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Showing posts from 2010

The Santa Lady

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This is a story I did four years earlier. Visit Kamala Dutta's house if you want to meet Santa Claus. He is there in all shapes and sizes. Lovely photographs too. Will upload in some time. --- Where does the Santa Claus stay? North Pole? Not really. More than 1,200 Santa Claus’s of varied shapes and sizes jostle for space in Kamal Dutta’s house. Santas made from tooth pick, sand, rangoli, wool, wax, ceramic plates, bottles, keys, pots, mugs, tiles, egg shell, coconut, pencils…whew. You name it and she has it! Every Santa, Dutta has bought or made, is proudly displayed in her showcase’s, while others are neatly packed away into cartons and boxes. Pulling them out for inspection and putting them away is such a difficult task that 76-year-old Dutta just showed us a ‘glimpse’ of her collection. Ask her how many Santas she has in her collection and Dutta says, “I stopped counting after I reached the total of 1,200. It’s not a numbers game for me.” A librarian by profession, Du

Old and New

I happened to be in Sadashiv Peth yesterday. The landscape/skyline has changed. Old crumbling wadas (there are a few left) are now sandwiched between apartments, buildings with fancy names. I was walking home so I decided to do a random check – to spot buildings/stores which I frequented to when I was staying in the hostel. Yup, Shabdali was there. The owner looking unhappy...(was he threatened by the new, swish, swanky, modern stores off the block?) I went to Shabdali often to buy Teens Today, Tinkle, Outlook and India Today. On the opposite side, there used to be Calyx – a card shop. Now there's some electronic store there. I took a turn to the Madiwale Colony. My friend's house is still there. I didn't drop in to say hello. She is in US now. Then another left turn and I came to Swami Samarth Math. I liked being there. I used to stay as a PG in a house which had its back to the Math. Now, the house has been razed down. Another apartment has come up. At that corner

The Trek

My first attempt at story-writing. Didn't quite work out. --- Sonia and Meera just couldn't stop smiling! They were setting off for their first trek in few hours time. They giggled at the thought of the fun they were going to have – new friends, trekking and playing in the snow and singing and dancing around the bonfire. What the girls didn't admit to each other was the fact that they were hoping to meet their Prince Charming! That was their secret! At 5 pm, they were at the Pune Railway Station, shepherded by Sonia's father. They spotted the group of trekkers and went over to meet Avadhoot, the group leader. The girls were the youngest member of the group going to Pubbar Valley near Shimla. There were quick introductions and Sonia found herself half in love already. Meera noticed her friend blushing. And guessed the reason behind it. She quickly tugged Sonia's hand when they were boarding the train. “What's up?” Meera whispered into her ears. “Sss

For Aai...

This was written for a contest. Results will be declared in June. Wish me Luck. ---- I was home after almost six months. I stood in the veranda with the bag hanging down from my shoulder. The garden looked lush green and neatly manicured. My growing up years have been associated with this place and its transformation from a vacant plot, into a kitchen garden and then in to a 'wildly growing' garden. There were trees, thickets, shrubs, potted plant, cactus, flowering plant, money plant...you name it and we had it. Or rather my mother had it. My parents, who wanted to build a small house, had pooled their meager resources to buy the land. When the house was being built, we (my elder sibling and I) often accompanied our parents to see the construction. The area surrounding the house, looked dusty and barren except for few trees. “Teak! That's teakwood tree,” Aai shrieked loudly. I had looked around to see if anyone had overheard us. “And”, she said pointing to anothe

D - Company

For the last few days I have been humming Door Koi Roshan Hua Ek Chehra ...from Thakshak , one of my favourite films. On a whim, I am listing down few romantic (ahem ahem)songs which begin with D Alright, the first one is Deewana Hua Badal from Kashmir ki Kali . Next one is Dooba Dooba of Silk Route (Loved the sea in this one). Then comes Dil Deewana From Maine Pyar Kiya (Bhagyashree's yellow sari...YUCK!). Dil Tadap Tadap Ke from Madhumati... Deewana...Haan Deewana from Parde. There are others too like Dard-e-Disco and Dhoom Machale...but I am not so enamoured of them...

