_10150093084405331_572155330_11252960_5388138_n.jpg" width="200" /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div align="justify" style="line-height: 20px;"><a href="http://somewhere-inthecrowd.blogspot.com/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Avinash Agarwal</span></span></strong></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> or <b>Avi</b> has been in love with words ever since he first met them. Books were his first friends and they took him to worlds unseen, unheard and undreamt of. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">His first story - about a lion, monkey and a fox when he was just three! He found it too silly and laughable to continue writing, let alone show it to people. And he was too shy to tell people that he was a writer, until his first job two months ago; as a writer! </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He works as a writer for an Events and Brand Management agency by day, and write for himself late into the night, and he has been really about how things shaped up for him.</span><br />
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</span></div><div align="justify" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Quoting him here </span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I think introductions are supposed to talk about when and where I was born, what I did and what I didn’t ‘did’! But I don’t think any of that really matters. The only thing that matters is right here, right now. Like so many other writers, I write. That’s all about me.”</span></em></div><div align="justify" style="line-height: 20px;"><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">_________________________________________________________________</span></em><br />
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</span></em></div><div align="justify" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">For the complete interview, please visit </span></span></span><a href="http://www.weblognow.co.cc/2010/09/interview-with-avinash-agarwal.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">WeBlog</span></span></span></a></strong></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-19018697991523241822010-08-26T11:35:00.024+05:302010-08-26T12:22:04.736+05:30Frames of Freedom- Beyond the Frame<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br />
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</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/THYCww6WsfI/AAAAAAAAACw/oT8rPeTQ0PQ/s1600/Freedom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/THYCww6WsfI/AAAAAAAAACw/oT8rPeTQ0PQ/s400/Freedom.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></b></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>They can put you behind bars.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>They can chain you to the walls.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>They can cage you for years.</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>The one thing they can NOT do is take away your dream. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>The other thing they can NOT do is blur your vision. Even a little bit. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>So don't look at the frame. Look beyond.</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Let your fingers make their way through the cold, steely fence and tingle when the wind from the other side gently tickles their tips.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Let your face press hard on the fence, kiss a vagabond leaf coming a-wandering by with the wind and yearn for more.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Let your senses close in on you, little by little.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>And let them open fully to the silent whispers of your heart. </b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Take a deep breath in. And let go.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Hush now, don't go rushing or searching anywhere else. </b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Freedom is right here, right now. So stay where you are.</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Don't look at the frame. Look Beyond.</b></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>-Avinash Agarwal</b></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>This photograph was taken by me in 2009.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>This post is for the <a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/2010/08/18/frames-of-freedom-photos-indian-bloggers#comment-67602">Frames of Freedom</a> Contest by Blogadda</b></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br />
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</span></span></div></div></b>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-88119829493847406922010-08-18T14:37:00.001+05:302011-08-10T10:29:59.785+05:30It feels good, for Once.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TGuhzjW3ErI/AAAAAAAAACU/79QEEl-9YrU/s1600/Trusting_feelings_by_LonelyPierot%5B5%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TGuhzjW3ErI/AAAAAAAAACU/79QEEl-9YrU/s400/Trusting_feelings_by_LonelyPierot%5B5%5D.jpg" width="367" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">They told me,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Don’t dream of things that cannot be</div><div class="MsoNormal">Don’t look beyond what your eyes see</div><div class="MsoNormal">Don’t even think you can be free</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I sat still,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Against the window grill,</div><div class="MsoNormal">My knuckles white,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Eyes shut tight.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is how it’s always been, </div><div class="MsoNormal">And nothing more than black I’ve seen</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Until today, when I finally break free</div><div class="MsoNormal">No more of their ways, no more of their rhymes. My life is now all mine.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I burst through the front door, out into the open. I trip, fall and hurt myself. </div><div class="MsoNormal">But it feels good. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is winter now, and spring will soon arrive. My skin tastes the wet snow. My hair feels the icy wind ruffle it. I can still see naught from under the blindfold. But for once I know, and for sure I know, I’m free.<br />
It feels good.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Breathing harshly, my feet sinking in the snow, I make my way across the garden. I bump into a tree. My trembling fingers gauge its bark. It’s rough, scaly and cold. </div><div class="MsoNormal">But it feels good.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My hands make their way up a slender branch. At the very end of it is something soft. It’s a flower, not yet in full bloom. It seems to reach out and let my fingers caress it. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, it feels good.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All of a sudden, from nowhere, two tears ooze down my eyes. I feel them staining the blindfold, moist and heavy. They’re tears of blood.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The years of darkness and fear seem to converge into this one moment, breaking through the shackles of time. They fall out as soft tears as my eyes gently bleed. It pains a little. But it feels good. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All it took was one decision in one moment of light. I’m free now. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, yes. It feels good. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: right;">- Avinash Agarwal</div></div><br />
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<center><a href="http://www.weblognow.co.cc/" linkindex="29"><img src="http://img824.imageshack.us/img824/5772/weblog11.jpg" /></a></center> <br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I am participating in the <b>WeBlog's Sleepy Sunday contest!</b> You may read other participating posts <a href="http://www.weblognow.co.cc/2010/08/sleepy-sunday-contest-ii.html"><b>HERE</b></a></div></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-14361335637963677092010-08-13T10:33:00.003+05:302010-10-06T18:01:32.228+05:30Day 41- A Soldier's Diary<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is a land where roses have lost their red and the grass has forgotten it’s green.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The water in the lake has the stillness of death, except for an occasional ripple when the oars of a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shikara</i> slice through the shining film on its surface. </div><div class="MsoNormal">The trees lose their leaves faster than they could grow, and their barks are hollow and cracked, as if waiting to fall by the might of a single whisper. </div><div class="MsoNormal">The sky? It’s just like the life in this valley- grey and dark, except for an occasional ray of sunshine that flashes as if by accident. And before you could blink or squint to see if it’s for real, it’s gone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/5/4636651_7f9aa4b557.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/5/4636651_7f9aa4b557.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">Welcome to <st1:place w:st="on">Kashmir</st1:place>, formerly known as paradise on earth. Now, there’s no name for it. It’s just a tract of land torn to pieces from all sides. Only a faded mirage of its ethereal beauty now remains, like the laugh lines on the cheeks of a young woman turn into wrinkles as age sets in. When this remainder of beauty will go away is only a question of time. Or maybe, it’s the answer. