tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53922149689548592682024-03-06T02:04:27.659+00:00DreamcatcherHere, I put down every random thought that occurs to me. Welcome into my head. It can be a very strange place. I like elephants.Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-11170201619624648082013-04-12T17:31:00.003+01:002013-04-12T17:46:43.636+01:00An abundance of books, and a compromise<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I
find myself in a fix: a while ago I had ranted here about how offensive I found
e-readers, how I am a purist and would never want to commit myself to such an
atrocity. I wrote about the sacred experience of reading a book, the
satisfaction of having a full bookshelf. So when I celebrated having survived
for a quarter of a century without any major mishaps, I went and purchased (or, as my aunt tries to comfort me, she gifted me) a Kindle. Shameful secret – I bought three
e-books in under a minute the moment I opened that Amazon parcel. I am a
spectacular sell out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Digression
– I have also ranted about how I would resist a phone too smart for itself. Own
one of those as well now. While I feel like I have moved into the 21<sup>st</sup>
century, I can hear the dying groans of my lofty ideals. But
then, I have access to mobile internet, and therefore Google maps, at all times,
so my sense of guilt is overpowered by my glee at never having to be lost
again, and knowing exactly when the next bus will come along. That is what I
use the Internet for, now you know. I also browse museum websites, and photo
archives of art and architecture magazines. Don’t bother commenting; I know I
am a loser.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Back
to the Kindle, here is the thing that turned the tide: I moved to England with
two books, To Kill a Mockingbird, which is the closest thing I have to a
security blanket, and The Shadow of the Wind, which is not exactly high
literature, but its ability to grip me after repeated readings makes me love it
nonetheless. Then I discovered charity shops and cheap books. And my dark side
emerged (I have several dark sides, but this one is particularly sinister) – I
need to own books. They are everywhere - in my study, my floor, under my bed, on my bed. And yet I buy more. I need to smell them before buying them, and then I write my
name on them, they are MINE. I have spent hours rearranging my bookshelf, I
even use my phone (hah!) to browse this amazing website <a href="http://bookshelfporn.com/">http://bookshelfporn.com</a> a tumbler blog
devoted to bookshelves I’d sell my firstborn to own. This is terrible. It is a
disease. It has now reached a point where I will probably have to ship books back to
Bombay if I move home. That is more expensive than their actual cost. And
I would still do it. </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The situation after I had sent half a suitcase full of books back home:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPO_8tHhgrM7KnSQyIjOjSKaO2dZ2jJw0RDqOD9w-FA3rSWt3RblK6Nzb73FxvnP1wvS9jf4n_ccT1VC5f2AEh7bQhN-PKHzFMRAw5tcgJGbkIxFMl7HDwqV7KiUa8o9enDfJDc12QIpY/s1600/2013-04-12+17.18.58.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPO_8tHhgrM7KnSQyIjOjSKaO2dZ2jJw0RDqOD9w-FA3rSWt3RblK6Nzb73FxvnP1wvS9jf4n_ccT1VC5f2AEh7bQhN-PKHzFMRAw5tcgJGbkIxFMl7HDwqV7KiUa8o9enDfJDc12QIpY/s320/2013-04-12+17.18.58.png" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Weirdly positioned bookshelf at home. Love it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Note inefficient use of photo editor on fancy phone. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAMYrEGl_ZJJ0GZLr7iG6P_tKX3UoMW7uLNQ7E6lgqbqW2XXKtm-tm-QVISP5pySCzlY5igBoYKTB2e_YUBpxqRXB8XdE5JammWGHPPS4DqGooRGcv0VvqzY8hEBsfqhH6Qaagy611YV4/s1600/2013-04-12+17.19.43.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAMYrEGl_ZJJ0GZLr7iG6P_tKX3UoMW7uLNQ7E6lgqbqW2XXKtm-tm-QVISP5pySCzlY5igBoYKTB2e_YUBpxqRXB8XdE5JammWGHPPS4DqGooRGcv0VvqzY8hEBsfqhH6Qaagy611YV4/s320/2013-04-12+17.19.43.png" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The oversize books collection</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So a Kindle was really inevitable, if I wanted to make my life easier in the long run. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Kindle has its pros and cons. Pros: I can carry my library with me everywhere, so if I finish a book, I don’t have to twiddle my thumbs, I can start the next one. The reading experience is fairly smooth. I don’t have to hunt for a dictionary (that is a lie, I just skip the word or make up a meaning); the Kindle has one in-built. And I can highlight passages I like, which I wouldn’t dream of doing in an actual paper book. And you can get some really cheap and good e-books. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The cons:
No page numbers, just a stupid percentage bar which irritates me – 36%, 40% -
its not an economic textbook I am trying to get through, its not a competition.