Remember Me?

The new advts by Vodafone are cute, throwback to school days - particularly the one in which a girl saves a seat next to her for a friend. It was the same with all of us, I guess - likes and dislikes, friends, best friends and 'enemies'.I don't want to talk of my school enemies here - too petty and now when I look back, I think I made much ado of small things. My bench partner, the one I remember, was Aarti Kurkure, in Std I. I don't remember whom I sat next to in jr and sr kg. In Std III, I think it was Suparna. I don't remember the last name. I think she left the school after that one year. I particularly remember Std III very well because I lost my first tooth (front one - gaping hole, I tell you) on my birthday. It came out when I was eating lady finger veggie from my tiffin box. Suparna, who was sitting next to me in the class, made me drink water and rinse my mouth. For days I worried that the tooth might now grow back and every morning I used to check if

Something to Crib

Today's Diwali... And, I am in a crabby mood. (Isn't that an old story?) So...let me just put down in points what I am missing in life at this point: 3.30 in the afternoon, Nov 5. Here goes: 1)My pen friends and the letters we used to write. Status: I'm not in touch with any of them. 2)My old camera. I clicked my college life and niece's photographs with it Status: Left it in the almirah of my cupboard. Don't know if its working. 3)My old diaries. Used to write pages and pages when in college Status: Burnt them. I am regretting! 4)Mogra flowers. Reminds me of Aai. Status: Have to go back home and see if they are in bloom. 5)Chocolates. I used to hunt for them in my sister's bag, cupboard. Status: I can and still eat them by dozens. But they don't taste that good. 6)Rains. The thunderstorm and the lightning. Status: It doesn't rain in Pune. It just drizzles and cleans the road. 7)My home. Status: It's still standing, rock-solid. I ho

The Adorable Boy

This was published in the books page of the Sunday Supplement --- When I was in college, the most-talked about book was Prakash Sant’s Vanwas , or ‘exile’. I was staying in a hostel and was always homesick; and I didn’t want to read a book that would have proclaimed my state of mind loud and clear. It was a chance conversation with my roommate, four years later, that I developed an interest in Lampan or Lampu, the boy character (Sant himself), on whom the books — Vanwas , Pankha , (Fan) Sharada Sangeet and Zumbar (Chandelier) — were based. A highly imaginative and sensitive child, Lampan lives with his maternal grandparents (Narayan Sant and poetess Indira Sant) in a small village near Maharashtra-Karnataka border. He’s a gifted musician: he can sing, compose and play all the musical instruments; but scores a duck in Maths and Geography. Lampu speaks Marathi with a distinct Kannada lilt. His favourite words are “Mad”, Tantotant and Kay mhantat na... tyatli gat . He “measures” h

Thank You!

This was written as a second edit piece. --- The lal dabba , as it is often derisively referred to, holds very special memories for me. I was a gawky, confused teenager when I first came to Pune to study in a reputed city college. I was always homesick for the first few months, and counted days when I could go home. The first opportunity came around the ten-day Ganesh festival. I took an autorickshaw to Swargate and then made my way to the platform for Mumbai bound buses. I stayed in a small village near Panvel, so I had to get down at a 'request stop'. I, therefore, decided to wait for the conductor to ask if he could stop the bus at Dand Phata, the request stop. When he came, with the driver, I was scared of his gruff manner and I fumbled. I had to repeat myself twice before he nodded. I was travelling alone for the first and that too on a bus, so after Khopoli I kept my eyes peeled for Dand Phata. I need not have worried because the conductor called me as the stop nea

KP and After That...

