tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51833595857685147942024-03-18T08:33:28.719+05:30Lighter side...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.comBlogger131125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-37955570443664371302015-11-21T18:50:00.001+05:302015-11-21T18:53:01.092+05:30Thoughts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was raining real hard outside;
the husband was just sitting there doing nothing (as always) and I thought to
myself, <i>“Damn, there’d be too much
traffic tomorrow morning. I should leave earlier to office than usual. Maybe I
should make Aalu bajji or something. Vengaaya bajji would be awesome too. Or
use both aalu and onion and make bonda. Yum! Thinking about which, a cup of hot
chocolate or coffee would be a perfect match.” <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The thought about hot chocolate
led to the memories of weekend afternoons when my husband and I would walk over
to the nearest <i><a href="http://www.cafecoffeeday.com/">Café Coffee Day</a></i> and spend our time talking away about technology
or business ventures that never took off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The thought about weekend
afternoons led to memories of umpteen bike rides to the airport just to have a
cup of coffee from <a href="http://www.maiyas.in/"><i>Maiyas</i> </a>and enjoy
the view. Those were the times when Sidhu was not there and we could just
decide and head out in a matter of minutes without having to worry about
carrying diapers and bottles and rubber sheets and what not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The thought about Sidhu reminded
me to check on him – had he woken up? Perhaps he had crawled over to the edge
of the bed? Damn, the bed is too high. I should probably order a play pen or a
wooden crib for him right away. Thinking of wooden furniture, I should ask
Sabal to take the car and drive us to Channapatna and get for Sidhu a walker. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thinking about Channapatna, I
should also buy some wooden toys for Navaratri next year. Even though it is a
whole year away, I don’t know if I would be able to go all the way to
Channapatna before that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thinking about Navaratri, how
nice it would be if Sidhu were a girl baby! I would have dressed her up in
pattu pavada chattai and decorated her hair with flowers and took her to see
Golu to all my relatives’ and neighbours’ houses and after a few years, maybe
teach her to sing songs and all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTXwQkNMV3LahQVbaZnIO3IsZya5Roz_h230zPQh9ZNI00oQQgbxdOKkGGE2WVUA0lTFpd59RQkzSA7c5Z5NGtNFNG01cDqgbTqA_ugMUZJ8GDvn83wRWMCcpsz35G4mSpQXIVJl9YolQ/s1600/thoughts.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTXwQkNMV3LahQVbaZnIO3IsZya5Roz_h230zPQh9ZNI00oQQgbxdOKkGGE2WVUA0lTFpd59RQkzSA7c5Z5NGtNFNG01cDqgbTqA_ugMUZJ8GDvn83wRWMCcpsz35G4mSpQXIVJl9YolQ/s320/thoughts.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sigh… I looked at my husband. I
asked him what he was thinking. He said, “Nothing.” NOTHING? How can anyone not
think of anything? Somebody answer me before my next train of thoughts begin. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-5719714849651337842015-11-17T22:06:00.002+05:302015-11-17T22:10:54.370+05:30The Villi <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With the mothership living with us to
help us take care of Sidhu, lot of time in the evening is spent with the idiot
box switched on and equally idiotic serials. The astonishing thing is that
within 5 minutes of any episode of serial, you can identify who the good party
is and who the villain (in most cases, it is what we call in Tamil <i>“villi”</i>). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now how exactly is this
identification of the megaserial villi done? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table border="1" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoTableGrid" style="border-collapse: collapse; border: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; width: 231.05pt;" valign="top" width="308"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Good Party<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
</td>
<td style="border-left: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; width: 231.05pt;" valign="top" width="308"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">THE VILLI<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; width: 231.05pt;" valign="top" width="308"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If there is a renowned yesteryear Kollywood
heroine in the serial, she belongs to the good party. She is mostly seen
smiling (ONLY) during the title credits.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; width: 231.05pt;" valign="top" width="308"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">N/A<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; width: 231.05pt;" valign="top" width="308"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You see any women crying? Yes? They belong to the
good party. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; width: 231.05pt;" valign="top" width="308"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You see a woman going all ‘Hahahahaha’ and
challenging to destroy someone? She is the one. THE VILLI.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; width: 231.05pt;" valign="top" width="308"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You see women who wear little or no make-up? Good
people, yo!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; width: 231.05pt;" valign="top" width="308"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You see the one wearing the heaviest of make-up
and the heaviest of jewellery? THE VILLI.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; width: 231.05pt;" valign="top" width="308"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You see one man who looks like he sells Paan
Parag? He is Yudishtir. <i>Meendum
Mahabharatam</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; width: 231.05pt;" valign="top" width="308"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The one who doesn’t have salt in his toothpaste
is Shakuni.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Takes less than 5 minutes to
adjudge who is who. And these serials run for years together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There is an exception to this though – men are
difficult to categorize mainly due to lack of make-up mostly. Also both good
and bad men are allowed to have more than one wife. It makes it even more
difficult to identify who is what.</span> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Amma is a lot better compared to
Paati who watches <i>“Sasural Simar Ka”</i>
in Tamil. After about a couple of hours I noticed she was watching the same
shit in Hindi. And she can’t even hear properly. She generally makes out what
we are speaking by reading our lips. Then how the hell she understands
Hindi/Dubbed form Hindi serials is beyond logic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Anyway, I have to go. <i>“Vamsam” </i>is about to start. Have to go
and see what happens to Sankari and the other kids. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-53548016835223041102015-11-16T13:56:00.000+05:302015-11-16T13:56:05.930+05:30We have feelings too :-|<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was born on a day when there
was thunder and lightning; the wind was blowing hard and the windows were
rattling their butts off. It was a large room with plenty of lights, there were
many people in the room – they took turns handling me. I straight away
understood that they all knew the purpose of my birth for they had a sad,
disgusted look when they held me in their hands. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was soon wrapped even though I
was not feeling cold. I was put in a room with many others just like me. So
many others just like me. So many that it was starting to feel suffocating and
sweaty and claustrophobic and smelly. But we all knew our lives were going to get
much worse than this. There was gloom filling what little air we had inside the
awful room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then one day, the room was
opened. Light. There was so much light and so much air to breathe. There was
laughter. There was pink. There were cartoons. We had never known happiness and
now we knew how it felt. All of a sudden I was pulled out of the room and laid
down beside a baby. The baby was pretty rude as it started attacking me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before I knew it, I was stuck to
the bottom of the baby. There is no need to say that it was smelly. It became
worse when the baby pooped. When I say worse, it is in the vicinity of watching
a Sajid Khan movie while getting your legs waxed and listening to the baby
scream because it had gas. Oh that reminds of the smell of its gas, of which I
know so much more than you ever will. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am a diaper. We have feelings
too, you know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Disclaimer: The author of this post was in an emotionally vulnerable
state after changing a particularly stinking diaper while writing this. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">P.S: Sorry for not putting the disclaimer at the beginning of the post. :-D</span></i></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-85817623755548828582015-11-07T22:37:00.001+05:302015-11-07T22:37:37.447+05:30Friends!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; text-align: justify;">
The most
underrated relationship in the world is the one between two girl friends. While
male bonding has always been worshiped, the friendship between girls has
always been made to sound too contrived and negative, or worse, silly. Really,
boys are <b><u>NOT</u></b> all we talk
about! Our media and pop culture too, hype up the relationship between two male
friends about the longevity and depth of their friendship (<i>yeh dosti hum nahi thodenge </i>types) while it is always shown that
friendship between girls get destroyed by their ego/jealousy/greed/boyfriends,
etc. Our movies too, re-emphasize how brittle our friendship is, while the
truth cannot be any farther. I really cannot think about a movie where the
friendship between two girls has been the plot, around which the story
revolves, can you? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18pt; text-align: justify;">
Girl friends are the best because:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18pt; text-align: justify;">
We can discuss anything with our friends that our male partners or even mothers won’t be able to understand. This includes work issues, problems with colleagues, health issues, relationship issues, or anything really.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8sSZDt2xIPI0Qc9uIFJFSPDv3uh2gqQ-ZNHvkGIEpDWpHDahlL-QWP3lq1_7gK9MaFmDFr5SMguh0ye88vUvxSTFUjHZjRD1Hx6P0Seu45GKmrIG8bNYoTOnJgVue1hHGaEU8_wGxJY/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8sSZDt2xIPI0Qc9uIFJFSPDv3uh2gqQ-ZNHvkGIEpDWpHDahlL-QWP3lq1_7gK9MaFmDFr5SMguh0ye88vUvxSTFUjHZjRD1Hx6P0Seu45GKmrIG8bNYoTOnJgVue1hHGaEU8_wGxJY/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; text-align: justify;">
We can still
crack insensitive inside jokes about silly things that might or might not have any
importance in the real world whatsoever. Try going on a long drive with your
bestie and you will know what I mean! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; text-align: justify;">
Girlfriends
make amazing babysitters. They are the best ones to trust your baby with if you
and your better half want to escape away for a romantic dinner. Imagine how it
would be if you were to leave your baby with a friend of your husband’s! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; text-align: justify;">
There is never
a dull moment when you are with your girlfriend. There are always other people
to gossip about. *wink wink*<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; text-align: justify;">
Trouble in
your paradise with your spouse/boyfriend? A good talk with your bestie is the
best medicine. You could talk about it with her, get her ideas/solutions, or
simply just vent it out of your system with a good long boo-hoo session and lots
of wine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg69eT7Zk2BzxfyRx_opRG43H_ABnbC1wyVmCCQ9K4Y_mVXP9aDEjN4p7uERqpfh4aG3xYlpyoiPASOBHCK9gcW-rp4xKMayUylJB2nqdqPZUHOTdPvXln8ULJ1iY6i-E1FStF5yAmJYU/s1600/Queen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg69eT7Zk2BzxfyRx_opRG43H_ABnbC1wyVmCCQ9K4Y_mVXP9aDEjN4p7uERqpfh4aG3xYlpyoiPASOBHCK9gcW-rp4xKMayUylJB2nqdqPZUHOTdPvXln8ULJ1iY6i-E1FStF5yAmJYU/s320/Queen.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt; text-align: justify;">
I will save
the best for the last. Girls are the best to shop with. Sorry guys, you don’t
even stand a chance; you just cannot compete with girls in this one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-26869315668798374812015-11-03T15:49:00.001+05:302015-11-03T15:49:31.036+05:30Social Issues Much?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are
certain social issues that I feel very strongly about – no, not the big-ass
ones like women empowerment or LGBT rights or caste-ism. There are much better
qualified people to do that. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8eytdoU3qIVK9Askl6bK28rWZUm7dbvYaAlMRt5XwW6tk2AlaTygRrvIQstzz0YhAzvhwgaWKnGePnrknE1PmvXAgYyI3Zi36MsUB5hMOJ_fHXU5PcKHvdleG29XA9JiiBhcZV_pzXA0/s1600/social+issues.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8eytdoU3qIVK9Askl6bK28rWZUm7dbvYaAlMRt5XwW6tk2AlaTygRrvIQstzz0YhAzvhwgaWKnGePnrknE1PmvXAgYyI3Zi36MsUB5hMOJ_fHXU5PcKHvdleG29XA9JiiBhcZV_pzXA0/s320/social+issues.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am the small one – I worry about social issues
like, “What happened to the vada-bonda shop akka? Why hasn’t she set shop for
the last 10 days? The bhel puri anna who has his shop next to hers didn’t know
either.” Or like, “The neighbourhood stray dog with the mean looking scar on
his face hasn’t been eating the leftover bread. Hope he is alright. Maybe his
stomach is upset?” You get the drift.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That said,
social issues that have been protested against / the ones that have attracted
the media’s eyes have not altogether been abolished. Transgenders are still
being looked down upon, marital rape still hasn’t been declared a crime,
Bellandur lake is still frothing (hey, detergent companies, here is a good idea
for your next ad – “Secret to Bellandur lake’s extraordinary frothing -
<insert brand="" name="">”). <o:p></o:p></insert></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We live in a
country where people are fighting for basic rights – right to good food, right
to clean drinking water, right to practice any religion, right to be accepted
with alternate sexuality, right to education, etc. I have problems too,
da! I am also fighting, ok? – “Oh my God, the wi-fi is so frikkin’ slow!”, or
“My Candy Crush lives are over!”, or “My sedan is too big in most parking
spaces!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Most of Westerners think of India as a third-world country. But there are three
different countries within India – the filthy rich, the good old middle class
and the poorest of the poor. I really feel bad about our country, man. I wish I
could do something to improve… hey, Ice Age is playing on TV. Let me go watch! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-78962412476992067752013-10-18T10:57:00.001+05:302013-10-18T11:28:11.848+05:30Le Pondy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The place is dreamy.