Also, its annoying when I want to go back several pages and have to press
buttons or search for words till I find it – while reading a book, I know
exactly where a passage is, and can find it easily, with the kindle, I just
don’t bother. And footnotes/appendix = nightmare. Next – battery. It has an
astonishingly long life, but I get nervous that it will run out in the middle
of a crucial scene in a book, and then I’ll be left, well, twiddling my thumbs.
Final con (or pro, depending how you see it) – the experience of purchasing a
book is so easy and immediate, that you sort of don’t think before you impulsively commit
yourself to a book. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Still,
I have reconciled myself to the Kindle – I think I have read more books since I
got it, because access to books is so quick and easy on it. And while that
should be the most important thing, I do miss the experience of holding, well,
a real book. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Also,
I judge people according to the books I see on their shelves. What they can see
on mine now is an abundance of science fiction and graphic novels. I swear there’s
a wider variety of genres on my Kindle. Oh darn.<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
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Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-79642839727073304832012-11-04T00:02:00.001+00:002013-02-24T02:47:52.711+00:00He likes to stand, James does.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqRaxVsf4xS592DOcemHrCIkKYvedVbZixsyJxU_DBc0ZWsiiLnOm5aiksNUjv_2-y4VchuUHQ16seJXT9GSphI8vU8afms_WiAAJGScjjc73ppXj3SjnuMBfK_jJnCMxRFe1MZMgCYo/s1600/_63779774_skyfall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqRaxVsf4xS592DOcemHrCIkKYvedVbZixsyJxU_DBc0ZWsiiLnOm5aiksNUjv_2-y4VchuUHQ16seJXT9GSphI8vU8afms_WiAAJGScjjc73ppXj3SjnuMBfK_jJnCMxRFe1MZMgCYo/s320/_63779774_skyfall.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLC7Ss7Ptp9hJLu3w03uGjjSL9rCfKrQoF_nGUoNY2hSfZ6EdpHKqXI1I9M3s3RutAgghRQGSisFOr4dKRDz0O8G0TAIY4_GbzltSM2hk8nw7AqKI2vnkTthaXPRsCnErPdirSgIHmZ9I/s1600/movies_james_bond_skyfall_daniel_craig_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLC7Ss7Ptp9hJLu3w03uGjjSL9rCfKrQoF_nGUoNY2hSfZ6EdpHKqXI1I9M3s3RutAgghRQGSisFOr4dKRDz0O8G0TAIY4_GbzltSM2hk8nw7AqKI2vnkTthaXPRsCnErPdirSgIHmZ9I/s320/movies_james_bond_skyfall_daniel_craig_1.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEwbvQ6HTfQEEUrHBCD0Zeddl7H4b9e4UDme262u13W8WaYqwI2YHG-nGiksqYTtHaSgDeHvSOacY-6V6FgkldgTgZzSTEU_9xXETLxK5CqLR5Dqqww5rIKgYpqVZ5z5q-2A2e0FPfIAs/s1600/PM2534749@1123220+-+Skyfall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEwbvQ6HTfQEEUrHBCD0Zeddl7H4b9e4UDme262u13W8WaYqwI2YHG-nGiksqYTtHaSgDeHvSOacY-6V6FgkldgTgZzSTEU_9xXETLxK5CqLR5Dqqww5rIKgYpqVZ5z5q-2A2e0FPfIAs/s320/PM2534749@1123220+-+Skyfall.jpg" /></a></div>
Even James Bond thinks museums are cool.</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-57062865947122818702012-06-08T23:30:00.002+01:002012-06-08T23:32:11.717+01:00Finding Syrie<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
A blogpost for work.
<a href="http://wellcomecollection.wordpress.com/2012/06/08/finding-syrie/">
Do read!</a>Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-72668822812756987302012-02-05T00:08:00.003+00:002013-04-13T14:12:15.223+01:00A very clichéd 'Let it snow!'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am ruled by the whims of the weather gods. It starts to rain, and I burrow under the blanket, cancel all plans till it stops. In India, that can mean hibernation from June to October, which my parents don’t quite agree with. Sunshine, and my room is a mess of my creation, a result of my attempts to climb over all obstacles to get out to the gloriousness that is the world.
<br />
<br />
First snow of the season today. My room is clean, with a clear route to the window/balcony, which was blocked by several successive layers of junk. I can finally see my floor! It starts to snow and I run out on to the street, and stretch out my hands to catch snowflakes, raise my face to the sky and talk to complete strangers. I get offended that Travel For London does not consider announcing “Ladies and gentlemen, the first snow of the season is here!” instead of a pointless “good service on all London underground lines” – though I do see their need to brag, it does happen so far and few in between. But so does snow! And my need to blog, apparently. Hello, I am back. With more wishes, of course.