This appeared in the Sunday supplement --- The chat signal turned green. “Hey!” my friend pinged. ‘Hey... long time...’ I pinged back. “Yeah... KP...” she said. ‘Koregaon Park? Aare... I need to go shopping...’ I typed furiously. “Not that KP re...” she said. ‘Then?’ I wondered. “C’mon... KP...” she sounded tired. Ah! KP... My friend was talking about the kande pohe meeting! In Maharashtra, when the prospective groom, accompanied by his family members, comes to ‘see’ the girl at her house, he is generally served kande pohe and chaha (tea). Of course, modern girls prefer to meet the guys in a cafe or restaurant. But the name has stuck. Anyway, I was eager to know how the KP meeting transpired. I had several KP meetings to my credit, and since I also got married through an ‘arranged’ match, I was considered a ‘veteran’. No wonder then, my friend started keying in the details about her experience. “The meeting wasn’t great,” she pinged. ‘So, you didn’t like him?’ I asked.

Without You

Amma... It has been two years without you. I miss you. Sorry for being the 'black sheep' of the family. And for being rebellious, short-tempered and harsh. I am sorry....

No Answers, Only ??????

Right now, I am feeling very exhausted and tired. But, I don't want to mope or at least whine on this blog. However, nothing nice or cheery comes to my mind... If I could use drawing tools, I would sketch lines representing my thoughts in a criss-cross manner – if you look from far you can see a nice pattern; from close, it will look like a mess or clutter. That's what is the current state of my mind. I am so TIRED. Am I working too hard? Do I need to see a psychoanalyst? Am I tired of pleasing others? How difficult it is to do things I like? Why do I drive people up against the WALL? Why am I not sleeping well at night? Why do I toss and turn endlessly? Why do I babble in my sleep? What is troubling me? --- I have no answer. Only questions.

Enduring Impoliteness

I had written this for the second edit column --- Today when we step out of the houses, our usual stops are at the multiplexes and malls. Whether one likes it or not, the malls - with their promises of sops, and a 'lifetime experience' - are here to say. With so many new malls, stores, designer boutiques are coming up every other day, there's stiff competition to win more and more clients and customers with 'sales', 'discount rates' and 'membership cards'. It is a haven for both the shopaholics and for those who indulge in it occasionally. But, what dims the 'lifetime experience' is the demeanour of the staff on the floor who are supposed to guide and help you choose from the vast array of stocks. The experience, at least in my case, has been an indifferent attitude, half nods and fingers pointed in vague direction. The plausible reasons, which I have come up with for their downright rude behaviour, are that they are ill at ease in thei

Live from Peepli

Yup! I know lot has been said about the movie. It was sure to do well, right from the moment Aamir Khan decided to produce it. Well, yes, the movie was good. Damn good. Slick, humorous and as 'real' it could get. I thought it was going to be about farmers suicide. But...yes it does talk about the farmer's or A FARMER'S SUICIDE. The farmer, in this case, is Natha. And, his suicide is discussed in DETAIL by the mediawalle from Delhi and also by the regional satraps. The media makes a mockery of his death. And, like all the media reports, exclusives, breaking news - nothing CONCLUSIVE, comes out of it. The movie, I mean. Personally, three scenes touched me. One is that of the farmer, Hari Mahto, who has lost his land because he didn't have the money to repay the loan he took from the bank. He works in a pit now, digging mud. The mud is sold to contractors for meagre Rs 100 per day. He dies. The media, meanwhile, is tracking Natha's death (will he? won't he?

My Grand Plans

I don't have much work to do this week. So, I guess that's why am in 'plan-making' spree. Even when there's lots of work, I keep making plans – what to do when I am free and not have much to do. Do I actually implementing the plans when I am free? Nope. But, that doesn't mean I stop making plans, does it? Well, I got this brain wave when P and I had gone out. We both saw a temple on a busy road, but hidden by some tapering structure and surrounded by trees. It was dusk and hence couldn't be seen properly from where we were standing. I immediately felt like crossing the road and jumping over the ditch to the other side, to the temple, to see what it was like. P played a spoil-sport. So, we decided to come back here again during daylight. I have always loved temples – not those where pilgrims and tourists make a beeline to ask for 'mannat' – where its all calm and quiet; where you can pray or dream or just talk to yourself and soak in the atmosph

Kids!