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was posted here some 41 days ago, transferred from the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Nepal</st1:country-region></st1:place> border down in the East. I remember coming here with the same tingling sensation in my fingertips and the same lump in my throat that I know many others before me have come with. We had all heard tales of this land- its haunting beauty, its serenity, the scented winds that blew and the paintings in the sky from the very hand of the painter who made that thing called color. That’s why the tingling in my fingertips. And the lump in my throat was because I was to see what I was to see. We soldiers have seen more than our lifetime’s worth of death and pain, but that’s different. The first breath of air I took as I entered the valley of Kashmir shook the very foundations of what the words ‘death’ and ‘pain’ meant to me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What would you call a child who drags a little toy with his shoulders drooping and knees heavy, as if he were a hundredfold his age?</div><div class="MsoNormal">What would you do to an old woman who stands in front of you with her arms spread, her chest bare, surrendering to a dignified rape or a noble death, anything but this pathetic excuse for a life?</div><div class="MsoNormal">What name would you give to the time of the day when there is a silence which is by no means sleepy or even awake? All that is visible is smoke in the sky, which has, over long years, taken the place of clouds. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe it’s because I’m new to this place, or maybe because that’s how I am, that the unexpected happened. Two days ago, I made the one mistake I shouldn’t have; at least not here, not in this land, not in this time. This, the very land that God himself hath created and forgotten, and I had the blasphemy to do the unforgivable. I fell in love. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There are all kinds of activities that go on here, some so grotesque that I wouldn’t even be able to describe them in human vocabulary and save myself the torture of reliving it. But all that is passé. It’s old news. There’s nothing ‘sensational’ about them any more. This thing called love, however, is unforgivable here. And you pay a heavy price for it. Your heart, and maybe a piece of your soul. Both are ripped away without consent.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first time I saw her was about a week ago, when we had stopped a bus for an ID check. Those with IDs would be pushed forward as if they were nothing but dumb sheep with red marking. Those without them would be allowed to proceed no further, and with one step out of line, they would be shot in the head. Our fingers were always on the trigger, that’s the first rule of being a soldier in <st1:place w:st="on">Kashmir</st1:place>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She had stepped out of her bus with her daughter and baby boy and promptly produced all their IDs after a customary <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">salaam</i>. I grunted with approval and dismissed her. She was just one of them, she didn’t deserve another look. I kept checking. There were two young men without IDs that day, whom we shot dead just as they fidgeted with their hands near their pockets. Who knows, they might have been seconds away from brandishing a weapon or signaling to a militant hidden in the mountainous terrain. Their bodies were cleared away like vegetable peels outside a food-house in minutes and the bus proceeded as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2303/2135226594_29046c09ec.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="371" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2303/2135226594_29046c09ec.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The last thing I remember seeing was the woman’s eyes staring in the distance from inside the bus. A few long strands of brown hair blew with the wind and her large earrings dangled to and fro, lightly touching the window grill of the bus. I thought she deserved a second glance then. It was because of her eyes. They were hard as stone. And they peered into the distance looking for something. It wasn’t respite; it wasn’t relief; for she would find none of that here, try as she might. I don’t know what it was they were looking for. She probably didn’t either. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The woman with a daughter and a baby boy occupied a few minutes on my lonely mind before the change in evening guard duty happened. Then she was forgotten as I took to attention with a resolute salute. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But it was precisely two days ago that the mistake I talk about happened. It was two days ago that I gave her not only a second glance, but all of my heart and a piece of my soul too. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There had been an explosion. It was the first in eight days, so we were on high alert. It was a ‘delicate’ situation just after a blast, because a blast could mean anything- a new consignment of weapons in the area, militants on the move, a rebellion, a distraction or cover-up of something worse or just another extra-ordinary day. And a blast is followed by a curfew. Immediately. It goes without saying. So, anybody running or brandishing a weapon or even raising their voice in the vicinity is shot dead instantly. If they are lucky, that is. Otherwise, they would be tortured for weeks for information, news or just vindictive indulgence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This time, we had lost three of our army men in the explosion. And we were furious. Who wouldn’t be? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.foreignpolicy.com/files/fp_uploaded_images/100219_Kashmir96449383b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://www.foreignpolicy.com/files/fp_uploaded_images/100219_Kashmir96449383b.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We had begun firing. Window panes were shattered. Tyres, sticks, blood-caked shawls, pieces of glass and other debris were strewn about. There were screams and shrieks, mixed with grief and pain that penetrated the thick clouds of smoke from burning buildings. And it was at that precise moment, when I saw the woman and our eyes met that it happened. That one moment was all it took.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She sat with her back to a wall, holding her little son in her arms. From what I could see, the little baby’s legs had been blown off. I do not know if he was dead or alive. And in front of the woman, immobile, was her little daughter amidst corpses of two other children in dry blood. The daughter was dead for sure.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I do not know if she had finished screaming or had not screamed at all, but our eyes met for an instant. I was in a uniform, the same as many of the others holding rifles. I might as well have been the one responsible for this. But I also might not be. It could have been the militants, those unholy predators who kill people from both sides, provoking the fire to burn deeper into the heart of this valley and keeping the wounds fresh and sore even after half a century. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is another hard lesson an army man learns, sometimes with practical experience. </div><div class="MsoNormal">No bullet asks for permission before tearing apart the thin walls of human flesh. </div><div class="MsoNormal">No bomb goes off taking care to blow apart just the window panes and the brickwork of a building that was once a home. </div><div class="MsoNormal">And no drop of blood appears different from any other in an undignified pile of human bodies, uniformed or otherwise. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was at that moment, two days ago, when our eyes met. She looked at me, and again, her eyes did not know what to search for. They were wet with tears but hard as stone. They didn’t know whether to blame me for her heart wrenching loss, or look for sympathy from a man stationed here for the security of the very life she had no reason to continue living. So I answered with both. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, my eyes were guilty. And yes, they were sympathetic. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I obliged her for a second then looked away. I tightened my grip on the rifle, cautious to any movement around the alley where the explosion had taken place and got on with my duty. One moment of sharing the gaze and I could face her no more. I turned away. </div><div class="MsoNormal">But in the last fraction of that moment, just before our eyes tore away from each other, I felt something leave me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://kashmirvacations.com/kashmi-photo/kashmir-woman3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://kashmirvacations.com/kashmi-photo/kashmir-woman3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Today, as I am waving my hand and bringing another bus to a grinding halt, I know what had left me two days ago. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now I know it in the back of my mind, as I see another bunch of terrified, nervous, silent Kashmiris get down from the bus with ID wielding hands raised in meek submission. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I do not know if I shall ever see her again, alive or dead. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know if she’ll ever know me for the man I really am or the feelings I really feel under the camouflage of my uniform and steady gait. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know if this unforgivable love I feel shall ever be redeemed or come to pass. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know if it shall ever be anything more than a whisper from a tender corner of my heart on lonely evenings amidst cold winds and orange-purple sunsets. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But then again, maybe that’s the beauty of this excruciating pain. </div><div class="MsoNormal">It shall throb on like an open wound refusing to clot, as long as my living heart twitches. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then again, maybe I shall continue to ask myself why I was foolish enough to give away to her something so precious- all of my heart, and a piece of my soul.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Based on true articles, incidents and news. Only the love story is fiction. </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Or maybe not. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe this has really happened. Maybe the truth about this tale is hidden somewhere, deep down in the recesses of two hearts in that valley called <st1:place w:st="on">Kashmir</st1:place>)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: right;">- Avinash Agarwal<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=27d15e7fca&view=att&th=12a9ec42a913fde0&attid=0.1&disp=inline&realattid=f_gd79eyol0&zw" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="60" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=27d15e7fca&view=att&th=12a9ec42a913fde0&attid=0.1&disp=inline&realattid=f_gd79eyol0&zw" width="200" /></a></div><br />
</div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-52259636347347499932010-08-09T12:16:00.003+05:302011-06-04T16:19:39.659+05:30"Indi-end, it doesn't even matter"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Ah, another year gone by, which makes it, what, 64? <br />
Wow! That makes us the youngest, largest, most ‘shining’ democracy ever! We’ve achieved the impossible and proved the world wrong time and again. Emerging unscathed from almost two centuries’ worth of colonial rule, giving the power in the hands of the common man and well on our way to taking over the world, we’ve really done quite a lot! Happy Independence Day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But wait a minute; do you really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i> the freedom in the air? Do you really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i> we are living the glorious life we were promised at the stroke of midnight, when the world was sleeping and our country awoke to life and freedom? Honestly, I don’t. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All I can see are the mangled remains of two things that were handed down to us by our freedom-fighting forefathers. Or rather, the only two things we chose to inherit from them- One, the English language, which we’ve deep fried and masala-garnished to turn into our own hilarious version-‘Hinglish’. Kudos! It has been no mean feat, really. Burying the mother of all civilized languages, Sanskrit under a pile of toxic colloquial garbage really is no joke. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Inheritance Number Two is a Mantra. </div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s been handed down from the ancient Aryans and Dravidians who fought with each other for land and water, the Mughals who let foreigners rip the ‘Golden Bird’ to pieces and then the first citizens of new India who reclined in their homes all day, tired out from winning that war for freedom. It’s a Mantra they’ve all used, and to great effect at that. It’s been coined here, copyrighted here, and will continue to stay here.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Chant with me- “Indi-end, it doesn’t even matter.” </div><div class="MsoNormal">Impressive, isn’t it? Yes, it does catch on. Just watch. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s a flood in the east. There’s a famine in the south. All the money sanctioned has been eaten up on the way. Helicopters are dropping obituary forms. It doesn’t matter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The elections are coming. There are two choices on the ballot- the unscrupulous and the shameless. Who will you vote for? It doesn’t matter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><st1:place w:st="on">Kashmir</st1:place> is under curfew. There are riots in <st1:place w:st="on">Gujarat</st1:place>. Mumbai is trembling with bomb blasts Hundreds killed, thousands injured. Multi-billion dollar scams are rocking every chair and seat of power in the country. Yes, I saw the news. It doesn’t matter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our elected members to the Parliament step on flooring made solid with the files of criminal cases against them. Political goons make a mockery of democracy and secularism by beating up men, women and children on the pretext of language, religion, height, weight, blood group and other very valid reasons. Sports Committees are gobbling up more calories than our players can burn out. The Indian Army survives on adulterated, expired food and stands on the borders to protect our lives. The media enthusiastically plays tennis, on the table and in the lawn, day and night, to and fro, back and forth, just as long as we sit still and watch the show. After all, Indi-end, it doesn’t even matter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s astonishing how this one Mantra has always solved and will continue to solve any problem, any disaster and any calamity we face. Move over ‘shining’ and ‘flying high’, for this Independence Day, we shall celebrate some new adjectives for our beloved motherland. Take your pick- <st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region> ‘sleeping’, <st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region> ‘wait a minute’ and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place> ‘we’ll do it tomorrow’. It’s a good deal, is it not?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TF-fagxl9pI/AAAAAAAAACE/LQXCsgGcw6c/s1600/Indian+flag+header(0).gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TF-fagxl9pI/AAAAAAAAACE/LQXCsgGcw6c/s400/Indian+flag+header(0).gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2Bvd6_IUc9s/SgjuNpabGTI/AAAAAAAAABg/rhjgs0EGOqg/S760/Indian%2520flag%2520header(0).gif">We bow down before Nothing else...</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>No. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We are not a completely useless lot, you know. </div><div class="MsoNormal">We’re not complete fools, or even half-baked idiots. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I say, we’re a little more than that. We’re a lot more than that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know that after I finish writing this piece, I will probably roll over on my back and go to sleep like a street dog. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I know that after reading this, you will impulsively click on another internet window or turn to another page and your eyes will light up reading some other fancy words. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I know that tomorrow, people will continue to die of hunger, disease, blasts, terrorism, religion or just because they have nothing better to do.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s not going to stop in one day. In fact, it might not even stop one day. </div><div class="MsoNormal">But that’s not the answer, is it?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You see, there’s this thing inside a human heart that keeps it beating.<br />
It’s called hope.</div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s this warmth in our palms every time we reach out to touch.<br />
It’s called faith. </div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s this thing playing in our mind every time we close our eyes.<br />
It’s called a dream. And maybe that’s why we love to sleep so much.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, we do live our own sweet lives in our own diabetic worlds. And we do chant that Mantra every now and then so we can turn our back to situations without guilt. </div><div class="MsoNormal">But how long can we survive on the nutrition of self-blame and vitamins of sympathy?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s been ‘okay’ so far, living with Indi-end, it doesn’t even matter. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No more now. Enough.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not telling you to go charging on to the streets with a tricolor or shouting out slogans.</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, that’s an adrenalin rush. It will stop when you run the length of your street and start panting, or when you trip, fall, bruise and cut your fair and lovely skin. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not telling you to leave your perfect worlds and go join the millions of homeless, starving helpless. No, that’s not the solution. You’re of no help to another if you cut off your own limbs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m just telling you to wake up. By all means, dream every night, it’s a healthy habit. But please oh please, wake up in time to see that every morning brings with it a chance to make that dream come true.<br />