It has become a phenomenon that keeps me sane through extremely frustrating
times. Pondicherry feels less of a place
and more of a state of mind. Wake up at 5:30am and look eastwards at the Bay of
Bengal as the Sun thinks about rising and you will know what I am talking
about.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVEnjSq5fjhL_l6NN8W5-ABWfKGWfwepd32qiehp3yRlQcX4J6AjVI9Emgf8KqNpo_fSMMVRsGIzmtQxvyotjYhyeM6LuSpKKRlIbol8NdzQ0Mzb6Kdg-hREvC6Ew6kA1HNhkkmoR8OzM/s1600/pondy_beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVEnjSq5fjhL_l6NN8W5-ABWfKGWfwepd32qiehp3yRlQcX4J6AjVI9Emgf8KqNpo_fSMMVRsGIzmtQxvyotjYhyeM6LuSpKKRlIbol8NdzQ0Mzb6Kdg-hREvC6Ew6kA1HNhkkmoR8OzM/s320/pondy_beach.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We arrived at the
resort and jumped right into the swimming pool to beat the heat - the Sun seems
to love this place so much so that he just doesn't give up on roasting us. Add
to this the humidity that comes with the breathtakingly beautiful seashore. Then
we had a sumptuous lunch at the resort's pool-side restaurant followed by a
blissful siesta. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Later that evening
it was time to explore the town - we rented a motorbike and went into the
charmingly French, yet messed up in out very own Indian way, city. The city is
the perfect mix of cross-culturalism and conservatism I yearn for. It was so
peaceful and relaxed and clear-cut when compared to a confused, west-aping
Bangalore. A walk along the beach followed by an epic filter coffee at the
Bombay Ananda Bhavan and back to the resort on time for a mild dinner followed
by a session of what the French are famous for - no, not the kissing - a good
bottle of red wine. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The next morning we
were up at 5am and went to Chennai and came back to the resort by 5pm - on a
motorbike (that was in admit-to-the-ICU condition) - along the ECR - with
pitstops at the place that was considered to be the <i>Paradise on Earth</i> created by the mighty Pallavas - Mamallapuram.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The next day as I
was swimming at the resort's pool, I saw this couple - a European man, his
Indian wife and their two little kids. The man was playing with his younger son
while I was resting there and we began small talking. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Where are you
from?", he asked. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Bangalore. And
you?"</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"France.
Paris." He continued, "Vacation?"</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Yes, just for
a couple more days."</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Oh, I get one
month every year." He boasted - or that's how it sounded to the
holiday-deprived, overworked, Indian me.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He continued,
"My wife's parents are from Pondy. So we come here for a month every
year."</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We went on to chat
about what I did for a living among other things for about half an hour. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There I was, sitting
by the pool, watching people from various countries and cultures - the way they
talk, their boy language and everything - while sipping on a mug of chilled
beer. Life is good indeed - specially when it is slow, like it is in Pondy. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-69773973863271077472013-10-04T10:55:00.000+05:302013-10-07T11:45:53.480+05:30Nandhini - The Mysterious<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Spoliers Ahead</b> - If you have not already read Ponniyin Selvan and you intend to read it, this post gives away key story points. If you have not read Ponniyin Selvan already and don't intend to, please go ahead and read the post - maybe it will motivate you to read the epic!<br />
<br />
The country was
mourning. Mourning the death of their bravest son. Men, women and children were
beyond consolation; the houses in the cities and villages bore a lifeless look;
the animals wore a look of despair; even the birds seemed to be singing a sorrowful
tune. </div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The eldest son of
their king - Aditya - the prince who recognized no fear, the warrior who was
capable of guiding his army to victory against the mightiest of enemies, the
handsome prince who, by now, should have married a beautiful princess and ruled
the country - is gone forever from the wicked world, under the most mysterious
circumstances in living memory.</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhluZFod6pSXGZdOBPiGiu77biIaKduIy5GM33DKE4VZDBsRqMN_QJBmaXCVBBUfBU3FXc7wk30AoxMUk_-AVoc5kyM8jtHxmQ_MqTOHMCQGyZQeLRCi9toIGkHVFB8XU-UUysyf1u9AVY/s1600/nandhini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhluZFod6pSXGZdOBPiGiu77biIaKduIy5GM33DKE4VZDBsRqMN_QJBmaXCVBBUfBU3FXc7wk30AoxMUk_-AVoc5kyM8jtHxmQ_MqTOHMCQGyZQeLRCi9toIGkHVFB8XU-UUysyf1u9AVY/s1600/nandhini.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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</div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">She stood there, as one among at
least another thousand people watching Aditya being cremated. She couldn't help
but think of the irony, as she remembered begging for another man's life from
Aditya, even falling at his feet - a wish that was not granted by Aditya. And
now, the mighty Aditya was gone.</span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Even as she grew up as the
daughter of a priest, in a religious household, she always knew from within
that she was a princess. She knew that she was the daughter of a brave king,
supposed to be brought up in a palace but somehow was growing up in the wrong
family. She felt more like a Kshatriya than like a Brahmin. When was 12 years
old, she was taken to a big palace to play along with the kids of the Chola
king. </span></div>
</div>
<a name='more'></a> <br />
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<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The king's eldest
son Aditya, blinded by the deadly combination of her sheer beauty and his
innocent adolescence, fell in love with her. The king's daughter, Kundavai,
hailed by the entire kingdom as the most intelligent woman in the world even
when she was barely 10 years old, was burning with jealousy as her brother
liked Nandhini more than he liked her. And as with all adolescent girls, she
could not take it that Nandhini was more beautiful than her. Even though she
knew it from within, she wouldn't accept the fact. </div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This resulted in
Nandhini being isolated from all the games Kundavai and her friends would play;
she was always gossiped about. She felt exactly how any girl her age would -
vengeful. As life took its own mysterious path, she ended up having to beg for
the life of the man she loved from Aditya, a man who loved her to the point of
obsession. As her wish remained unfulfilled, she swore to herself more to
destroy the Chola legacy. All the pent up hatred and anger made her marry the
sexagenarian patriarch of the Pazhuvoor dynasty - Periya Pazhuvettarayyar. </div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
She was again a part
of the same Chola family she was isolated by; only to be humiliated more by
Kundavai, who had, by now, grown into the most celebrated princess in the
history of the Chola dynasty. Kundavai was, by relation, the granddaughter of Periya Pazhuvettarayyar. And by marrying him,
Nandhini had become her grandmother. Not a chance was spared by her to ridicule
Nandhini, by calling her <span style="font-style: italic;">Paati </span>- the
Tamil equivalent of grandmother. </div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
She bore all the
injustice meted out to her with patience and resilience. She had her eyes set
on one thing and one thing only - to destroy the Chola dynasty and seek revenge
for everything she had to lose, everything she had to go through. Subconsciously,
she knew she was the Pandya princess, who should ideally have grown up in a
palace, living a life of luxury; and certainly not be the object of ridicule to
the extremely-proud-of-her-lineage Kundavai. She should have married Aditya and
rule the Chola kingdom as a queen. Instead, here she was, being humiliated at
every given chance and being called the "temptress" that seduced
Periya Pazhuvettarayyar, giving rise to a lot of nasty comments about her. </div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
On that fateful
night, as she touched and held the highly bejeweled Pandya sword that shone
brighter than the sun in her trembling hands, she had every idea of putting an
end to Aditya's life. After all, she had sworn that she would do it in front of
the group of trusted Pandya associates who had been helping her in making the
Pandya dream a reality. She was burning from inside reliving those horrible
days of humiliation and ridicule in her attempt to forget the fact that she
still loved Aditya and wanted to be with him for the rest of her life. She was
waiting for him in her quarters, making detailed mental notes about what she
should talk to him about. But when he entered the room, she forgot everything
she had prepared. Even with the sword in her hand, she was shivering with fear
at the intensity of her revenge. </div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background: silver; mso-highlight: silver;">Little did she know that Aditya
was still unmarried because he sincerely loved her. As he went on about a life
together with her, she could not help but wail from within. She wanted to hold
him and never let him go away. She wanted to elope with him to a far off island
and live a life of peace of happiness. But she didn't want to commit the same
mistake her mother made - that of falling in love with a prince. Unable to listen to the uninhibited
words of Aditya, she froze all her senses and focussed on one thing. Revenge.</span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
As the lights went
out, she heard Aditya scream - his last scream ever. She had no idea how that
happened. In came the man who wore sixty-four battle scars proudly on his body;
the man who had sworn to behead himself before he would let a member of Chola
king's family die. He looked at Nandhini in horror. Horrified of what his wife,
a woman who is supposed to share his principles, had done. He could not even
begin to imagine the intensity of her betrayal. But he also realized that he
still loved her. It was a love that nobody could understand; a love so pure and
so intense that nothing Nandhini could do would make him hate her. </div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Nandhini realized
the intensity of Periya
Pazhuvettarayyar's love for her when he accepted that he was the one who killed
Aditya in order to make Aditya's uncle Madhurantaka the heir apparent. It was
then that Nandhini realized that whatever she had wanted had been with her all
along in the form of Periya
Pazhuvettarayyar. After marrying him, she lived the life of a queen, in luxury
and freedom. She had a man who would literally kill for her. She had a man who
worshipped the path she walked on, a man who took care of her like she was a
flower, a man who wanted nothing from her but her love. </div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
As she stood there
watching Aditya's funeral, she shed tears like none other because she had not
recognized Periya Pazhuvettarayyar's
love earlier. And now it was too late. </div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-47624158170080642842013-09-25T12:42:00.000+05:302013-09-25T12:42:20.146+05:30Shatabdi vs Air Asia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Recently I got to travel from
Chennai to Bangalore by the Shatabdi express and as the train moved
north-westwards, I was able to see the sun set behind the sunflower fields from
the large, clean window. They gave us a nice meal and the seats were plush and
comfortable. The TV showed episodes from ‘Just for Laughs’ and a Charlie
Chaplin movie – things that don’t need one to listen or understand the local
language. Why this was very clever was highlighted on that day especially
because everyone else on the coach was from South Korea. The guy sitting next
to me was quite expressive about his holiday in Bangalore and Chennai. And I
mentioned Gangnam style to him when he said he was from South Korea, much to
his annoyance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
And then I travelled from
Bangalore to Bali via Kuala Lumpur by Air Asia. I couldn’t help but compare the
experience of the Shatabdi vs Air Asia. The frustration started even before we
could collect our boarding passes. We had to pay extra for checking in our
