hopscotch

I watched Bal Gandharva this week-end. It's a lovely movie - extravagantly mounted with no expenses spared. Much like the man who strove to appeal to the senses of his audience. Spraying expensive scents/perfume when they walked in to watch this musical plays, giving the ladies a reason to shop for expensive, rich and exquisite sarees, shalus and of course jewels. Who can forget the creative, imaginative and innovative props for Bal Gandharva's plays? And, of course the music. Bal Gandharva alias Narayan Shripad Rajhauns is music. All those who watched the movie knew this. In almost every Marathi household, the elders have to swear by Bal Gandharva. His plays enacted by the younger generation of actors still run housefull. Of course the elders and those who had the pleasure of hearing the original, pooh-pooh the attempt. Therefore, when people like me who have been brought up in such households decide to watch the movie, can't help but be disappointed. We have heard

Aai....this is for you! I won second prize in Bal Sahitya (senior) category. The contest was held by CEE on behalf of Environment Department, Maharashtra Govt. The title of the story is "My Mother's Garden".

It's the second day of pre-monsoon showers. The dark clouds are gathering, coming closer and closer. Soon, they will start rumbling accompanied by lightning and opening up of skies. For some rains means garma garam bhajji and hot tea laced with ginger. Some see poetry in the pitter-patter of rain drops. A sight to be enjoyed by sitting by the window or getting drenched in rains. I, however, wish to differ. I bring to you 'Barish in Headlines' (for the next three months or till the monsoon lasts) In the first few days of the monsoon, your news will be: On Page 1 (LEAD): xxxxx (fill in the name of the city) lashed by rains. The story will be accompanied by photos of Wet Girls (yes, this was actually the caption given by an intrepid photographer who shot girls caught unawares in the rain), traffic snarls, a sweet kid holding an umbrella over his head and jumping up and down in the puddles, a small crowd taking shelter under a shed covered by blue tarpulin etc etc On Pag

FAT! Ummmmm...BIG....FAT Arun murmured these words critically appraising her figure before the mirror. A few minutes later she plonked on the bed and sighed deeply. Then she looked at the black and white photo on the side table and murmured, “Thank you YOU”. Eighteen-year-old Arunima (or Arun as she preferred to be called) was smart, sassy and always ready to smile. But, alone, before the mirror, she was fragile and vulnerable. “Come on 18-going on-28, move your BIG BUTT and get going,” she told herself, sitting up on the bed. She slowly moved towards closet and pulled out denims and paused. Arun looked longingly at a short tee. “No point...” she reminded and instead pulled out a long Fab India kurta. “Kurta...naaaaaah....kurti. Who cares? I look like a behenji no matter what I wear,” Arun thought out aloud. Her eyes glistened with tears when she remembered Kunal and Anjuli's biting comments. That day she had chosen to wear a short tee which fitted her snugly. She