Give it a shot. Give it your all. Or at least die trying.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our world is much smaller than it seems. We’re all much closer than you think. We’re a lot more dependent on this connection than you would believe. Deep down inside, we’re animals of the same breed- sharing the same source, same destination and the same underlying humanity. That’s why, every little bit matters. If not yet today, tomorrow for sure.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Make your schedule a little different this time. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Don’t let it be just another Public Holiday or a disappointing Dry Day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Make every less minute you sleep and every extra minute you work count. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Find something, find someone and find someplace which really matters to you. Let every oozing drop of sweat, tear and blood mean something. Look around you and realize that life is meant to be lived well. And that your life is a life lived well only if it can help others to, long after you’re gone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The day you look into the mirror and realize that ‘my’ life means a lot more than just ‘my life’, the clouds will start to clear up. </div><div class="MsoNormal">The day you stop asking others for their surname, hometown, mother tongue and religion, your own identity will come to surface. </div><div class="MsoNormal">The day you find that something you’d willingly die for, life will suddenly seem worth it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I promise you, that day we shall certainly have our freedom, our <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Independence</st1:place></st1:city> Day.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because, believe me, Indi-end, it all matters.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Every little bit. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<br />
Jai Hind. </div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TF-gyOhW-_I/AAAAAAAAACM/DsSq59vBnWQ/s1600/india-flag-sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_easrVb7JNo8/TF-gyOhW-_I/AAAAAAAAACM/DsSq59vBnWQ/s400/india-flag-sunset.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.elrst.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/india-flag-sunset.jpg">A Glorious Sunset. Or Sunrise? </a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"> -Avinash Agarwal</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> (This post has been entered for the BlogAdda </o:p><br />
<o:p>'Mera Bharat Mahaan' Contest)</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/2010/08/04/mera-bharat-mahan-india-shining-proud">http://blog.blogadda.com/2010/08/04/mera-bharat-mahan-india-shining-proud</a></o:p><br />
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The contest is sponsored by-<br />
<a href="http://www.pringoo.com/">http://www.pringoo.com/</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-37143626584800082612010-08-04T10:30:00.001+05:302010-09-17T14:05:03.554+05:30Fed up of Female partners, Rahul Mahajan now decides to marry a Boy<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><t>T</t>elevision husband Rahul Mahajan has begun leaning over to the other side. After accusing all his wives (2 official and 12 unofficial) of domestic violence against </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">him, Rahul has now had enough. He is all set to move in with long time sweetheart and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">boyfriend Rosy Durjan.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_prDqsqGV9BE/R2FrefcHYpI/AAAAAAAAAmE/ZxBxERVbnvE/s400/Rahul+mahajan_Sweta+Mahajan+picture" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_prDqsqGV9BE/R2FrefcHYpI/AAAAAAAAAmE/ZxBxERVbnvE/s400/Rahul+mahajan_Sweta+Mahajan+picture" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Who said only women fake orgasms?</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Coming out in the open about his hidden relationship with Rosy Durjan, an interior </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><s>designer</s> spoiler from New Delhi, Mahajan told the media that he has had it enough with this "false, baseless, commercial </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">institution called marriage" and that he "doesn’t believe in the commercialization of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">marriage by TV channels".</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In a rare non-violent moment, he recounted with nostalgia the day he first met Rosy 17 years </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ago. "We met at an underground party in Mumbai. Our eyes met while we were snorting </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">harmless white powder at the same instant and since then, our relationship has only </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">gone ‘higher’ and ‘higher’."</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tribuneindia.com/2006/20060609/nat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.tribuneindia.com/2006/20060609/nat.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><s><b><i>Gaiety</i></b></s> <b><i>Gayness on display</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"All this while, I tried to cover up our relationship and sexual orientation with the help of a number of m</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">arriages with other <s>TV personalities</s> losers and hitting on random women in buses, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">trains, bars, on the streets and on TV shows. But now, Rosy and I have decided we </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">had had enough of staying apart. The night we decided this, I knew Dimpy's time to get beaten up had come. It was now time to take both the relationships to the next level - the level they were intended for."</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rahul has also started taking coaching in the Martial Arts, because this time, he wants </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">his marriage to work. And he wants to be able to take the ‘beatings, punches and kicks’ </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">gracefully in his <s>backside</s> stride.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://im.rediff.com/movies/2010/mar/08sd5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="259" src="http://im.rediff.com/movies/2010/mar/08sd5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>How distressed he looked at the time of his marriage -<br />
An unhappy Rahul during his marriage</i></b><br />
<b><i>with a happy Dimpy</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He nobly believes, and we agree, that relationships are all about compromise and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">adjustment. “A little bit of beating, punching, kicking, pulling by the hair, pinching, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">burning, teasing, and 1st degree torture is necessary. I believe in it strongly. That’s why I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">don’t mind when my partners do it to me,” said Rahul with a historic civilised sample of laughter, otherwise rare from his side.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It is a matter of national pride that this <s>laughing stock</s> inspirational figure will now settle down with what we hope </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">would turn out to be the most meaningful, beautiful, violent and torturous relationship of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">his life. "I am still a very good friend of his," claimed his divorced wife Shweta for the hundredth time, and said, "On the behalf of his horde of limb-broken heart-broken wives, I wish him good luck." </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Marriages really are made in Heaven, aren’t they? </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>If only they didn’t turn into hell on earth…</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>This story was written by me for <a href="http://www.newsthatmattersnot.com/2010/08/fed-up-of-female-partners-rahul-mahajan.html">News That Matters Not</a>.</i></span></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-83620584288408052532010-07-31T10:36:00.001+05:302010-07-31T10:36:51.165+05:30Amit Shah on well 'earned' vacation!<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Gandhinagar: </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><t>F</t>ormer Gujarat Home Minister Amit Shah, who <a href="http://news.rediff.com/report/2010/jul/24/modi-aidea-amit-shah-resigns.htm" target="_blank">eluded arrest</a> for over a day, has now embarked upon a well-deserved vacation for a few days. It was on advice of Dr Nin Com Poop, his renowned Japanese physician who he was consulting during the time of his disappearance, that he has now moved into Sabarmati <s>Central</s> Luxury Jail. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.hindu.com/2010/07/23/images/2010072357990101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="http://www.hindu.com/2010/07/23/images/2010072357990101.jpg" width="200" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“<s>His Excellency</s> Nobody's Excellency Amit Shah has been suffering from Diabetes for the past few months. He had a sudden relapse recently, due to deficiency of alcohol and nicotine in his blood stream. So Doctor Poop advised him to take a few days off and go to Sabarmati Luxury Jail to cool off. The ambience there is excellent, and all his special needs will be provided for. After all, the jails portfolio was also under his excellent administration.” said Dr Nin Com Poop's assistant.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A Gujarat BJP spokesperson said, "When the news of his <s>arrest</s> holiday reached us, we were fraught with worry about other concerns like his food, lodging and safety as it is rumoured that the other residents of Sabarmati Luxury Jail might have certain violent streaks. But the jail authorities have assured us that everything is under control."</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.plantersinn.com/img/phototour/p1b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.plantersinn.com/img/phototour/p1b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Sigh! This is where he will have to stay</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Shah has been put up in a deluxe cottage near the Jail SP’s office, with bedding, mattresses, cutlery, round-the-clock room service, internet, TV, a masseuse, and a doctor on call for his rare and critical disease called ‘diabetes’. According to the doctor, a case like his is very rare, and we at NTMN believe in his expert opinion.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The latest medical report is, however, very relieving to us, his devotees and well-wishers. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“He has only sneezed thrice since yesterday. We have made sure he gets home-made <i>khichri</i> with <i>ghee</i>, curd and <i>aloo ki sabzi</i> deep-fried in bulletnut oil. This is just the way he likes it,” said Dr. Nin Com Poop licking his fingers after a plate of chilli chicken and a chilled beer from Amit Shah’s fridge in the cottage. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Next week, in August, jail authorities are hosting a large gathering at the terrace of Amit Shah’s cottage to celebrate his August presence there. The only restriction is that loud music will not be allowed beyond 11 pm, especially abusive Gujarati rap, which is Shah’s favourite genre. There are rumours that Brazilian pole dancers will perform in the party. Real encounters will be staged, for which twelve lookalikes of Sohrabuddin Shaikh have been caught by Narendra Modi's loyal police. A prison employee said, "We wish him all the best and hope that he gets back to his normal, patriotic, hard-working, humanitarian, <s>righteous</s> riotous self soon!" <i>(No pun intended. Actually, what the heck, YES, pun intended!)</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>This satire news report was written by me for <a href="http://www.newsthatmattersnot.com/2010/07/amit-shah-put-in-deluxe-cottage-in.html">News That Matters Not</a></i></span></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-8855498343301897642010-07-26T18:11:00.003+05:302010-07-26T18:17:33.800+05:30Ud Jaa Saale- Mumbai's New Talent Hunt!!!<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Mumbai: </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Mumbai’s malls, coffee houses, billboards, college canteens, Marine Drive, and all popular hangouts are reverberating with excitement caused by a talent hunt contest, <i>Ud Ja Saale</i> ("Fly away, my wife's brother!", also "Fly away, you idiot!"). The interest is because it's not a mere hunt for the next supermodel, singer, dancer or husband, but for ordinary people who’ll be flying and controlling <i>real</i> commercial aeroplanes. ‘Ordinary’ here refers to people who might not have even seen an aeroplane in their lifetime.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hvYA5iXuafw/TE0rLUQx36I/AAAAAAAAAaE/CBe1UAVLCeY/s1600/airplane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hvYA5iXuafw/TE0rLUQx36I/AAAAAAAAAaE/CBe1UAVLCeY/s320/airplane.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Making <s>Fools</s> Pilots out of</i> Aam Aadmi</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Congress government of Maharashtra strongly believes that the <i>aam aadmi</i>’s time has come. Perfectly in sync with the party’s motto, it is now giving him a chance to be a part of Mumbai’s glorious dreams through this programme. A spokesperson said, “The present staff has proved themselves of little use. Two major accidents were averted recently. A number of near-collisions have occurred in Mumbai airspace, which is getting as congested as the city itself. We can't take any more chances and thought of bringing some fresh, young <i>blood</i> in. So we have started the hunt for amateur pilots and Air Traffic Controllers."</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He continued, "We are targeting video gamers and teenagers. They are our future, and instead of wasting precious years on education, we feel that they must get started right away. They have got enough exposure and real-life experience from simulated video games and movies. We think they are now ready for the real thing.”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4oBKlv5UVEA/ShJbZ3tR0PI/AAAAAAAAGWM/7YNIFOGVLVI/s400/NMIA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4oBKlv5UVEA/ShJbZ3tR0PI/AAAAAAAAGWM/7YNIFOGVLVI/s320/NMIA.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Forever a site, or some sight coming soon?</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Recently, when the world’s largest aeroplane, the Airbus A-380 <a href="http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/delhi/Worlds-largest-aircraft-lands-at-IGI-T3/articleshow/6172181.cms" target="_blank">landed</a> in New Delhi’s latest pride, the IGI-T3 (the flight was delayed by 30 minutes due to a stray dog on the landing strip, but it was still a great achievement), the whole of Mumbai saw dark green (with jealousy, nothing to do with the environment). Mr. Raj Maratha and Manoos Thackeray, two (in)eminent personalities from the high profile ‘all talking, no thinking’ circles of Mumbai, expressed their dissatisfaction for Delhi being chosen over Mumbai, the financial capital, for the honour. The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Navi_Mumbai_International_Airport" target="_blank">Navi Mumbai Airport</a>, Mumbai's expected answer to IGI-T3, has a problem - the foundation stone hasn't been laid yet. The deadline of 2012 might be extended to 2013 if the world survives 2012.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.zenithair.com/zodiac/ch650/images/n601wd-clouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://www.zenithair.com/zodiac/ch650/images/n601wd-clouds.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Touching new heights, </i>Ud Ja Saale<i> is one to "die" for</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">About the name of the programme, the spokesperson said, “It has a very casual feel to it, which is <i>exactly</i> our attitude towards governance in India, especially Maharashtra. <i>Ud Ja</i> denotes being able to fly away into dreams and <i>Saale</i> is, well, perfect Mumbai lingo!”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Winners of this talent hunt will be appointed right away into the Airports Authority of India as permanent employees. Their month-long training will consist of very necessary tactics like drunken flying, drunken air traffic controlling, hands-free security checks, human drug-sniffers and drug-quality testers, martial arts sessions to deal effectively with unruly passengers, flight-ejection and parachuting in case of emergency and a special 'ultimate-prayer-programme' in case all the above tricks fail. The new employees will start work on August 15."</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We at NTMN have cancelled most of our flight reservations post-August 15 and prefer to cycle our way around the country for health, environmental and mortality purposes. We advise you the same.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>This fake news story was written by me for <a href="http://www.newsthatmattersnot.com/2010/07/ud-ja-saale-talent-hunt-in-mumbai-that.html">News That Matters Not</a></i></span>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-88910182211938114182010-07-25T21:06:00.000+05:302010-07-25T21:06:22.875+05:30The Morning AfterThere are good days, and there are bad days. Last night was one of the worst. It was one of those days when you feel sick of life, when you want to get away. I did. I came alone and sat at the beach, at the edge of the sea. <br />
<br />
It was a starless night, a little cloudy. A small sliver of the moon played hide and seek behind the silver clouds. The night perfectly reflected the color of my melancholy. <br />
<br />
There was a sudden crack of thunder. Great, I thought. This was all I needed. In moments, the clouds became darker and steadily began to envelope me. Then it started to rain. Not a sprinkle or a droplet. But cold, merciless torrents slashing and slapping against me. I began to realize how small I was. And I felt even more helpless, powerless.<br />
<br />
‘This would be a good time to go back inside’, said the smart voice in my head.<br />
‘NO. Stay put’, said a deeper voice. So I stayed. <br />
<br />
By now, I was drenched to the bone. I was shivering. It was getting really cold now, almost unbearable. But not yet. And I sat there at the edge of the sea, perhaps trying to kill myself out there. <br />
<br />