baggage. And that was the first time I was hearing that shit in an
International flight. In the Shatabdi, there was no limit on how much baggage
you could carry. You could even do the entire shifting of your house from
Chennai to Bangalore <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The biggest issue of all was when
we were flying – we were given the last row in the plane and as if being forced
to hear the airhostess’ gossip wasn’t enough, we had to pay exorbitant amounts
of money to get meals, the only positive thing about which was the fact that it
was hot. It was then I started understanding how difficult the rest of my trip
was going to be because there was only one vegetarian meal available. Dammit…
The Shatabdi was so much better in terms of food. At least they didn’t charge
me as much as Air Asia and didn’t brag about their “flight merchandise” in
books and journals. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I mean, seriously, why the fuck
would I shell out my hard-earned money to buy t-shirts and watches with “Air
Asia” printed on it and advertise for this shitty shitty airline? If anything,
they should give the shirts to me and pay me (quite a huge amount) to wear it.
Bah :-\<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
It was the worst four and a half
hours I had spent on a flight and I just wanted to pull my hair out and scream
like a mad woman or at least yell the choicest of swear words (I could do that
in 4 languages) at the flight attendants to let off the pent up frustrations. I
want to ask questions like why don’t you play something on the TV? Why don’t
you include the cost of food in the ticket price itself? After making us pay so
much money, why do you charge us extra for check-in baggage handling? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivt1QcBxYKK6CL5R62Q-Hw9di_TVBZrSzBH_yoaDyXv3NrG6VdfJjLz9Rs3ozIh6fkV947Y07gEWKRQv-aBLbW6kxfvAMl39qzKehZhiEv-iCLCrteA5ZN0BmepurJxkyx9mCRsp5dCaw/s1600/shatabdi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivt1QcBxYKK6CL5R62Q-Hw9di_TVBZrSzBH_yoaDyXv3NrG6VdfJjLz9Rs3ozIh6fkV947Y07gEWKRQv-aBLbW6kxfvAMl39qzKehZhiEv-iCLCrteA5ZN0BmepurJxkyx9mCRsp5dCaw/s1600/shatabdi.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
If you are a major airline in
South East Asia, how does it feel having your facilities being compared to that
of a premium train in India? <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-48766641136065913762013-01-01T13:25:00.000+05:302013-01-01T16:50:27.988+05:30Am I A Rebel?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Happy New Year!!! :-)</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It has been so long since I wrote
something here. The last year has seen me go from the happiest person on earth
to a sad and pathetic little soul that’s trapped in a job that seems keen on
sucking the life energy out of me. The only writing I have done in the past
year are long emails to my friend about me and my surroundings. I wish I could
publish them some day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, all that aside, I was
thinking yesterday about how there is a rebel inside each one of us. Some
accept it; but most live in denial. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For example, I love cooking. I
enjoy cooking. I find it therapeutic; I think it is a great stress-buster to
listen to and sing along with music while cooking. I like making food that
looks colourful with fresh ingredients that are great to look at and taste even
better. I like the way the aroma of tempered spices spread and fill the house.
I forget all my problems and tensions in the sound of music and the pressure
cooker’s whistles and the motor sound of the mixie. It satisfies all my senses.
You get it, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So everyone by now thinks my
husband is a lucky man, right? Wrong. I don’t cook very often these days. I
restrict my cooking to making dosa/idly and simple chutney or easy-to-make
mixed vegetable rice. I don’t spend a long time in the kitchen; I don’t put on
music. I don’t enjoy the process. I do it more out of duty than out of love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And that is simply because I am
EXPECTED to do it. I don’t know if it makes any sense to any of you, but I want
to cook because I enjoy it, not because I MUST. It is expected out of me, as a
wife, to cook for my husband. But then the rebel wakes up and says, “Hey, you
must not do it because they expect you to. You are not anybody’s slave.” And
out goes all the goodness that I had housed inside me all these years. The “nee
enna solradhu, naan enna kekkaradhu” (Who are you to say and why the hell
should I listen?) attitude is something I have not been able to shake off since
I was 5 years old. And I don’t seem to regret it that much either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cooking is a simple example.
There are other things that I have stopped doing (or stopped enjoying the
activity) just because somebody wants me to. That my job certainly belongs to
that category is no secret. And I am not the only one feeling that way about
one’s job. But we still do it because we have put on the dog costume and so we
bark. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I want to be able to give in to
others’ expectations and not feel rebellious at every opportunity. I want to
live a normal life without having the urge to put up a fight at every slight
possibility. Because frankly, I am tired of it. I am tired of having to fight
back against every single thing expected out of me even though I’d have done it
by myself anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What do you think? Is it just me
or is it normal to be rebellious? Or is it just that the degree of
rebelliousness varies with each person? What are you like?</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-15218282682603959212012-01-25T19:28:00.007+05:302012-01-25T20:27:52.661+05:30Mr.Stinking<div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPHwodpM-iMzndXXT5On23iQxjaQyEbBgNWRLxEneWhWzckatF5yY8XM4rZv4Uhygpc98nqOZz2uFA-CX4Nsr6HUqKVomnijqfZHeCHnxFddMsizNLZJFKSMARp-DqnP2zNElzW-IgYnc/s1600/Save+The+Girl+Child+Quote.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPHwodpM-iMzndXXT5On23iQxjaQyEbBgNWRLxEneWhWzckatF5yY8XM4rZv4Uhygpc98nqOZz2uFA-CX4Nsr6HUqKVomnijqfZHeCHnxFddMsizNLZJFKSMARp-DqnP2zNElzW-IgYnc/s320/Save+The+Girl+Child+Quote.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701583903049202162" /></a><span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span>Not all of us are the same. And thank God for that! Thank God, not all of us are creepy idiots who have the IQ of a cabbage.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: center; "><span><b>I will abort the child if I come to know it is a girl.</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span>Imagine that from a well-educated (a professional degree holder from a decent college), IT professional who I happened to work with. The nerve he had to tell me that, without the slightest inkling of sensitivity or respect for the life of a child! All I wanted to do at that moment was to just punch him in the face and break a tooth or two in that mouth of his that uttered those stinking words. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span>But fortunately for him, it was within the office premises and I was in no mood to get fired for physically assaulting a colleague. Believe me, I am physically and mentally capable of killing that mosquito (oh, have I given out too much about the identity of the person already?)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span>I mustered up all my patience and asked him, “What if your father had thought the same way? You wouldn’t have had a sister who you love so much today.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span>You’d think that would have reached the non-existent brain of his or at least strike an emotional chord with him. He coolly turned to me and told, “Sandhya, I am talking about getting my wife to get it aborted; not you.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span>I don’t use expletives (at least not in public forums), but that fucking asshole actually said those words to me!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span>He continued, “Where I come from it happens all the time. Hospitals there help the would-be parents determine the sex of the unborn baby and they get the “problem fixed” too.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span>What the hell is wrong with this country? If it happens as often as he says it does, what are the police doing there? Is our law just something to laugh about after breaking it? Well, I know most people break the law, but I thought we had grown out of hatred towards the female child, at least in our so-called educated urban youth.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span>That the guy is not even married yet is another problem. But God help the poor girl that agrees to marry him. Oh wait, maybe where he comes from, the girl’s opinion is not sought while “fixing” her marriage with Mr.Creepy Creeperson with a mind narrower than a strand of his hair. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span>I personally know so many couples yearning for a baby in their lives; and then there are people like this one that makes me wonder why God created these infinitely stupid beings. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span>Should I just go and report this to the police? Will there be any action? You know, like checking if there are hospitals that do this? </span></p></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-11913889888175294072012-01-03T19:27:00.004+05:302012-01-04T09:56:30.897+05:30The story of a...<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">My name is Ton. That’s right. Even I have always thought, “What did I do to deserve a dumb-ass name like that?” But I could do nothing about it, really. That was my name and I had to live my life with it. I was born into a big family with a lot of siblings. Our house was always full of people. Happy people. Whoever saw us, their faces lit up, much like our own.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>I don’t remember the day I was born; but I distinctly remember the day my brothers and I were shoved by unknown men into a dark room that was surrounded by strange noises. It was suffocating in there. All of us were young and adventurous, and fear was not something we were familiar with. But we couldn’t wait to get outside and play.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>In the dark, we couldn’t see each other’s faces. But we could all feel each other’s strength. That kept us alive and sane. We held each other when we felt low. No matter what happened, we all had each other for company, after all.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>Then one day, as if by magic, a small ray of light entered the room and a few of my brothers were freed from the darkness. We were hoping that they would return to free us and describe to us what the outside world looked like, if it was really as brilliant as we had heard in stories that our parents used to tell us. But they never returned. Although most of us were worried sick about what the world would have done to them, I was plain furious. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>How could our brothers leave us in distress and enjoy outside? Bloody traitors. They ought to have come back to free the rest of us. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>My mood was as dark as the room itself. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>Suddenly, there was some noise from outside the room. We heard men talking.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>“I spoke to her all night, machi”, one was saying.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>“You only <i>spoke </i>all night, no? Let me guess; you called her, right? If she had called the call would have been over in a matter of minutes”, said the other.</span></span></p> <a name='more'></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>“Minutes-ah? Machi, she gives only missed call da. He only calls her back”, said another and they started laughing. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>And here we were thinking that these guys could save our lives. We tried to get heard. “Help! Help!”, we shouted. And again, magic happened. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>The door of the room opened ever so slightly. My sister Pinky and I were taken outside the room, as if on a joy ride. Amidst all the happiness and excitement of actually getting to the outside world, I turned to her and told, “We should come back to free our brothers. We will NOT become traitors.” And she nodded.