Magic Moments

Every year December comes with a baggage full of delights. It bids adieu to the passing year, and welcomes the arriving year wholeheartedly. It brings with it the much awaited winter (and relieves us from the perpetual heat), Christmas celebrations and New Year revelries. Reasons for which we love December (I love..) are numerous. In a brief… Of the Wintry Connections The nip in the air, especially in the evenings; the warmth of sweaters, shawls and soft fluffy blankets; the various types of delicious soups, pakodas , and numerous cups of coffee with family and friends, describe winter for me. And that also includes spoonfuls of Chawanprash, and honey every morning by my nagging mother. There’s a continuous good, blessed and happy feel, and everyone’s mood swings are at bay. Winter most certainly casts magic spells. Of the Marriage Season Attending marriage ceremonies of relatives in December is fun. It’s like a family get together. With all the siblings, cousin

Alone in her chamber, Sitting by her wheel, She made some yarn From some cotton. Pulling one string Entangling with the other, She tailored me dresses, For the balls I did not give a care; Knit me mittens, For the chipped fingers that hurt; Made me sweaters, For the chilly cold winters. She weaved me a cocoon of love, And a haven of warmth. She weaved me happy good nights, And sleepy sweet dreams.

Today’s the last day of The Write Tribe  Festival of Words, I’m taking part in. The last writing prompt is ‘Dreams’. Taking part in it has been a wholesome experience. Churning out new ideas for the different posts, struggling to make the creative juices flow, and reading the other blogs- it was quite a learning time. I hadn’t been this creative for months. I give my thanks to ‘Write Tribe’ and all the bloggers who took part. I have blogged about dreams earlier too. You can read it here: Follow Your Dreams . Dreams are very mysterious things. More like the soul, the actual identity of dreams is unknown. Where the consciousness goes and where the mind wanders when we are in sleep dreaming, is still a big question. Is it some corner of our brain or some other unexplored dimension outside our body? This continues to be an enigma. The very idea of our soul leaving the body while we are dreaming, and visiting unchartered lands, is quite fascinating though, even if

Every person we meet leaves a mark in our lives, however minute it may be. The people at our home are the family we are born into. Mother’s love and scolding, father’s pampering, sibling’s fights and reconciliations, and grandparent’s adoring shapes us up. Learning begins at home, builds our nature and character. But then, there’s a larger family that we sometimes choose for ourselves and sometimes not- our friends, hostel roommates, chance acquaintances and encounters in the larger circle of friends-of-friends. Some of them add spice to our lives; make memories with us and last lifelong. Some of them are the pretentious lot, add fun at times but mostly take advantage of us. Some of them are the real ‘friend in need is a friend in deed’. They support us, and give a shoulder to lean on when we are down and low, but for some reason drift apart. We hold unto them as much as we can, the real and rare gems in our lives, but circumstances distances them more and more. And all

Siddharth rested his head on the steering wheel. Three meetings in a single day was too hectic for him. Now the damn Bangalore traffic wouldn't let him reach home. Ruhi must be waiting for him, his loving daughter. After two long hours Siddharth finally reached home. Ruhi came running towards him in her baby feet. ‘Papa…papapa…’the two and a half year old sang. He lifted her into his arms and magically the whole day’s exhaustion vanished. ‘O, my little princess, give me a kissie,’ he said pointing to his cheek. The little one was too happy to oblige. ‘Aw, it hurt…’ she said, hands on her lips. ‘Oh, sorry, papa has forgotten to shave,’ Siddharth touched his ears. The smiling face returned, Ruhi laughed. Next morning, Ruhi was early at the breakfast table. She sat on the table at the centre, and everyone sat around her, taking a morning kissie from her in turns, as if a ritual. She was everyone’s darling. But when her doting father’s turn came, Ruhi cried, ’Aw, it hur