This was published sometime back --- I work for a children's weekly and as a part of my work, I meet several children and their parents. The tete-a-tete have not always been pleasant; I have often come across children who are too 'adult' beyond their years. Twelve-year-old boys are reluctant to cycle around the colony on their own or get wet in the rain. Instead, they prefer playing with their gadgets and using adult 'cuss' words. The 12-year-old girls love dressing up in their college-going sister's attire. I sometimes find it difficult to distinguish between a 10-year-old girl and an 18-year-old girl. At the other end of the spectrum, are children who are too 'frivolous', and believe in 'Live Life Kingsize' . Unfortunately, most of the parents do not think that there is anything wrong in giving their children a Rs 1000 currency note to blow up in one evening at the multiplex or the mall. I have often come away feeling disturbed and powerl

Lost, confused, impatient and WILD

I have been yelling around, rude to 'dumb' people and generally being a slave-driver. Sometimes I wonder, if I am too hard on people. Maybe I am. And, what can I do about it? I don't derive any pleasure out of this. All I expect is that people put in their effort in what they are doing – concentrate on the task at hand. But, unfortunately, I have to deal with people who are distracted, slow (and not steady), and on top have an attitude problem. So I guess I am justified in making them run and getting work done. As they say, its lonely at the top. (I am not exactly on the top, but when you have to get work done from three to four women, it does get TOUGH AND LONELY). I can't bring myself to discuss commonplace topics when I am working. Nor do I enjoy taking frequent breaks. I am an employer's Godsend and employee's nightmare. Hahaha! LOL. This deters my juniors from building any real connection with me. But, you know what, the juniors/trainees who have gone

What do you think of me?

An old colleague of mine wanted to know what memories we had of her. The one that immediately came to my mind, wasn't a particularly nice one, especially so because it was kind of personal and had to be put up in a public space. I did it, nevertheless. And, that as usual, set me thinking. If I were to ask what was the first thing people remembered about me... what would they say? I am cluttered with thoughts and memories and as usual confused. I did ask two people on chat and got no replies. Maybe they had BAD memories. What if I were to ask myself about five memories/incidents that mean the most to me? They are: 1)My marriage 2)My mother's death These were the first two ones that popped into my mind. Life altering ones! I am yet learning, coping, adjusting and loving. I can't think of three more memories, in order of importance/cherished ones, that is. The images that are crowding before me are some from my post-grad days. A girl, who is in turns, whining, child

Story of Ambu

This was written for the kids studying in vernacular medium. (God! Two posts in a day!) --- Six-year-old Ambu sat under the shade of a banyan tree, tears pricking her eyes. “Dear God, in next ten minutes, I want to grow up like Anu, Raksha, Aju and Abhi. I don’t want to remain limbu-timbu ,” Ambu prayed her eyes shut tight. After sometime Ambu opened her eyes to find that she was still the same. She wanted so badly to be in the cricket team, to hit fours and sixes off the full-toss ball. But Ambu was made to run and hunt for the ball in thick hedges and remain at the beck and call of the players. Today she threw a tantrum, but the teenagers gave her sage advice, “Grow up limbu-timbu .” Thus sat Ambu wondering how to grow up…when she heard herself being called. There were the others, coming towards her waving and beckoning. “The ball has disappeared. Will you hunt for it?,” said Aju, panting. Ambu was about to refuse when he said, “You can bat, if you find it.” “Really?” A