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>But as luck would have it, the man who had rescued us almost immediately turned me over to another one. Pinky and I were separated. I was worried; more about her than about myself. I was petrified; I was alone with nobody to hold on to, nobody to share a laugh with. I wanted to cry. But I had to be strong. I had to put up a fight. Even if I went down, I’d go down fighting. I won’t let these men get away with what has been done to my brothers and me. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>As much as I hated to admit it, the new guy who had me was my “master”. My new master owned a small wine shop outside the city. He was a stinking pig of a man. He sweated a lot. His teeth were yellow with red stains from years of smoking and chewing tobacco, I think. His breath always smelt of cigarettes. It was a smell I can never forget for as long as I shall live because, he kissed me now and then. Every time he did that, I felt like vomiting my gut out. I felt humiliated, molested. And because I was so small, I couldn’t fight back. I wanted to spit in the idiot’s face, but I was too afraid that he might hurt me, to do so. Every time he would see me, I saw pure lust in his eyes. His lips turned up in a sadistic smirk, he would look at me as if he wanted to eat me up. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>I had a lot of free time and my thoughts went back to my brothers who I despised and called “traitors”. Now I don’t hate them anymore. Who knows what they have been through, what kind of masters they have had! And to think that at a point in time, I had wanted nothing more than to escape the darkness of that little room we were all together in! What would I not give to go back there now!!</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>The stinking pig finally gave me away to a pretty girl – a girl who welcomed me with the brightest smile I had ever seen. Maybe it was her braces that shone in the sunlight. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span><i><span lang="EN-US">Had I finally gotten into good hands?</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> <i>Maybe she will listen to my story and help me rescue my brothers from captivity.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span> She seemed genuinely happy to see me, but never tried to kiss me or anything. I felt safe with her. I could not believe that such a nice girl would have anything to do with that demon.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>The girl took me with her wherever she went. On that fateful day, she took me with her to a park. A young man came to meet her there. I hated him from the moment I set my eyes on him. There was something about him that I thought was cheap. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>He came close to her and promptly planted a kiss on her forehead.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>“How was the day?”, she asked.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>“It was alright. How have you been?”, he asked. But there was something missing in his voice. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>“It was ok. Have you thought about the weekend?”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>“Not yet. By the way, have you brought what I wanted?” </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>She turned me to him and said, “Here you go.” </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span>What the hell! She is giving me away to him? And this would be my new master? “Woman, what are you doing?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>I thought maybe he was a good man. After all, he was her boyfriend. And then, I saw him smile the biggest smile I had ever seen in my life. Never had I seen someone’s eyes getting any wider. Ever. His mouth was now running from ear to ear. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>“You know this is not enough.”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>“But that is all I have.”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>“You and I both know that is not true.”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>“That is the truth. I am sick of having to pay you. It is as if I am paying you for using your services. I feel as if I am paying a gigolo.” </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span>Ouch. That should have hurt. I had to control my giggles.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>The guy got so angry that he squeezed me hard and threw me to the ground. He stamped me, looked at her intensely and told, “I am not your boy-toy. I don’t need the money you give me. Fuck you!” </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>He turned around and went away. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>She bent down, picked me up and looked me closely. Then she frowned, said “tsk tsk” and threw me back to the ground. “What a waste!”, she said and walked away, leaving me there alone, battered and bruised. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>I was still confident that someone would help me. After all, people were always happy to see me and have me. But as time went by and it became dark, my hopes of being helped diminished. I had to fight to keep my eyes open; I was too tired to yell for help. But I also knew that no amount of shouting will fall into the deaf ears of the world around me. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span lang="EN-US"><span>They need me only when I am intact. When I am torn and dying, nobody was going to help me simply because I am of no use to them torn. I am a thousand rupee note, after all. </span></span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-8326530137102676282011-12-13T13:12:00.004+05:302011-12-13T13:26:29.313+05:30Bangalore Traffic<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Almost a month after I went to Mumbai, it is now time for me to tell you what the hell has been going on since that fateful day. So I reached Mumbai, found my way to the hotel at midnight, made it to office the next morning on time. Everything was going great until two days I got a call from the husband back home at Bangalore telling me he wasn’t feeling well. Now whether he was sick because he was missing me or he partied too much and ended up falling sick, I can never be sure of.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I got back to Bangalore to take care of him and have been here since then. So my Mumbai dreams came to an end in a week’s time.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Never to be the one bogged down my unexpected turn of events (I can almost see my mom’s lips curling up in a smirk and saying, “Yeah, right!”) – I have embraced my Bangalore office with a never before glee. Trying to cheer myself up by doing a things that I love doing – reading and writing. Not that I am making much progress in the latter as is evident from the (lack of) updates on this blog.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another major event that has happened is that, much to the horror of my mom, I went ahead and bought for myself a Scooty to commute to office. It happened after a bad day in BMTC buses when I had at least 4 X 100 kg aunties falling on me. It is just ridiculous. Either there should be more buses in that route (wait, that’s not possible. Because there is just NO ROOM in the road for any more buses) or all companies should give 100% work from home option to their employees. Save some fuel for the next generation too.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That Tin Factory – K R Puram stretch is the one that is the most amazing bottleneck. It takes a full 20mins to cross that 1-1.5km stretch. That said, simple things done by BBMP can make the situation a lot better. The road right outside the railway station is a mess – which leads to the vehicles slowing down to make the impact of the bad road lesser – this at an already ridiculous bottleneck of a place! There are open sewage drains along the road (on the right hand side of the road). Can’t they be closed with cement planks so that they seem like an extension of the road providing the much needed space for at least the motorists? Also people should not be allowed to alight/board buses/cars right on the main road outside the railway station. And how difficult would it be to have an overhead bridge built for pedestrians to cross the road?</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGjmj_5GT8FYDNcP_HKxN3EbZImqE-3Xpoe3MoHMBWagHeRJWC5pWhZJ8fPclkcWuC9Lrjmr5wcOm7yxBt-5brCJ-bcn6YFzIl8xtiI-eq_Z7LbxqkVxYUnnOd0r3aymjYYWkgLjycgmY/s320/TrafficJamCartoon-2hk0mdw.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685518496197643122" style="text-align: justify;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 231px; " /></div><div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And the BBMP is not the only party that can change. There should be co-operation from the people as well. Most of the cars I see are occupied by one person only. In some rare cases, two. Why can’t people do car pooling? That way you save on fuel AND you get to travel in lighter traffic and reach your destination earlier.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Companies could have flexible timings to accommodate people arriving office early/late to avoid peak hour rush. Company shuttles and cabs could be provided at different timings to reduce time “wasted” in travel.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Simple solutions to complex problems; problems that take at least 20-30mins of about 2000 people’s mornings; time that could be used for more productive work. Will the solutions work? Hell, yes. Will they be implemented? Hehe, we all know our city corporations and ourseleves better.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-55285465840735970102011-11-15T09:17:00.004+05:302011-11-15T10:44:01.007+05:30Firsts<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; ">They say there is a first time to everything - anything great or trivial has to start from somewhere. And when I was chosen for an assignment that required me to travel quite often, I thought I have to start traveling without complaining, start packing by myself (else it has always been Amma/Sabal packing my bags for me - and I had to admit, I had a minor "Up In The Air" George Clooney feeling), start meeting new people with new cultures and different languages - it all gave me a whiff of excitement. But the negative thing was that is what it was - a whiff. If you have to survive in a different place for 12 or 1</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; ">4 weeks, a whiff is generally not enough.</span></div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; ">But this assignment filled my life up with a lot of firsts - my first traveling job, my first assignment with a French team lead, my first month-long visit to Mumbai, my first long stay in an hotel - with so many exciting firsts, I also had a first that virtually my butt kicked by my mom.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; "><br /></span></p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB21_4vVY7LFSS5C39k9ISBlw43lxzVa2g-UiSF5VKUb0uKBkcyqMByaJQgDxRAqjcHwqGC8bBEgz0bL3PSjE9aTKGLxwnwTGsS7xaXnVftJUZ-FJmqfqKXMqHQrnATn_qIvt0BUJdJss/s320/k5510364.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675086227202065986" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 170px; " /><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; ">I missed my flight – a first. It was the first time I had missed a bus or train or flight and it came at the most critical time ever. I am supposed to report at work at 8:30am tomorrow and my flight is rescheduled for 9:35pm from here – I would probably reach my hotel by midnight, if I am lucky. Phew!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri; "><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; ">Bad timing. But I have to hand it to myself – I have been most calm and positive through the whole thing. A far cry from my usual “analytical mind” that worries about everything and gets all worked up when things don’t go the way as planned. That was a first too (but it was probably because I wanted to show to my mom and others that I was in control of the situation to escape the aforementioned butt-kicking). Or maybe, just maybe, I am growing up and becoming more mature person, or something!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; ">So, off to some awesome vada-pav at the awesome Mumbai!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; ">PS: This post was written while waiting for the gates to open for boarding @ Bangalore airport and posted later.