Like most people out there, I too nurture a dream to travel around the world. Well, it hasn’t to be in 80 days. J I want to go street shopping in China and South Korea (buying beautiful charms, trinkets, dream catchers, etc.); view cherry blossoms in Japan; click a selfie with Moais in Easter Islands; visit Buddhist monasteries outside India; ride in a gondola in Venice and every roller coaster in the world; admire the Hagia Sophia in Turkey and churches in Vatican; tour entire Europe and marvel in its beauty, history, culture, and antiquity. Yes, Zindegi Na Milegi Dobara, and Yeh Jawani Hei Diwani have enraptured my imagination. They have me yearning to know and understand every culture, custom and tradition first hand. But the starting point of this wish was quite early. It started with ‘ SOTC-Musafir Hoon Yaaron ’ series on Indian television with Deepti Bhatnakar. Be it Indian places of worship like the ‘ Char dham yatra ’, places of vacation like the hill stations

My tryst with music began quite early, inside my mother’s womb. I danced to my mother’s heartbeats, as she would put it. That was a nine month introductory session to rhythm, beat, and music in its crude form.  I grew up to granny’s lullabies, and grandpa’s chanting of prayers. I lived three of my early schooling years with them in Bhubaneswar- kindergarten and grade one, as my father was posted in Daitari where there was no school nearby. I was introduced to ‘Jana Gana Mana’ and ‘Vande Mataram’ at school. Grandpa had a collection of cassettes and a cassette player. I remember wrapping one of the bed-sheets around me like a sari and dancing to the Hindi bollywood songs on the double bed. We would visit grandpa’s home in Nayagarh in holidays, a joint family, a heaven for me in those days. We were like nine kids of the same age group in a single household. It was fun; running about in the corridor, playing in the veranda, playing flying dish with Jimmy- a street dog who h

I love libraries. I love books. I love the very look of the cover, the feel of the pages, the font of the script, and the blurb in the binding. Sometimes I feel like laminating my favorite book covers and hanging them in some ‘Hall of Favorites’. That can form a series too- a new, beautiful cover for a new edition of the book. I want to learn about this artistic cover designing some day. I think more than reading a book, I like to be surrounded by books. The atmosphere they create is very peaceful. They are the most comforting of friends, without making one feel vulnerable or judged. Being in a library is a bliss. It’s like many worlds present at the same place; you just have to delve into them. I wish books came with real portals to their world, like an entrance to a parallel universe. It would be amazing to live a few days with the characters we so much love. Given a chance I would want to visit Jane Austen’s creations, Hogwarts, Narnia (have a ride on Aslan’s back) and m

We are sentimental fellows, and are proud to be so. Food, apart from being a need for survival or a delicacy to satisfy or pamper our taste buds, is an emotional indulgence. We attach foods of different kinds to uncommon situations, and numerous memories. That is why it is said that certain flavors, certain tastes are potent enough to bring back the days past, brew a recipe of nostalgia, and refresh the old pages of life. Some dishes remind you of an old pal, and some, your native land. As the competitive world has made us too busy to stand and stare, or to make a call, we take the liberty of missing our near and dears while eating. Deny it as much as you will, but food is a part of our reminiscences and recollections- be it savoring a friend’s treat or trying a new cuisine. Cotton candy and lollipops define childhood, as ‘makke di roti’, ‘sarsoon da saag’, ‘idli aur dosa’, ‘pakhala au macha bhaja’ relate to home and a mother’s handmade finger-licking-worthy items.

Of arrivals and departures Of meetings and partings Of make-ups and breakups Of love and hate The deep ocean called mind Has it all. Of hellos and greetings Of laughs and cries Of tearful goodbyes Every poignant moment Is cherished with care. I think our memories make us who we are. Without them we wouldn't be able to identify with ourselves. Our past defines us; it creates our perception of the world. Memories play a part in giving leverage to our thought process, and the decisions that we make. On the other hand, realizing that we have forgotten a long cherished moment or a vital part of our lives is painful. We can't really realize that pain until we grow old and experience it. Being forgotten is painful too; realizing that we are no longer a part of the person’s memories. My memories are my treasure; my most prized possession. In earlier days I used to jot down events and experiences in my diaries, to keep a track of every to-be-re