For Aai

This is for you Aai … (I had written this sometime back) Aarghhhhh! Not again…where’s the key? I mumbled to myself, digging into the pockets of my bag. I could feel the elusive key as I dug deeper into the bag, but instead of producing it, my fingers touched something soft and prickly. Rose petals…some soft, some crushed and leaves with the thorns intact. The aroma of the petals engulfed my senses. My thoughts went back to the not so distant past. ---- Every trip back home meant coming back with flowers – roses, mogras , jai-jui , lily, raat-rani , marigold…Most of them used to wilt by the time I reached Pune. “What’s the point if they are not going to last long? My bag smells, the flowers make a mess…” I tried telling my mother, hoping to dissuade her from giving me fresh beautiful flowers every Monday morning. It didn’t work of course. “It’s a ‘Best of Luck’ flower. The flower will bring you luck and success in whatever you do,” my mother used to tell me, thrusting another f

Miserable June, Sept and August glory

Well, June didn't spell any good news for me. In school days June meant picking up the bag and hopping on to the school bus. Now, of course its the same. I just don't hop on to the school bus. But I work for school alright. Miserable month. The rains, the work - I'm hating it. And, m dreading September. The only thing to look forward is August. My Independence! LOL I complete a year.

Rains!!!

It's about to rain...I can feel it even though I am sitting in a glass cage insulated from the outside world. I can feel the distinct nip in the climate; I can hear the thundering; I turn back to see the skies darkening. Will it drizzle? Or will it pour? I hope for the latter. There's nothing like getting drenched to the skin. And, hoping to cross the danger zone safely without stepping on the crabs clambering out of their homes under the boulders. Danger zone! That was the name my sister (and I agreed) had thought for the kaccha rasta which was lined by boulders conveniently used as stepping stones during the rains. The bad thing was that the boulders wobbled when we gingerly tried to walk over them and not to mention the crabs and frogs and tadpoles and snakes. I remember I used to mumble prayers to someone sitting up there while I hopped across the boulders; sometimes the wrong judgment leading me to land into the slush. Once on the other side I bravely continued my jo

Old posts in a new blog

These posts were published before. Hope to write something new... -- My looks and the way I dressed was a cause of concern to everybody else, except me. “What's the big deal?” deal was my constant refrain when first my mother and then my friends in hostel, frowned at my mismatched salwar kameez or down-at-heel chappals. “You know what...you look like a proper jhalli . Just look at your hair, all frizzled. No one will believe that you have run a comb through your hair today. And, listen this dupatta doesn't go with the maroon kameez. By the way, have you ironed the salwar kameez before wearing it?”, Anima, my room-mate, went on and on without even pausing to check if I was taking it in. I was not. Why would I, especially when it's an everyday ritual – you know something like being forced to drink milk and then quickly emptying the rest of it in your sister's glass once your mom's back is turned. And your mom being very much aware of it... Anima knew that I list

Questions!

I tried to catch the evening show of The Japanese Wife. Couldn't get the tickets though. I think I need to attune myself to the changing circumstances. Until the year before last, I could ( or any average joe, jui) easily get into the theatre, buy a packet of popcorn and settle down to watch the movie. Not any longer. Today the multiplex security guards shooed me to the neighbouring mall's parking lot. There was a queue of two-wheelers and cars before and after me. First, they checked my dikki, in which they found a hand bag, desperately in need of repairs. He asked a lady security officer to go through the contents. Meanwhile, another security guard noted down the number of my Activa. Another one asked me to remove my scarf. In between, they waved away an empty auto standing before the mall. (Images of the auto being blown up and all of us being hurt or killed flashed before my eyes). Then I was allowed to go down to the parking lot. Mid way I was stopped again – had to pay

HURT

A friend out of the blue said that I was screwing up her life. A general remark on her appearance invited the 'screwing up' comment. I was hurt. I didn't particularly mean to be insensitive when I knew what she was going through. Another friend doesn't get the hint - that I have a different priorities now. It's not as if I don't want to be in touch or wish to avoid him. Sometimes I wonder, why do I have to be the 'giver' in any relationship. There are times when I wish to be left alone, but no, there are friends who always wish to take my time. I remember when my mother was ill (I sorta knew that she wouldn't be with me for long, but was running around checking with the docs, hospitals and sanatoriums so that she could recover...) I had decided that I am going to focus on her, be with her that she needs me. But, no, I had to deal with friends who wanted to know why I was in hiding, why I didn't take calls, why I couldn't meet them... May

What makes a house?