</span></p></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-3844213722405296072011-11-07T15:04:00.001+05:302011-11-07T15:07:26.328+05:30Hangover<strong>Disclaimer</strong>: This post is written in a state of heavy hangover caused due to my release from Philips. Although I had decided quite a while ago that I have to leave, now that it has happened I am unable to cope up with it. But like everything else, this too shall pass.<br /><br />Things change and how quickly. It feels like yesterday that I stepped into Bangalore, knowing nothing about the city (not that I know anything substantial now), got into a new job, in a new office, with a new team. Two years have just run by. Two beautiful years – the years that saw me grow up (not physically, no), get married and all…<br /><br />I have learnt a lot of things, had a whale of a time with a great team of colleagues, and now all that is part of my past. I have moved back to Atos, away from my team, away from Philips, all set to move to Mumbai on an assignment (although it is only for a few months).<br /><br />A wise man once told me that when many years pass by and you wake up one morning and think about your past, you remember only the small things that gave you momentary happiness. Those are the memories you cherish, the memories that are part of your sub-conscious,the memories that will be with you always.<br /><br />I am sure my stint at Philips is one of that sort – when I think about the last two years, I can see my team sitting at the cafeteria, laughing out loud amidst a lot of glares from the people in the other tables. I can see all of us pulling Krishna’s legs, asking about his (non-existent) girlfriend to his would-be wife. I can see all of us having coffee in the break-out area, laughing at what someone said. I can see all of us huddling at one of our desks trying to resolve an issue; I can see us walking around the campus with not a thing to worry about. Sigh, HOW things change!!!<br /><br />It is very difficult now to sit and think about a new team, new people, new city, and new project. I wish I were with Philips still. Below is my rather philosophical good-bye email that I wrote on my last day.<br /><br /><span style="color:#990000;">"Permanency makes me uncomfortable. Change keeps me excited. Time has come for a change in my work.<br /><br />So, today is my last day here in Philips. The last two years here have taught me a lot of things – in the technical area and in not-so-technical area.<br /><br />It has been a fun experience being here in Philips – my sincere thanks to my team which has been very supportive and co-operative. Thanks to Krishna, Naveen, Vishnu, Lokesh, Raktim and Amit for making my time here easy and enjoyable.<br /><br />My sincere thanks to Jack van Nistelrooij, Niek Schelhaas, Adrie Aertse, Ganesh Joshi & Rajkumar Jain – the senior managers I worked with – I have learnt a lot from each one of you.<br /><br />Special thanks to Richard Ijzenbrandt, Maarten van der Poll, Ruben Zwetsloot, John Bastiaansen & the rest of the technical team – for being very patient with us when we asked them a million (dumb) questions.<br /><br />Thanks to Sabareesh Kurup, Narayanan Sundaresan, Devendra Prasad Bolusani, Deepak Gidwani, Reetha & Srinivas Ganesan for providing all the support for the Atos team here.<br />I have made a large group of friends in PIC, I will miss them – Vijay Yogimath, Yogesh Babu, Deepti Rokde, Sapna Jain, Farah Shaikh, Balachandar, the list seems endless.<br /><br />I am moving back to my parent organization (Atos) to start a new career with Lean Management – something far from the technical work I have done so far in my career.<br /><br />It has been a tough decision because Philips was such a cozy nest. But if I stay on enjoying the warmth, I might never learn to fly."<br /></span><br />That was what Philips was – a cozy nest. But I have decided to fly and I am out in the open – it is cold and my wings ache. But I will fly. Ok, this has become too philosophical now.If I talk any more philosophy, I run the risk of being considered drunk.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-76077451607389644852011-10-04T12:51:00.002+05:302011-10-04T13:07:28.856+05:30An excellent post this<div>A very touching post by Vidyut. It takes an amazing amount of courage to write about one's own experiences this way - *respect*</div><div><br /></div><div>Domestic violence is not just about a drunk husband hitting his wife. Mental and verbal abuse is just as awful.</div><div><br /></div><div>To all those women out there putting up with abusive husbands, YOU DON'T HAVE TO. You deserve to be happy. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://aamjanata.com/my-experience-with-domestic-violence/">http://aamjanata.com/my-experience-with-domestic-violence/</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-58788315842011073632011-09-26T09:21:00.001+05:302011-09-26T09:26:00.051+05:30Mind it!<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">That Bangalore traffic is as shitty as working on a weekend is a known fact. Come monsoon season and it gets worse – with the roads resembling the land surface of the Moon or Mars, so much so that we can safely conclude that if people can survive in Bangalore, Mars should be a walk in the park, quite literally. Last week’s rain really did drive home the point – the service road outside of my office (Manyata Tech Park, Nagavara) was looking as bad as the roads in Kerala during monsoons that I had experienced not too long ago. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Traffic was diverted to an even more treacherous route; one that meant I had to go at least 5 extra kilometers to reach my office. All while listening to the ‘Amit’s in the cab making Rajinikanth jokes. I was thinking about what the Dutch/German colleagues who were visiting Bangalore must think about our country. They are people who find traffic on Outer Ring Road crazy. Imagine a small lane with really bad roads and a Tata Sumo traveling at about 50-60kmph in front of a school with kids giving squat about the cars before running across the road. They must have gotten a taste of the real India – and no, it is not Chicken Tikka Masala.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Apparently, one of the Amits in my cab was talking to his German colleague over chat and was asked, “India is such a rich country. Then how come there are so many poor people in India?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Amit replied, “Welcome to India”, it seems. Had it been me, I would have said, “Theriyalaye pa theriyalaye…” and put that “tonta tonta tonta ton, tonta ton” music also from ‘Nayagan’.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">I also came to know that there exists a number of palatial villas within the Manyata Tech Park campus – which is supposed to be an SEZ (correct me if I am wrong). Is it actually ok to have residential property within an SEZ? And the cars that were parked in front of these houses - *big sigh to emphasize my incapability to own one of those babies*</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">I also happened to hear that the houses (and, needless to say, the cars) belonged to popular politicians. I don’t know how true the information is. But if it is true, I can do nothing about it, can I?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">I could understand that the road was so bad that the traffic had to be diverted. I could live with the extra 5 kilometer car ride (after all, I am not the one sponsoring the fuel). I couldn’t care less about what the Dutch or German colleagues would think about Bangalore roads (it is no secret that they are shitty). I could even brace myself to hear 5 extra minutes of advertisement on 94.3FM (what else do they play, anyway?) What I could not stand was the Rajinikanth jokes. How dare these Amits! </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">I bet not one of them has seen a Rajini-KB combination movie. I bet they have no idea about how damn hard working he is. I bet they have no clue about how he had to suffer before he became a superstar. All they know about is the Rajinikanth who can fight 100 men at the same time and get out without as much as a scratch and dance around with girls who are younger than his daughters – I am not denying that. But in order to be loved and respected by over 6-crore people, there has to be something in the man. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Dei, you don’t have one superstar like Rajini means, you guys will talk whatever comes to your mouth-ah? Always remember, there is a Rajinikanth hidden inside every Tamilian – don’t wake that guy up. Else we will fire one bullet, throw a knife at it, cut it into two pieces and kill two of you, mind it! </p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-3821268629950396842011-09-14T19:58:00.003+05:302011-09-14T20:01:30.713+05:30God's Own Country<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_jP5aH6HfkmW7zFRXTQlo7WfbSo2inOs1r_d-2-nQqLUyaerTs965QBlS3nBglS1fwnsLPnGB3gfMezzyTH662vWpHu2XWGD_kgLEzk4li12SAJMYdiX2MF_dpd9BrXfSU0oV5APmFY/s1600/kerala1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_jP5aH6HfkmW7zFRXTQlo7WfbSo2inOs1r_d-2-nQqLUyaerTs965QBlS3nBglS1fwnsLPnGB3gfMezzyTH662vWpHu2XWGD_kgLEzk4li12SAJMYdiX2MF_dpd9BrXfSU0oV5APmFY/s320/kerala1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652222818388541362" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">When I had to take a few days off from work to go to Kerala to be with my in-laws and visit a few temples and relatives, I jumped at it because I badly needed a break from my work (ok, I hate my work. Any chance to get away from it is like an invitation to a party where your company is paying for the booze). So off I went to God’s own country; amidst nonstop rains which in Bangalore would have caused unimaginable traffic chaos… Wait; that is not something new. So here I was traveling from one village to another by bus, auto or train – marveling at the lush green landscapes, wondering about how many fucking shades there were of green, listening to my favorite songs, getting “is-she-mendal?” looks from co-passengers for mouthing the lyrics to the songs and moving my head as I did it. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Temples in Kerala have poojas at unbelievable hours, which meant not enough sleep for the little baby that I am (stop smirking!), and every now and then I’d fall asleep during the bus journeys, only to be duly woken up by the bus as it went through potholes in between which some road peeped out. But I wasn’t complaining because I always woke up to breathtakingly beautiful sights that, as I mentioned, took my breath away. Lot of puttu-kadala and pazham-puzhungiyadu (Dear Mallus, you could eat bananas even without boiling, you know?) later, I was standing in the Guruvayoor temple beside the elephant there and had this amazingly heartfelt conversation with him. Then there was this little cat that was playing within the temple that purred so nicely when I was petted her, much to the disapproval of the mother-in-law. Mother-in-laws exist. Even in God’s own country! </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">By the end of my stay at Kerala, I couldn’t wait to get back to work. The place was right out of a post-card, but I had had enough. I needed to be back in a city that is polluted and traf-fucked where I had a manager to bitch about. But ever since I came back to Bangalore (and to work), I have been hating it. And as often, I want to run away to a far off place where I know nobody. I want to live in a new city, explore it, make new friends, work there in a cross-cultural environment, not think about what to cook after reaching home every night, not worry about eating out all the time – spend a few months with not a care about anything. The wild cat inside me threatens to get out. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Somebody find me a job in Spain. Mallorca to be precise. </p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-86568780372125951692011-08-18T21:21:00.002+05:302011-08-18T21:28:46.055+05:30Home, Work And Everything In Between<div>
<br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6Ex23dldPI9Ia03CxCIusW5CpPUpAioL6VaCzwmPfVPVPGGhH2mGf5YxDnZI4uLmPeqNIA9di5u62QE_x4YOSh6jVMdCgk0l8fiB4z7yRp9-D1fTrhQ7ojfuo3kib7i2fwTdRmF2PQM/s1600/man_on_phone_small.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6Ex23dldPI9Ia03CxCIusW5CpPUpAioL6VaCzwmPfVPVPGGhH2mGf5YxDnZI4uLmPeqNIA9di5u62QE_x4YOSh6jVMdCgk0l8fiB4z7yRp9-D1fTrhQ7ojfuo3kib7i2fwTdRmF2PQM/s320/man_on_phone_small.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642225959759236594" /></a>