Once upon a time there was a girl, calm and quiet, mostly unnoticed, a bit of a recluse. Her world was behind the locked doors and the shuttered windows of her home, where she could comfortably be herself without holding the burden of self-consciousness or regret. She was afraid of the outside world, and the people in it, especially people who called themselves her friends and well-wishers. Because behind the fake smiles and caring attitudes, she would always find mean and unkind individuals. It was hard for her to trust anyone, and make new friends. A bad high school experience and her best friend turning against her had changed her happy life. So, she found solace in solitude, and peace in loneliness. She would read a number of books borrowed from the library, travel the world through television, observe people, edit draft manuscripts for a living, and at the end of the day jot down her thoughts and confusions beautifully in her virtual diary - all from within her protected c

‘The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.’ This is the opening line of Dan Brown’s Inferno. The experience of reading a hardcover book is awesome. First day is spent marveling at the beautifully designed book cover, wow-ing the paintings (‘Map of Hell’) on the inside of the hardcover, feeling the texture of the pages, admiring the script itself, and hugging it without reading even the first chapter. As once you start reading a Dan Brown book, nothing else can come into picture- just the story and the facts strewn in between overwhelm your mind. And all the leisure is spent thinking and rethinking the plot, the characters, and the mystery and google-ing the facts. Though borrowed from a friend, for me this was the best reading experience of the year. The best thing about these thrillers is that they are full of interesting facts, and painstakingly researched data. Learning about the great plague in China and

This review is written as a part of the  Crazy Bookworm 's book reviewing program. It is the hilarious story of Jazzy aka Jasmine T. Peacock, and the more hilarious people surrounding her. Starting from her best friend Serai who wants to avoid marrying to anyone on ‘Craigslist’, to Jazzy’s mother who goes spying about on her neighbors day in day out, to the neighbour who offers Jazzy some yucky looking cabbage soup every day, the book is full of funny characters. There’s Aunt Cleotha who clutches her pearls in every sentence of anxiety and hysteria, baby Jordan who is a hell to manage, and rival Mercedes who though on the revenge list, is no less comic. There’s comedy full on and laugh out loud moments in each page. One can’t help but burst into loud heehaws clutching the stomach at certain times- especially Jazzy’s advice blog posts and replies to the customer-problems. Those are uproarious to the core. And the best part is, it’s not just a jotting of e

‘Autumn in my heart’ is a tragic love story. It has tears in almost every episode. It is one of the four ‘Endless love’ season themed dramas- Spring Waltz, Autumn Tale, Winter Sonata, and Summer Scent. Two babies are born on the same day- Eun suh and Shin ae. By mistake, they are exchanged by their families. While Eun suh’s childhood is a happy one spent with the parents and the brother Joon suh, Shin ae’s is a tiring one spent working in the restaurant and dealing with a thug of a brother. After 14 years due to an accident to Eun suh, the parents come to know that their blood types don’t match and that Eun suh is not their daughter.  After huge emotional turmoil and numerous heart breaks, the children are switched back again, disregarding what will become of Eun suh and Joon suh. Both are never used to living without each other, and miss the childhood days immensely. Joon suh’s family leaves for the US for 8 years. The separation is heart wrenching. After 8 years, Joon suh com

Lucky are those who have their hobby as their profession. They live satisfactory and happy lives, without a single moment of boredom or stress. Work for them would never be drudgery. They wouldn't have to slog through each day; rather each day would be bliss. Oh how I wish I could read novels from around the world, watch movies from around the world- one every day and review them with a critical eye. I wish someone would teach me poetry and the epics from around the world, and languages and the nuances of culture from every nook and corner. I wish to learn a new skill, or art every month and a new language every year. Only if this figment of imagination came true- life would be a fairy tale. Just sitting in the library a few hours, just gazing at the books even without reading them, would fill my day with delight. Every edition of Graphitti (the supplementary magazine with the telegraph every Sunday) has a success story of people who followed their dream