Having moved recently into one of the 'elite' areas of the city, I fell in love with most of the houses. ( I simply love houses/homes/buildings. Don't mistake, I am no authority on architecture) My brisk morning walk is often interrupted when I slow down to just gaze at the bungalows – some are compact ones, some are two-storeyed/three-storeyed. I love those – which are old and have a bit of history attached to them. I spend time reading the ugly looking blue-coloured PMC's heritage site nameplates. Bits of information like – Doyen of Indian classical music, Vasantrao Deshpande spent the last few years of his life here (Building's name is Basant) gives me goosebumps. I have often wondered about people living in the houses I have liked. What's their day like? Does it mean anything to them – a vocalist of repute had once stayed in their apartment or a reputed Marathi historian stayed in the house they are now living in? Or is it just a name for them? I really

SHIT!

There have been few times that I felt really troubled by other people's attitude towards me. This latest incident however takes the cake. The two fat suckers just stood up and yelled and yelled - I wonder how they managed to pitch their voice on that 'even' tempo. The performance lasted for some 10 minutes. I just didn't look at them. But, I know that they spouted lava of venom and all the malice they could rake up. Not against me. I mean, they didn't take my name. But made sure that I heard every word that was being yelled/hurled like a missile at me. The first time they put up the act, I had a tough time stopping myself from giggling. I wish I had. That would have taken the wind out of their sails. The second act deserved a punch. Perhaps that would have taken the air out of those puffed up balloons. But I didn't. Not for the lack of courage. I just couldn't stoop so low like standing in my cubicles and yelling names. No, not names. They didn't tak

I am BORED

I am bored...I am bored..I am bored...I am bored...I am bored...I am bored...I am bored... Writing it over and over again doesn't make me feel less bored. So, what should I do to feel better? to feel happy? to feel good and nice and float on cloud nine? Should I rant or rave? Should I laugh like insane? Or should I stretch those lip muscles in a grimace? Hmmmm...tried and tested I am not feeling better. Why not write down those things that make me feel better? What will make me feel better? 1) Sizzling brownie with hot chocolate sauce 2) Garma-garam pohe with ketchup 3) A good book 4) A good movie 5) A bed to sleep and no one to disturb 6) Gulmohar tree 7) A jog around the park 8) A bench where I can sit and watch the world go by 9) No work to be done and no pressing deadlines to be met 10) The fragrance of ratrani and mogra at night 11) The slight nip in the air 12) The first rain and the smell/aroma/fragrance of the mud 13) The deep blue sea 14) Drive down t

Long Live the Comics

This article has also been published. I think it still needs to be worked upon. Well... --- It was heartening to read that the first copy of Batman, published in 1939, fetched more than $1 million at an auction recently. The zeros added to 1did not make me happy, but the fact that 'Old is STILL Gold'. I remember being a voracious reader of Batman and Superman and desi comics like Chacha Chaudhary, Billoo and Channi Chachi. The other childhood favourites were Chandamama, Champak and Tinkle. I don't know if any of the above-mentioned comics will be auctioned for millions of dollars, but they certainly could do with a new lease of life. The comics, as I remember them, were of poor print quality. The language wasn't grammatically correct either. Yet, we were hooked to the comics. I remember waiting for the vendor to get us new copies and once they came immediately settle down to leaf through the pages gaily illustrated characters and the speech bubbles. Looking bac

Learning to be lady-like

Some pointers for me...hinted by my well-wishers 1)Brushing my hair at least twice or thrice in a day 2)Avoid wearing wrinkled clothes and mis-matched payjamas (Ooops, Salwars or chudidars and something called legging is 'in'. Payjamas is so downmarket, snigger the polite ladies) 3)How about trying to sit with knees pressed together for 10 minutes in a day instead of split wide open? (Am trying. No luck, so far) 4)How about....ahem ahem...manicure and pedicure? (What's that supposed to mean?) 5)A touch of lipstick... (Eeeeeeeew... run for my dear life) 6)Waxing hands and... (It's too hot, I yell. And cold wax is too....icky) 7)Avoid walking with a heavy tread (Is the construction so shaky that it will collapse at my …....kg weight) 8)Greeting others politely ( I thought backslapping established instant camaraderie) 9)Talking in a low, soft tone. (I CAN'T HEAR YOU) 10)No picking nose. Why not carry a daintily embroidered hanky to blow your nose into?(Got

Dear Lucy...