<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Four months away from my beloved blog – what led to it and what kept it there is beyond the scope of this space. Wait, did you just believe that? There is nothing that I wouldn’t write about in this space, except about annoying team mates and ass-holic managers (wait, did you just believe that too?) To say that it has been a very challenging and a busy time at work would be a blatant lie. Let me just get it out in the open – I was suffering from ‘Writer’s Block’ (ok, stop smirking now). Too much of tweeting has taken away my ability to write anything beyond a couple of lines; and the constant butler-English of my teammates doesn’t help either. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">I have grown to be much more restrained in expressing my anger and patient in handling, let’s just say, mosquito problems at work. It is amazing how a socially-challenged guy with no personal life whatsoever makes it his advantage simply because he has more time at his disposal as opposed to normal people who have a life outside of work (that it is filled with monotony and cribbing and long crying sessions is a different story). </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Under such testing circumstances, one morning, I was on my way to work in the office cab. After picking me up, the driver picked up this Telugu guy (my love for the language is no secret). When someone speaks Telugu, I am automatically all ears – it is such a sweet-sounding language. There were two other people in the cab and they had ear-phones plugged as tight as possible into their ears. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">This Telugu guy (TG) receives a call on his cell phone. I am all ears because I was hoping he’d speak in Telugu. Instead, he started off in English. It was probably a call from a survey agency or a matrimonial site or a gym, I don’t know. And I could only hear one side of the conversation, so I had no idea what the topic of discussion was.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">TG: Hello.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><something></something></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">TG: Yes. I did it for 7 minutes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">I got curious.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">TG: I was doing it for the first time.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">At this point I was almost giggling.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">TG: No, I haven't tried it that way.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">I was like, what the hell… Technology has improved very much-ah?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">TG: Yes, I'll recommend it to others.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Why is nobody else listening to this? People, take those earphones out of your ears. This man is making history here ;-)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">After this, I couldn’t really concentrate on anything he was saying. I was controlling my laughter so much and I wiping away tears from my eyes, my stomach hurt. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">That was probably the only happy day I spent at work in the last four months. One day in four months, you say? Well, I at least had one day to boast about in a line of work I not-so-secretly hate. All you people hating your work, in your faces! </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">But love it or hate it, life goes on. Work is a part of it – probably the worst part of it. But it goes on. You need people to make fun of, people to crib about, people whose head you want to chop off, basically people you hate – but you need people to hate so you can appreciate people who you love more. Too much philosophy is not good for health. So I stop now.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><o:p> </o:p></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-30619380198035769632011-04-18T14:29:00.004+05:302011-04-18T14:37:57.035+05:30Daydream On!!!<div style="text-align: left;">When you are bugged out of your wits sitting alone at home all day while the husband snores off to glory, and the IPL matches don’t evoke the interest the World Cup did (oh, you want to argue with me about that? Nobody I know watches all those mid-numbing IPL matches except maybe Sidhu), and the cooking and the eating of it is over and a couple of coffees have been drunk and with all the caffeine in your system, dozing off is not an option, what would you do? Well, here is what I did. No, I didn’t watch a movie or read a book – that’s what I do every other day. I didn’t want to spend yet another Sunday evening doing just that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYItVZZIQUcPOr-fN9dBi0fs3bJjRcws6SgMxYutqBZyuR7THBU0-WVOLsV2beDEaoevAAsrIZCxAimrcszeMdbGTewlVX9GYnJU98szpzHHrXwyuJPvKC0Fpz_l2rjkqA0_mGdF5JKFk/s320/daydreaming-girl1.jpeg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596846632741196258" /> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">So if you don’t want to do the normal stuff, here is what you could try.</p> <a name='more'></a> <ul style="margin-top:0in" type="disc"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1">Spin a coin on the glass table and heard the chime. What? You haven’t done that? It has a strangely tranquilizing effect that puts those Chinese chimes to shame. Well, that is at least what I thought after the first few spins. After that it gets irritating. So irritating that at one stage, I actually preferred listening to the husband’s snores. Trust me.</li> <li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1">Drink a lot of water. That it is summer now is all the more reason you should. (Well, why a fruit juice didn’t work for me is because I had just had a couple of coffees and I didn’t want to mix them up. Water is always the safer bet. The elixir of life, after all.) Wait for some time. Spin the coin meanwhile, maybe. Go pee. Come back and repeat the process.</li> <li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1">Take photos of sleeping husband; especially when the sleeping position resembles that of a drunken frog. It might be useful in the future for blackmailing purposes. </li> <li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1">Go out of the house (only if it is after 17.00hours unless you want to get roasted, grilled and fried in the Sun) and have paani puri and come back.</li> </ul> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">I know I could have done whackier things – like play a prank on a friend or update a status on FaceBook or a tweet on Twitter that would start a wave of responses (ok, that is not so whacky), or simply invent newer ways to wake that sleeping husband up (pouring water on his face or singing to him have already been done to death – the death of the husband’s sleep, that is). Also life could have been much simpler if I had read a book or watched a movie or a friend to catch up with. I had the option of doing all the three of them. But they looked like boring options. Just for a change, I refused to do the obvious and the ordinary and did something different (errr, that different was the mokkai-est anything can be is another story). But I did invent the coin-on-glass chime. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Apart from the mokkai things I did, I also day-dreamt a lot (that being my favourite pass-time and all) – about participating in the Amazing Race, about playing with snakes (which is possible only in my dreams), about butchering a zoozoo (Zoozoo lovers, please don’t forgive me because I am not apologizing), about shaking hands with Sachin Tendulkar, about finally having the guts to give up what I am doing now and start doing what I want to do, about FREEDOM. But then the husband woke up and asked for a status update on the Dosa and Pudina Chutney. Off I went, relieved at the break from my boring evening, appalled by how much I had begun to enjoy it – so much so that I felt bad at having to get up and do some work. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">God, my life will never be the same again – when afternoons were filled with fights with my sister, asking paati to make this or that, going for “rounds” on my bicycle around the neighbourhood – I wish I had never grown up. I know it is such a cliché, but can’t help it. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">By the way, any better ways to spend a boring Sunday afternoon (apart from doing the usual stuff - like reading a book or watching a movie) are welcome!!! :-)</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-29971846883264162722011-03-23T17:29:00.006+05:302011-03-23T17:47:13.849+05:3010 Things I Wanna Change About My Office<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">It is no secret that I hate the profession I belong to. Well, I don’t exactly hate it; it just annoys me so much. Maybe a few changes at the workplace that could make it a wee bit better? </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">10 things I want to change about my workplace:</p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih3fsO63vKxwHOvZBSdUbePJTGLCk-v1DOfD502Z_lj23PCp0Pz3IvG_OMeE5sIpO_eFMkSGX38VTAV3dLB3B0gqe2v4C0lUL0HT4BCZNzjSgd2CF4U-kFnjx1bc3ts3Yc2EZU7GY4YPo/s320/office-space-work-sucks.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 302px; height: 320px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587248297124011970" /> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:-.25in; mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"></p><ol><li>The annoying teammate a.k.a ‘Kosu’ <a href="http://sandhyaiyer.blogspot.com/2010/04/kosu-tholla.html"> Read about him here</a></li><li>My office timings – from the current 11:30am to 8pm to an early morning shift (say from 6:30am to 3pm or so) – just so I can leave office early while the rest of them still have a good 6 hours to slog. Yes, I am sadistic like that. It would also work because that way I’d have the entire evening to myself to do what I enjoy doing like going for a run or something as simple as having a plate of paani puri which my late evening shift doesn’t allow me to.</li><a name='more'></a><li>More works of fiction than just the boring techie books at the on-campus library. Seriously, there are people who read books other than the tech-whatever stuff. God, I don’t even know what they are called.</li><li>On-campus classes to learn a foreign language (read: Spanish). I don’t know why, but I have taken a huge liking towards the language. Maybe my sub-conscious mind is so obsessed with Rafa or something.</li><li>We should totally have beer vending machines instead of these coffee vending machines. Let’s face it – it improves productivity to a large extent, you know? Ok, on second thoughts, let’s not do completely away with those coffee machines either – sometimes you need to stay awake. Sometimes.</li><li>A strict dress code for women who carry those extra pounds. Dear ladies, it is ok to have those extra pounds if you love having them. If you are trying without success to get rid of them, keep at it, you will lose them some day. All the Best for that. But please, please stop wearing those ‘S’ sized t-shirts. They are for people who are small. ‘S’ = small, you get it?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja59o-FQD5P3D3KgtR1r73-NgNVF1KMPXZkkJQWXcdPHZeYDpluq-I7m1RYY5fX3GGJpjbBfMrr7EjpSC77Tlo_reF6b3JUWuu2UfLrIyqWUwP6XctrbfMrOIQltBuwWDBfA8oANZL_sc/s1600/aton66l.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja59o-FQD5P3D3KgtR1r73-NgNVF1KMPXZkkJQWXcdPHZeYDpluq-I7m1RYY5fX3GGJpjbBfMrr7EjpSC77Tlo_reF6b3JUWuu2UfLrIyqWUwP6XctrbfMrOIQltBuwWDBfA8oANZL_sc/s320/aton66l.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587246044019971682" /></a><br /></li><li>That hot girl should be fired. That way, that hot guy who is so smitten by the hot girl will be smitten by me. Ok, sometimes I am over-confident. Over-confidence is to me what dark chocolate brownies are to other women.</li><li>We SHOULD have a place where the employees can bring our pets – a) the pets can socialize and b) we can pet our pets in between work. And I will be the first person to apply for the job of the pets’ in-charge. There is NOTHING better than playing with dogs and cats all day AND getting paid for it. Really.</li><li>The salary should increase by 10% every month. You heard it right. EVERY MONTH! Ok, some might call me greedy but hey, I am asking for only 10%. Also, THIS should be the first point in this list.</li><li>Men should not be allowed to wear sneakers with formal shirt and pants – that is so uncool. Also, no floaters to office please. No, floaters and socks is not ok either. That’s just yuck. #Kthnxbai</li></ol>I am sure you have thought about such things too. Anything more to add to this list? Leave a comment and I will implement it (if and) when I open my own company! ;-)<!