Lightning flashed in front of my eyes again and again. At first, they were just flashes. Then I began to see them as if they were incidents of my life, sharp and painful, against the dark picture of my life. <br />
<br />
It was one of those times when you feel a little bad about something.Then, as if from nowhere, dark thoughts burst in, flood you and begin to take you down to drown. <br />
<br />
Each flash was followed by a painfully loud clap of thunder. And I began to see things. I began to see moments of my life that I had forgotten about, that I had locked away deep inside. I didn’t want to think about them, let alone speak. But here they were, playing across in front of me. And I sat watching. <br />
<br />
It was the darkest, blackest, coldest moment of the night. And this was the darkest, blackest, coldest moment of my life. I could feel myself sinking deeper. If there had been a time when I had more depressed in my life, I do not remember when that was. But this one was right down there. <br />
<br />
My face was numb with the ice cold drops of water precipitating there, and I felt two small tears form in my eyes. They oozed out gently, and began getting heavier as more painful thoughts seemed to weigh them down. And then they spilled, flowing down my cheeks, mixing with the rainwater somewhere along the way. <br />
<br />
‘This would really be a good time to go back inside’, said the smart voice in my head. <br />
‘NO. Not yet’, said the deeper voice. <br />
‘Do you want to die in the cold?’ scolded my smarter half.<br />
‘Yes, that would be nice. But not yet.’ insisted the deeper half.<br />
<br />
So I sat still. By now the cold began to chill my very blood. I could feel it. <br />
It was beginning to pain now. Even my breath came in short wheezes. But I obeyed.<br />
<br />
I closed my eyes and gave a quiet sob. I quickly opened my eyes and looked around. There was no one. So I gave another sob, a little louder this time. Two more tears dropped down.<br />
<br />
At that moment, it was as if my whole life was coming crashing down on me. It brought in all the moments when I had felt the weakest, the most vulnerable and all hope was lost. I let go. I closed my eyes and howled into the night. I cried my heart out. <br />
<br />
Not for me, for I wasn’t a bad man. But for the world around me.<br />
All I could see was a dark, dark night that refused to end. <br />
All I could see was a thick curtain of rain that refused to yield.<br />
All I could see was loss, pain, tragedy and suffering around me, inside me. <br />
Not mine, for I wasn’t a bad man. But for this world around me. <br />
<br />
I do not know how long I was there, but when I came to my senses I was lying down. I had probably fallen asleep. The rain had stopped and it was a little warmer now.<br />
A trickle of water at my feet from a small wave woke me up. <br />
<br />
I was lying at the edge of the sea. With a start I got up to look around me. It was still pitch dark, and had stopped raining. But that was not what captivated me.<br />
It was the smell in the air, probably of everything the rain had brought in. <br />
<br />
A sudden movement caught my eye. <br />
In the pitch darkness, a slight tinge of yellow moved somewhere. <br />
Almost as if it were shy. Almost as if I had made a mistake and not really seen it. <br />
I blinked. Yes, there it was again.<br />
<br />
The rain was gone, and a sudden gush of wind came in. <br />
It swept my hair backwards and smelt strangely sweet. <br />
I breathed in deeply and even dared to smile a little. <br />
<br />
It seemed as if cracks were beginning to appear in the dark blue canvas of the night sky, and yellow rays began piercing through it. So this was it. The night had ended.<br />
<br />
I tried to remember what I had been crying about, but just couldn’t recollect. <br />
Maybe the rain and cold and darkness had washed it all away. <br />
A lightness seemed to spiral up my chest. What was it? <br />
<br />
As if in answer to my question, the dark blue of the sky began to disappear altogether. Bold yellow rays seemed to stretch across the sky as if it were a painting board. An invisible hand continued to paint yellow strokes until I could see a neat outline of the horizon. <br />
<br />
The dark blue turned to violet, and then, after a second in transition, became bright blue.<br />
Like last night, this was another big moment. It felt as if everything that had ever made me feel alive was coming together in this grand finale- the love, laughter, and joy seemed to fill me with such strength that I felt I would burst. <br />
<br />
After the darkest, blackest, coldest moment of the night, sunshine was upon me. <br />
But it was a second later that the real miracle happened. <br />
<br />
Far, far away, at the very edge of the horizon, an orange dot began to appear out of nowhere. It was very faded and seemed to blend with the purple that was around it.<br />
<br />
The wind stopped blowing. The water stopped moving. My heart stopped beating.<br />
We were all holding our breath to see what was going to happen. <br />
It was as if none of us knew that the sun rose every morning.<br />
It was as if, forgetting about this one simple fact, we had come forth to behold this one astounding miracle. The birth of a new day. <br />
<br />
The orange dot steadily became larger and brighter. Then it became yellow. And then it turned gold. It was getting bright, blindingly bright. It reached a crescendo, and just when I thought I could bear to hold still no more, it happened. The sun broke through. And the night was killed. <br />
<br />
Another gust of wind came with that sweet smell. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in. <br />
<br />
At the same instant, everything that had ever held me back or pulled me down seemed to break away. Just like one ray of sunshine had pierced through a hopeless, eternal darkness, something reciprocated inside me. The chains of fear and sorrow that were strangling me snapped into pieces as I flew away, high into the sky.<br />
<br />
‘Open your eyes. See around you!’ urged the smart voice in my head.<br />
‘NO.’ smiled the deeper voice. ‘Keep your eyes shut. For you have never been able to see better in all your life...’<br />
<br />
I smiled. I knew the deeper voice was right. <br />
<br />
-Avinash Agarwal<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://www.weblognow.co.cc/" linkindex="29"><img src="http://img824.imageshack.us/img824/5772/weblog11.jpg" /></a></center> <br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I am participating in the <b>WeBlog's Sleepy Sunday contest!</b> You may read other participating posts <a href="http://www.weblognow.co.cc/2010/07/weblog-sleepy-sunday-contest-i.html"><b>HERE</b></a></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-73164058938362451482010-07-21T15:53:00.000+05:302010-07-21T15:53:08.671+05:30Leonardo DiCaprio sick and tired of Hollywood, plans moving to Bollywood<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"></span><br />
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><br />
You would have thought Leonardo DiCaprio, Hollywood’s current heartthrob is basking in the rave reviews and commercial successes of his recently released psycho-thrillers <i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">Shutter Island</i> and <i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">Inception</i>. But following his telephonic interview with NTMN, it appears that DiCaprio is not at all enjoying the accolades.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; clear: right; float: right; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><img src="http://assets.espn.go.com/i/magazine/new/dicaprio_aviator.jpg" /></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">In his own words, he is ‘sick and tired’ of working with ‘challenging, sensible, character-oriented’ scripts and would like to move towards more colourful, senseless and sensational cinema, read Bollywood. He said he was moved to tears after watching the English-dubbed versions of</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">Ram Gopal Varma ki Aag</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">("Ram Gopal Varma’s A** on Fire"), </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">De Dana Dan </i>("Give it to me, rhythmically") and the Bhojpuri cult classics <i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">Sasura Bada Paisawala </i>("My filthy-rich father-in-law") and <i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">Tohar Khetwa Mein Murga Hamaar </i>("My Cock is in Your Farm").</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><br style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;" /></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">The reason? He feels he has wasted time doing ‘arty’ films like <i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">Titanic</i>, ‘violent’ films like <i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">Body of Lies</i> and ‘mindless psycho’ movies like <i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">Inception</i>. He regrets he missed the ‘Indian opportunity’. He missed out on the splash of colours, the rhythmic dancing and the unscripted, spontaneous, raw, ethereal charm that oozes out of the mentioned Indian ‘masterpieces’. He was inspired and shaken to the core when he watched all four of these movies back-to-back last Saturday.