Dear Lucy, Where would I be without you? You are a real friend...ensuring that I munch less on chips and run around and also exercise my vocal chords once in a while. I do find it irritating when every time you see something edible in my hands, you make a rush at me, pawing and clawing. No amount of squealing, shouting or thumping works. You are really very determined. On most occasions I have to give up bakarwadi (something which I really like) or chocolates and see you falling upon it greedily. You give it one final lick, and look up at me again hoping that I will oblige with some more. That doesn't really happen. Sometimes when you are out in the garden, barking your head off, I manage to sneak in few bakarwadis and chocolates. I feel so happy! Guilt pleasure! And, the fact that I outwitted you also adds to my happiness. Sometimes I feel sad at having snacked behind your back, so I offer you some biscuits and watch you gobble them up. When I'm in a really generous mood,

German Bakery

The day after German Bakery blast, I got calls from friends in Delhi to check if I was safe. I was 'safe' and 'insulated' from the happening too. "Yeah...yeah I am okay. It's not near my place." There was and still is the disconnect with the blast. Maybe I have got too cynical and fatalist. "If I have to die, then I will die." Sounds cruel perhaps. But life has not been any different for a decade or so. The first time I really shuddered at the dastardly act, and killing of innocents was the 1993 serial blasts which rocked Bombay/Mumbai. I was 11 or 12 and I can recall and even feel the tensed atmosphere and people watching their backs. After that, I think one sorta gets used to such killings - as long as its not me. Perhaps the terrorists have succeeded. They have succeeded in benumbing the humane feelings and also the cry for justice. Past reports have shown that none of the terrorists or the brain behind the plan or the mastermind, as they

Harishchandrachi Factory

I saw the movie 'harishchandrachi factory' a couple of days back. My verdict......ummmmm Not all that great. I think the movie, which was meant as a tribute to Dadasaheb Phalke, the Father of Indian Cinema, has been trivialised. The foresight, the persistence of the man and the support of his family doesn't really come through. The director's (Paresh Mokashi) attempt to show the trials and errors, the tribulations his family goes through in a light-hearted manner (perhaps the word is 'humourous')falls flat. There are blunders too. How could a brown-skinned native sit along with the Brits and watch a motion picture? In 1911? Didn't the Brits have notice board on most of the public establishments - Indians and Dogs Not Allowed. The characters too are not 'developed'. They are mere caricatures, their roles/contribution in the life of Phalke not fully explored. I wish they would have shown more of the man, Abdullah, the inn-keeper (hotelier/restaur

From Venus

This is something which I wrote sometime back --- I was never good at Science, so this concept of 'Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus' never made sense to me. Why talk about planetary influences when living on ground...(earth). I didn't think it was a big deal. Now, that I am four months into marriage, the distinction is slowly becoming clear to me. I arrived at this conclusion after some 'minor' glitches, which according to my husband were 'blunders'. Talk of opposite poles attracting – I don't know ABC of cars and their body parts. I mistook fan belt for conveyor belt and the mention of BMW motorcycle set me thinking. I had heard of BMW cars, but what so special about this motorcycle? Then 'Mars' decided that it was time 'Venus' was given some lessons in cars, motorcycles and their engineering – how a two engine powered BMW motorcycle was the best and very rare and is the best example of..... I am not sure if I can recall

First steps

Hi! I always have a had a lot to say and write. This is just a different medium. Hope it works for me.