--[if !supportLists]--><p></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-52826397860025889022011-02-28T12:01:00.006+05:302011-02-28T14:42:41.591+05:30I am Number Four - What I thought of it<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkIES628dEn6oSaQrujzuW_6pC8ZkABJT7s5zGz5AjB67vKQ25JDtRK-XOkhGsNJ_UyAwWqF0xd5UgANlIycFYaREtJwfFh2xu_kl10PsHbWYVjArpF0DbttBo9shp80dG9CXjT2_hFI/s1600/watch-i-am-number-four-online.jpg"><img style="text-align: center;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 320px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkIES628dEn6oSaQrujzuW_6pC8ZkABJT7s5zGz5AjB67vKQ25JDtRK-XOkhGsNJ_UyAwWqF0xd5UgANlIycFYaREtJwfFh2xu_kl10PsHbWYVjArpF0DbttBo9shp80dG9CXjT2_hFI/s320/watch-i-am-number-four-online.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578624660692325938" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After a rather long wait, I finally got to watch ‘I am number four’ yesterday at Inox, Garuda Mall, Bangalore. And surprise surprise, contrary to what I had heard from friends that it was a movie with aliens and special effects and all that, ‘I am number four’ is actually a high school rom-com, and a disconnected one at that. It has all the stereotypes in it – the pretty girl, the bully, the new good-looking guy (who needless to say is the hero), the geek – makes you think it is pretty much an ordinary high school drama that you might watch on a lazy Sunday afternoon on TV when there is nothing better to do. What makes ‘I am number four’ different is the alien twist to it – oh yes, there are aliens in the movie and all; actually two different species of aliens. Now beat that! </div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;">The best part, no, the only good part of the movie is the first two minutes – number three getting killed in the middle of a forest in Kenya. It was a great, racy start that deserved a better movie to follow it. The scene then shifts to a beach where our hot hero is surfing and swimming with a hotter girl and he gets a new scar in his leg – signifying that number three has died and the Mogadorians will come for him next because he is number four. It is later revealed that he is from Planet Lorien which was invaded by the Mogadorians (see, I told you there were two different types of aliens) and he and eight other children were brought to Earth by their guardians. Both the Loriens and the Mogadorians have a human-like appearance. But to make the dumb audience know who is good and who is evil, the Loriens are shown as super hot while the Mogadorians are shown having a shaved and tattooed head and marks on their face as if they had some ring-worm related infection. </div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Under the name John Smith, he and his guardian Henri move to Paradise, Ohio and he gets enrolled into a school there. This is where he adopts a dog (which is actually a big lizard that turns into a dog behind a bush – don’t ask me how), meets the girl, falls in puppy love with her, helps the geek (who happens to be a pseudo-astronomer’s son whose father went missing after finding out an alien rock), and beats up the bully with his superpowers – doing all the hero stuff. But his real test comes when the Mogadorians sniff him out and come after him. But with all his Rajinikanth-like powers, a super-hot Lorien number six and his dog-that-changes-into-a-big-dog-like-beast, he is able to kill all the Mogadorians and drive off into the sunset with the geek, his lizard-turned-dog-that-turned-beast, following number six – the skintight cat-suit wearing Lorien, leaving behind his girlfriend and the bully (who like Desi movie villains turns a good Samaritan in the climax). He also says that he will come back for his girlfriend which means there is a sequel planned. Well, that’s scary!</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I should admit that the movie was a visual treat not just with all the special effects that an “alien” movie warrants, but also a super hot hero (Alex Pettyfer – I am in love with you) and an equally hot number six (played by Teresa Palmer) who my husband wouldn’t take his eyes off. Also as I said, all Loriens are shown to be super hot – that includes John’s guardian Henri (played by Timothy Olyphant) too. What was actually missing in this movie was the emotional connect the audience usually has with a super-hit movie – even when Henri, John’s dad-like-guardian dies, I didn’t feel bad. Now you have to remember that I am the type that cried my eyes out in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, Titanic, et al. The only time I probably felt bad was when the dog gets injured while trying to save John from the big freaky Mogadorian beast and come to him limping in the climax.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Looking back at it, I wished I were number three – that way I’d be dead even before the movie started. </div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="500" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/g5djHG3hPu0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-18745994701746743102011-02-07T11:54:00.003+05:302011-02-07T12:00:45.152+05:30Of the unlawful and disorderly<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2ojrkEayFKXMGM5dCWyHrN4I3f-mKm3deD-urPRnN0qzM867h8F6ZsB1ip5_BDA6AgO4UFc4IUXSIuh-ThoSzW7UnPgFKjNpu06VCHy3ChIKJSYCxJ7U7BjgoYZeFK1PSB4FCoHqPkw/s1600/bribe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2ojrkEayFKXMGM5dCWyHrN4I3f-mKm3deD-urPRnN0qzM867h8F6ZsB1ip5_BDA6AgO4UFc4IUXSIuh-ThoSzW7UnPgFKjNpu06VCHy3ChIKJSYCxJ7U7BjgoYZeFK1PSB4FCoHqPkw/s320/bribe.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570830890823348594" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">It is disheartening to see to what extent the protectors of the law of our land (yes, the ones that wear Khaki uniforms) go to make that extra buck. In the past, I have heard stories from friends about traffic constables taking as low as Rs.3/- to let go of a helmet-less motorcycle rider. I thought they were exaggerated or made up. After all the law and order of a country that is as diverse as ours is in the hands of possibly the most powerful department in the country and of course they won’t be and can’t afford to be as cheap as my friends make them out to be. And how naïve of me to think that! No, I am not saying this without reason. I had the misfortune of dealing with a couple of young Police officers (well, I don’t really think they were decent enough to be termed ‘officers’, but I would just go with the term used worldwide) and what a harrowing and humiliating experience it was!</p> <a name='more'></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">My husband and I were traveling from our home (at Kammanahalli, Bangalore) to our friends’ house (at Koramangala, Bangalore) at around 10:30pm by an auto-rickshaw for a routine Friday night get-together. We normally stay over at this friend’s house and return by Saturday afternoon, so I normally go there in a T-shirt and 3/4<sup>th</sup> pants which are comfortable for the night. Since the wind was getting pretty cold, I took my husband’s jerkin and put it on. I also put on the cap part of it and tied it up below my chin so as to keep my ears covered against the chill. Little did I know that in those 3/4<sup>th</sup> pants and covered head, sitting beside my husband, I looked like a young call girl!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">As the auto sped along the inner roads of Koramangala, a couple of young (25-30 year old) Police “officers” rode their bikes parallel to the rickshaw and asked the rickshaw driver to pull over. As soon as the driver pulled over, they both got down from their bike and walked towards us. It was already close to 11pm and I was so hungry I could eat a whole Biryani by myself. But what happened next made me forget all about food. For the sake of the non-hindi speaking readers, I am translating the conversation to English.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">“Can I see your ID card?”, asked the shorter of the two. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">My husband replied, “I am not carrying my office ID card with me.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Meanwhile I took out my office ID and showed it to them. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">“Do you have any other photo ID?”, asked one of the officers to my husband and he took out his PAN card and showed it to them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">“Where are you from?”, he asked me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">“Coimbatore”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">“And you?”, he asked my husband.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">“Palakkad, Kerala”, he replied.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">“What is the relationship between the two of you?”, the taller pitched in.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">That was when I realized that I was being suspected to be an “item” as they call it. I took out my “thaali” (Mangal Shutra) and showed it to them and told, “I am his wife.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Both of them stood there speechless. They couldn’t believe it. They thought we looked too young to be married (although that is under normal circumstances a compliment, at that time of the night and all that hunger, it only infuriated me).</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">“Do you want to see my PAN card or Driver’s License or Passport?”, I asked. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">“No, ma’am. You can go.” And with that they got lost.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Then the auto-rickshaw driver told us that they were looking to make some quick bucks by trying to “catch” us. I was flabbergasted. To think that our Police force is trying to take a bribe (and it has become so common that it no longer is spoken about as a crime) is bad enough and to top it off, why would we pay them anything? What was the mistake we committed? I mean, even if we were each other’s boyfriend and girlfriend (like until a week ago) why would they seek money from us? Is traveling in an auto-rickshaw at 10:30pm a crime? Or is wearing 3/4<sup>th</sup> pants? Or is wearing a jerkin and a cap to protect myself against the cold? </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Isn’t it disgusting to learn the cheap ways our honorable Police officers (well, there are a lot of nice gentlemanly officers whose names are getting spoilt because of such cheap ones) just to make a few extra bucks? And do they have the rights to stop any auto-rickshaw on the road and harass and humiliate decent citizens?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">These are just my views. Correct me if I am wrong and do share with me any such bitter experiences that might have faced. </p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-39797296778854209422011-01-25T14:08:00.005+05:302011-09-30T14:56:07.036+05:30Wedding Bells... Err, more like Wedding Blues!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-RqTWmv9WfXO1A4Qaj0T7QrFqIE_VXj-lzrG9w1CyuXXlM6fbdnd3ZoduHX_FfV8qqPdOIJyV6Gju-HZyYEfdkkUchX5F3qhpEnaZvdu5VUkuH4TULEoitJ6yyxOdMbR2WRcqeHE7r6M/s1600/bride.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-RqTWmv9WfXO1A4Qaj0T7QrFqIE_VXj-lzrG9w1CyuXXlM6fbdnd3ZoduHX_FfV8qqPdOIJyV6Gju-HZyYEfdkkUchX5F3qhpEnaZvdu5VUkuH4TULEoitJ6yyxOdMbR2WRcqeHE7r6M/s320/bride.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566041801936321394" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, this is my last post as a bachelorette. And what a happy 25 years it has been. Finally, the time has come to take the plunge and put an end to my carefree attitude towards life and start taking the heat of a married, working woman. Needless to say, I am so much more comfortable about the working part than the married part. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And for a few ‘different’ souls like me, the wedding is a bigger problem than the marriage itself. There is so much emphasis on looking good for your big day, acting like a lady, smiling constantly and talking everything with a heavy sugar-coat – it gets a lot irritating to a practical tomboy like me. And I am sure there are a lot of you who think and act like me. First of all, we DON’T WANT TO BE LADY-LIKE. Secondly, we DON’T KNOW HOW TO BE. <a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">All this is fine. What I can NOT take is the scores of relatives and neighbors that think talking about what a poor creature the groom is to be getting married to you, or pulling your legs in an attempt to make you blush (without having the slightest clue that you are incapable of blushing) – that is SOOO annoying! They come to you and tell you that you will not belong to your mom anymore, you will belong to your parents-in-law (as if you are a cow that is getting sold), they are more likely from the older generation where talking to the groom before getting married was a big deal – so they come to you and ask if you spoke to the “him” (that “him” with a wink), and some more courageous aunties giving “tips” about the First Night (expecting you to smile and blush) – oh God, how I wish I could run to a place far far away when that happens! Anyway, through this post, I want to give a few tips to all those nervous would-be brides to fight back their nervousness.