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><br style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;" /></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">"The theatre is a place where audiences go to unwind after a hard day of work. And why do we subject them to mental pressure there too? It’s pathetic. What have I been doing all these years?" said Leonardo over the phone in the interview, his voice trembling with emotion. He is all set to showcase snippets of these handpicked Bollywood and Bhojpuri ‘classics’ at the International Film and Theatre Fraternity of Artists Convention to be held in Berlin next Saturday. He has also invited noted Indian cinema personalities like Ravi Kishen, David Dhawan, Priyadarshan and Ram Gopal Varma for the Convention. They are yet to confirm their presence there.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><br style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;" /></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">After ‘breaking off ties with this hollow, disgusting Hollywood film fraternity’ Leonardo DiCaprio aims at spearheading a worldwide movement to spread awareness and gather support for the growth and enrichment of colourful, senseless and sensational cinema.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><br style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;" /></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><a href="http://www.smh.com.au/ffximage/2005/01/26/dicaprioaviator_wideweb__430x272.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; clear: left; color: #3259d8; float: left; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" height="202" src="http://www.smh.com.au/ffximage/2005/01/26/dicaprioaviator_wideweb__430x272.jpg" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(220, 235, 241); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 3px; border-color: initial; border-left-color: rgb(220, 235, 241); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 3px; border-right-color: rgb(220, 235, 241); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 3px; border-style: initial; border-top-color: rgb(220, 235, 241); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 3px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">Off the record, he also stated that he has started shopping and packing his bags for a ‘new destination’. “I plan to leave behind my home, family and everything I have ever known and loved in this divine quest of creating meaningful cinema. And yes, I’m also going to leave behind my years of experience, talent and brains as I set off to my journey in the East. I cannot disclose to you where exactly it is that I’m headed, but it’s going to be AWESOME! I can feel that it will…” he said.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><br style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;" /></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Nobile, Tahoma; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">Analysing this interview, a little-known critic told NTMN, ‘<i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;">Subah ka bhoola shaam ko ghar aa raha hai, toh use bhoola nahi kehte!</i> ("The morning's forgotten is coming back in the evening. So we don’t call him forgotten!"). This might as well be the title of the first film he makes on his ‘divine quest for meaningful cinema’.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 1em; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal;"><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Statutory Warning</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">- This was a highly politically incorrect article you just read. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The above lines may/may not be true (You have to be the judge) But they’re based on and inspired by true events. So don’t hang me! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Written for- </span></b><a href="http://www.newsthatmattersnot.com/">http://www.newsthatmattersnot.com/</a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /> </span> <div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></span></div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-4087208119548396572010-07-08T11:03:00.000+05:302010-07-08T11:03:55.932+05:30How OLD are you?<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Let me start with a very personal question- How OLD are you? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">15 years? 20? 30? 40? Or 50? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Without even guessing what your answer would be, I can say that you are wrong. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">The options I have for you are answers you would not even believe!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Think of this in terms of pure Science. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Your body is made up of atoms at the simplest level, which, for example, are Hydrogen and Oxygen. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Both of these are the components of water, which makes up 70% of our physical body. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, how old do you think these atoms are? As old as you? No way! </div><div class="MsoNormal">These atoms are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">millions</i> of years old, and have been changing form and shape as time passes, whether as water, food, air or parts of your body. So, in a way, more than 70% of your body is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">millions</i> of years old. Believe it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you don't want to, here's another option- another answer that will stun you. </div><div class="MsoNormal">How often do you breathe? Let’s estimate every breathing cycle to be three seconds long. Every three seconds, old and waste particles from your body are thrown out through your breath, and fresh, new air is inhaled. After that follow new bio-chemical reactions, generation of new cells and organic bodies, repairing of damaged cells and the cycle thus continues. So the second answer is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">three seconds... </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Which answer would you prefer?</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The above theory may sound a bit too idealistic when you look at your solid, visible, tangible body . </div><div class="MsoNormal">But hold on. Just pause for a moment and look <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beyond </i>what your naked eye can see. </div><div class="MsoNormal">What you see is not what really is. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Beneath your skin, there are billions of tiny chemical reactions occurring every second that produce little sparks of energy to run your system. </div><div class="MsoNormal">When you cut or wound yourself, something miraculous takes place- self healing. </div><div class="MsoNormal">When you eat, the potatoes and rice, pizza and soda, chocolates and ice creams becomes a part of your blood, brain, skin, muscle, hair and so much more... </div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you ever seen a machine that could perform such a feat? </div><div class="MsoNormal">A machine that can match the sheer power and genius of the human body is yet to be conceived, and might never be. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The skin replaces itself every month, the stomach lining every five days, the skeleton every three months, and over 98% of the atoms in your body will be new in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one year’s time</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Science has solid proof of this. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Look <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beyond. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i>Close your eyes and feel the subtle, all pervasive, super-intelligent life force vibrating through your body. </div><div class="MsoNormal">It is this Life force or <i>prana </i>as the ancient Sanskrit texts call it, that is really YOU. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Regular practitioners of Yoga and Meditation can feel the subtle life-force pulsating within them and touching every cell of their body, keeping them alive.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is <i>this</i> that drives you through every passing day, makes you feel happy or sad, tells you if you are hungry or sleepy, and is still working when you are too busy in your daily routines to think about your body's functions. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When you compare the size of the Nucleus of the atom to the entire atom, you will realize that most of it is empty space- a Nucleus is1,00,000 times smaller than the atom, which implies that most of your body is made up of empty <i>space</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal">And since the very basic building block of your body is the atom...you do the math. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Your body is not like a piece of bread that goes stale in two days’ time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> In order to stay alive, your miraculous body lives on the wings of change<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Every burst of emotion triggers hundreds of millions of chemical reactions through your body that, over time, become more permanent and visible. </div><div class="MsoNormal">For example, have you every observed how your face or ears turn red when you are angry? </div><div class="MsoNormal">Or how light and energetic you feel after a good, hearty laugh?</div><div class="MsoNormal">Some smiling people have eyes that always twinkle and laugh-lines around their mouths!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do not be misled by the surface signals, they are but long-term results of continuous processes that you have been conditioning your body to. </div><div class="MsoNormal">There are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">huge</i> processes going on in this never-tiring, obedient machine that is our home. </div><div class="MsoNormal">So you see, what you see is not really what IS. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We make ourselves anew every instant. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Age is but a number to fill in forms and on ID cards. </div><div class="MsoNormal">A 12 year old can feel 80 years old after a week of bed rest, </div><div class="MsoNormal">And a 60 year old can feel like a 6 year old after a walk on the beach, a bunch of balloons, and a nice chocolate ice cream.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, the real question is- How OLD do you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i>?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Before you answer take in a deep breath, close your eyes, allow yourself to be swept away by the billions of functions going on inside your body, and then breathe out. </div><div class="MsoNormal">You are new again... </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">(With learnings from Dr. Deepak Chopra's "Ageless Body, Timeless Mind)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"> -By Avinash Agarwal</div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199757813519524435.post-59174530625537620682010-06-29T17:25:00.000+05:302010-07-01T21:12:45.210+05:30Mother's Bedtime Story<div class="MsoNormal">Last night, after a hard day’s work, I went back home to Mother. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Laying my head in her lap I said, </div><div class="MsoNormal">“Mother, tell me one of your bedtime stories.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stroking my hair gently, she said, </div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hush now. Go to sleep. It’s late already.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">But the child that I was, I insisted. </div><div class="MsoNormal">So she began.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“My child, </div><div class="MsoNormal">This is a story about you. </div><div class="MsoNormal">And you’ve heard it before. </div><div class="MsoNormal">But I’m sure you’ll enjoy listening again.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I nodded quietly, already hushed into silence. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I was in awe of her, every time she began talking. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“This is the story of a Forest far, far away. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, this Forest was a perfect land. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Mind you, there is nothing absolutely perfect in this world. </div><div class="MsoNormal">But that Forest was…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I listened, and my eyes opened wide with wonder. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I tried hard to imagine what a perfect land would be like. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Mother paused for a moment, and then continued, </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“The morning sun rose to the far-away chirping of little birds, </div><div class="MsoNormal">High in the tall trees, snuggled together in their nests. </div><div class="MsoNormal">The rays were a soft golden-yellow, </div><div class="MsoNormal">And sparkled when they touched the dew drops </div><div class="MsoNormal">Hanging at the edge of the pointed leaves.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometime later, a cool wind started blowing slowly, </div><div class="MsoNormal">Shaking the green trees from their night-long slumber</div><div class="MsoNormal">And they stretched themselves awake, </div><div class="MsoNormal">As if waiting for this very moment </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Down on the ground, far below the sky </div><div class="MsoNormal">Was the moist, brown earth held together by trees </div><div class="MsoNormal">Standing tall for centuries</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The foliage of stems and leaves was so thick </div><div class="MsoNormal">That sunlight barely ever touched the ground</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A gentle stream gurgled by, </div><div class="MsoNormal">Making perhaps the only sound in the Forest at this hour,</div><div class="MsoNormal">As clear water splashed into a pond, </div><div class="MsoNormal">And animals, small and large, </div><div class="MsoNormal">Came by for a drink early in the morn…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stopped breathing,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lost in the poetry of this land</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Indeed, this was a perfect Forest. </div><div class="MsoNormal">What could possibly go wrong? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What was this Story about?</div><div class="MsoNormal">And how was it My Story?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“But then something happened that day. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Something that changed that perfect Forest for ever…” continued Mother.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You came there. </div><div class="MsoNormal">You came there with your large, noise-making machines and tree-cutting vehicles.</div><div class="MsoNormal">You mowed down the trees as if they were but clumps of grass.</div><div class="MsoNormal">You burned down the homes of these creatures as if they were but bundles of hay.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“In moments, their perfect world shattered.” said Mother, </div><div class="MsoNormal">Her voice trembling slightly,</div><div class="MsoNormal">And eyes beginning to mist with heavy tears,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Eggs dropped down to the ground in hundreds, </div><div class="MsoNormal">And little unborn birds were killed before they could see the light of day.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Little monkeys scurried about, scratching their heads,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wondering where the branches had all gone.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two young deer that had been gamboling about,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Were suddenly appalled to see an army of Men at their doorstep</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The little stream dried up in days,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Leaves turned cracked and yellow and fell to the ground,</div><div class="MsoNormal">The brown, muddy earth was covered with the bones of large animals,</div><div class="MsoNormal">And flies, ants and vultures finished off the remains</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“This is the story of a Forest far, far away. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, this Forest was a perfect land. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Mind you, there is nothing absolutely perfect in this world. </div><div class="MsoNormal">But that Forest was…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“But today, </div><div class="MsoNormal">It is just a clearing at the edge of a city,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Growing larger and larger by the day</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The only sign of a Forest that once was,</div><div class="MsoNormal">As perfect as it was,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Is a lone bird that flies to the edge of the clearing, </div><div class="MsoNormal">Every two or three days,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wondering whether all this really happened,</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Or it was just a terrible dream.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“But, my son, to tell you the truth,</div><div class="MsoNormal">This really happened. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is happening right now, as I speak. </div><div class="MsoNormal">And this will continue to happen, </div><div class="MsoNormal">If you go to sleep now, </div><div class="MsoNormal">And don’t wake up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is a real story.</div><div class="MsoNormal">What are you going to do about it?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mother covered me in a blanket and was gone, </div><div class="MsoNormal">Leaving the last question hanging in the air</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I lay awake all night,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Watching silver clouds drift across the moon,</div><div class="MsoNormal">And white stars playing hide and seek.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is a story about Me.</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is a story about Us.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m sure we’ve heard it before,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our Mother’s Bedtime Story...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Goodnight.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><o:p> - Avinash Agarwal</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>AVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093850708671737788noreply@blogger.com1