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I made the biggest mistake of my life by extending my leave plan by 2 days (from the initial 3 day plan to a long 5 day vacation) to come home earlier, thanks to nonstop pestering by my Amma. So, the first tip is – NEVER COME HOME ANY EARLIER THAN ABSOLUTELY REQUIRED. And NEVER STAY BACK ANY LATER THAN ABSOLUTELY REQUIRED – put the blame on an imaginary manager that didn’t approve your leave plan. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The moment you step into the house, there are relatives who come in early for the wedding that love talking about exactly what they have come for – THE WEDDING (can’t blame them, that’s the sole purpose of their visit). The word “Kalyanam” (the wedding), or the equivalent in any language gets told more number of times than the total number of words Barkha Dutt rattles off in her show. If nothing else spooks you, then that ought to. Too much of talking about the wedding only makes you more stressed about it. So you have to come up with some idea to fight these words from being processed by your brain. You give your brain something else to process – TAKE A BOOK YOU ENJOY READING; WATCH SOME MOVIE YOU LIKE; WATCH CRICKET/TENNIS (I am so glad I had the India tour of South Africa and the Australian Open going on). </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another way of keeping other people from scaring you with all the wedding talks is to get WORK FROM HOME for a couple of days. You can always say you have to attend a very important meeting and get some time alone and away from all the tension.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Although a lot of friends call you up and write on your facebook wall about how many days remain until the BIG day. You should learn not to get agitated by this and keep your cool – ALWAYS REMEMBER, YOUR FRIENDS WILL GET MARRIED SOMETIME TOO. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Try escaping from the house on the pretext of GOING TO A BEAUTY PARLOUR – nobody will say ‘no’ to that. They all want you to look good for your big day. Choose a parlour with a gym attached to it. Go, get a massage, work out in the gym, chat with those girls that work there, while away some time there and go back home if and only if you are feeling hungry.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And to all those brave-hearts that are planning to bombard your facebook wall with “Aunty” messages, please LET YOUR MIDDLE FINGERS DO THE TALKING. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I must have fallen sick after being subjected to so much of torture but thanks to Rafa and his practice of removing his sweaty t-shirt on court and the numerous cameras that cover every bit of it, I am still alive and kicking. Because trust me, this is the time when office and the problems that come with it, including tackling lazy colleagues and irritating superiors, seem a far better deal than staying at home even though you get to be with your mom and have the much coveted home-food.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-46477244534896883442011-01-12T16:52:00.003+05:302011-01-12T16:56:10.993+05:30I love you, Rafa!!!<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">I was just watching the Wimbledon 2008 Men’s finals match – yes, it is the same historic 5-setter between Rafa darling and Fedex the great that I am talking about. I was watching probably for the millionth time and even today my fingers were crossed in an involuntary action. Talk about reflexes! What a match it was! The two best Tennis players of our generation fighting it out on a surface that one of them was already a champion of; while the other had come so close to becoming champion on it for the last two years. Undeniable masters of the game, both of them. And watching it, as much pleasure as it gives me as a Tennis lover, it also makes me think. </p> <a name='more'></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">It is not the first time this thought has occurred to me, but this is the first time I am attempting to pen it down. Blame it on my lazi-ass-ness (although I prefer the term “writers’ block”). There are two ways to be a winner – fight for every minute until you win (the Rafa style), or fight only when it is needed (my style). For example, Rafa goes after every point, hits the ball to win the current point irrespective of what the scorecard reads. In order to be able to do this (or even attempt to do this), you need to be extremely fit like Rafa. I (or any other lazy ass like me, for that matter), wouldn’t do that. I will always have the scoreboard in mind. I wouldn’t even play for the point when the scorecard reads 40-0 against me. There was no point in sweating it out for 3 more points and get to deuce and then get 2 more points (note: these are all consecutive points to be won).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I would rather give up on that game and move to the next game where I will look to dominate from the first point. This way of working makes more sense to me. It makes me feel like a smart worker, but then it is certainly not the sign of a true winner. A true winner never quits – no matter what the stakes are, no matter what the scorecard reads, no matter who the opponent is – he would always go for the kill. In that sense, Rafa is a true winner. A true champion. A great role-model. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">That is one of the many things I want to learn from Rafa and incorporate in my life – the others being maintaining that level of humility even when he is #1 in the world, maintaining such an enviable body and being physically fit throughout the year, holding his nerves and not losing his cool even when he is playing the most crucial of points, giving his everything to his game (a lot of us don’t give our everything to our work, do we?). I consider him to be a role-model for our generation. Well, now don’t argue with me as to why I did not write about Sachin Tendulkar as a role-model to our generation. There are two reasons:</p> <ol style="margin-top:0in" start="1" type="1"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1">I was not watching cricket when it occurred to me that I should write this. I was watching Tennis.</li> <li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1">I can’t write that God is a role-model; I need someone who is more human than divine. Let’s leave God out of this!</li> </ol> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">There is so much to learn from a 7 minute youtube video. And obviously, I am quite smitten by Rafa to say the least. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Dear God,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Please let me be like Rafa. Make me strong and happy in whatever I do. Make me a winner. Let me meet Rafa. Let him fall in love with me. Let him propose to me. Let us get married and have a bunch of kids and live happily ever after. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Yours sincerely,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Sandhya</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Ayyayyo… I wanted to write something else altogether. Rafa always does this to me. Sigh… What started off as a things-to-do ended up as things-I-wish-happened. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><o:p>PS: I know my sister will kill me for the title of the post. In case I get killed, you know who was behind it! ;-)</o:p></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183359585768514794.post-57847703376311023102011-01-03T16:05:00.005+05:302011-01-03T19:01:52.484+05:30Where is "Ponniyin Selvan"?<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Yet another year has born without any additions to it (except for the number called ‘age’ that all of us like to forget about). This year is going to be big, no… huge for me (actually, make it bold, capital letters preferably Red color). I am getting married in 26 days. There is all this tension – no, not about life after marriage, but about the arrangements for the wedding. I am probably one of the few morons that thinks the wedding is the tough part, not the marriage. Is it that I don’t like dressing up? Oh hell no… I love dressing up. But when it comes to my own wedding, not so much.</p> <a name='more'></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">What is it that makes me feel no matter how much effort I put in getting dressed up for my own wedding, I won’t look good enough? What is it that makes me so low on self-confidence (especially when I need it the most)? Why is it that I am unable to relax even for a minute? Is it normal for all brides-to-be? Oh wait, the very word ‘bride’ gets me all worked up. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Here I am on a lazy Sunday afternoon at Garuda Mall sipping Iced Tea after some leisurely shopping at Crossword for books. By the way, did you know Crossword does not have a single Indian Language book (at least at their branch at Garuda)? Disgusting is what it is! I would have been happy if I had spotted at least one Kannada book (not that I was expecting to see a Tamil book) – I am sure there are a lot of classics in Kannada as well.I am devastated by such a big bookstore’s not having a single Indian Language boo. Just to make sure, I asked a sales girl, “Do you have any Indian language books?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">She replied, “You mean Indian authors, ma’am?” As if I was being silly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">“No, I mean Indian languages – like Tamil or Kannada.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">She gave me a weird smile as if I was asking for 1kg of onions at her bookstore to mean<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“whoever reads such crap!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">If such high-end bookstores whose target buyers are from the younger generation don’t have our own classics on their book-shelves, it means only two things.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.75in;text-align:justify;text-indent: -.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">-<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Our younger generation does not buy Indian language books.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.75in;text-align:justify;text-indent: -.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">-<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->The bookstores don’t encourage them to.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Back in the good old days in Chennai, Landmark had a separate section for Regional language books – they had Tamil, Telugu and even Malayalam work (if I remember correctly). I cannot even begin to fathom the idea of my son/daughter growing up in a place that mocks our culture; a place where “Ponniyin Selvan” is not on the book-shelves of major bookstores. I am stocking up my own library with Tamil classics collection from now on so that by the time my son/daughter is old enough to read and write he/she doesn’t have to roam around the town searching for good books (and come back dejected and discouraged to read anything). Appreciation of one’s mother tongue is most important for any child’s growth.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">But thanks to this episode, I had forgotten all about my nervousness and the wedding for a short while. Now that I have poured my angst out to my mom, my sister and my friend (through phone) and my dad (through thoughts) and wrote it out on paper (yes, I wrote this using paper and pen – a million dollar experience that I bought for less than 50 rupees) – my wedding-related jitters are back on. From what sari to wear to what to accessorize it with to what I would do with my unruly hair – it is all coming back to me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify">Before the world closes in on me, I should escape to a different world by opening one of the four books I just bought – that would help me stay in control of my nerves. Or so I think!</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11535520302163012013noreply@blogger.com5