<br />
<br />
I wish could share this moment with you. I wish I could sit with you by a window, sharing ginger tea and silence. I wish you could hear the absolute silence that descends on the world along with snow. I wish you could see the smiles that strangers on the street exchange, the smiles of those who know that this is a moment to be shared, smiles that really cannot be contained. I wish you could hear the distant laughter of children scrambling about in their long awaited prize, that overdue Christmas present from nature. And see the magical shapes that frost can create on car windows; watch dogs get very confused by the white stuff from the sky. Watch trees and shrubs laden with snow, to the point that their branches finally creak with their heavy burden, and then bend to create a tiny avalanche, much to their relief. I wish you could see snow swirling under the street light, that moment when they twirl about in the air, debating whether or not to hurl themselves down to the thickening carpet on the ground.
<br />
<br />
But then again, there is beauty in having this moment to myself. Because, knowing you lot, you’ll probably start a snow fight and the poor hopeless romantic would be pelted with snowballs while trying to make a snow angel (which is what hopeless romantics deserve, really).<br />
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The sky is orange. Everything is still. All’s right in my world.<br />
<br />
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Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-14609358135019957252011-10-05T13:57:00.002+01:002013-01-29T23:25:41.537+00:00Hi! Pull up your trousers!Blogger’s block seems to be my natural state, with some intermittent blogging scattered here and there. Hi!<br />
<br />
Nothing remarkable has happened lately, if you discount the fact that I am WORKING. In a MUSEUM. And they PAY me and everything. I have a <i>pension </i>plan. ME. I mean, my day consisted of eating an apple here, reading a book there, watching TV, laughing at the BJP. And I am now in a flatshare, paying RENT. And I cook my own food (or what I call food, my parents beg to differ. Apparently Rajma does not a meal make). I sleep at reasonable hours and cannot actually function anymore with three hours of sleep. I joined the gym (That’s all, I haven’t actually been there after that little walk on the wild side). And I use a washing machine and worry about interest rates. I caught myself thinking of <i>investments </i>the other day. Christ. Dangerous notions need to be quashed at infancy, or I’ll soon be watching Sanskar TV and learning yoga, and then where will we be?<br />
<br />
So, besides independent and semi-responsible living 101, what else is up? Nothing much, really. But I did see a guy running past me in Euston station, in trousers three sizes too large, flashing grey underwear. Yes, it was that evident, and yes, it is burnt into my retinas forever. Seriously. If you do need to show everyone your underwear, at least wear interesting ones like those Chandler has in one episode – ones with hearts (yes, again, I have spent years of my life watching Friends. Ask me to quote them. Go on, I dare you.) Or ones with Calvin and Hobbes, or Superman ones. Otherwise, KEEP THE DAMN TROUSERS UP. What will your grandmother think, eh? Heard of something called a belt? Handy things, those. <br />
<br />
Oh, did I tell you about the 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle that I did, just to see if I could? It was finished after a lot of stubborn determination that I would not let something called ‘Flower Fairies’ defeat me. I think I might have become slightly more short sighted after that little adventure. It was very satisfying though, I can tell you that. These days, I am flapping around in art shops looking for marble paper (that’s craft paper, non-Indians) to make origami cranes. I learnt how to from someone at work. While I don’t intend to make a Thousand Origami Cranes to make my wishes come true (if I had to wish, I’d probably wish for a thousand of them first, made and delivered to my doorstep), I am contemplating making a few to hang about in my room. That, my friends, is the extent of my arty side. After that I am going to learn how to knit. A sock, anyone? Fun times! I am clearly living life on the edge here people! <br />
<br />
This blog post, in case you haven’t already noticed, is not about anything in particular (unlike all my other very focused, profound, thought driven posts). I'm trying to ‘inspire’ myself by actually putting something up, hoping that its ghastliness will scare me into quickly writing something sounding slightly more intelligent and not make my parents wonder where all that money they spent on my education went. <br />
<br />
Or I could always go back to watching Vampire Diaries I suppose.Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-78651195733262806382011-04-28T12:26:00.003+01:002016-04-12T10:24:20.320+01:00An odd, disjointed post<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Silence. Some feel oppressed by it, some live with it. I love it, just as I love darkness. I love it just as I love sound, just as I adore light. Everyone sees the world in different ways; I see it in these terms – silence, noise, darkness and light. We have already assigned value to everything. Dark is bad, light is good; as for silence and noise, both have their virtues and vices – silence may be peace or death, noise may be chaos or life. <br />
<br />
I can wish and hope that I will live in a quaint village far away from ‘the maddening crowd’, but the reality is, I have always lived in cities, plonked right into the centre of humanity. Life hurries past, its impatience and breathlessness is stunning. Why does no one wait? Why does no one look a person in the eye? Why the shuffling, pushing and hurrying? Where are they all going? No, I am not trying to ask some profound existential question - seriously, where the hell are they all going? I imagine them running through their days, mechanical, schedule bound, day in and day out – and suddenly, stunned, surprised – they are 70 and life as they know it, youth, has passed them. <br />
<br />
Life, as I know it, is baffling at times. What is our purpose? At 20, we battle confusion and anxiety to answer this very question, some lucky ones come up with answers that satisfy their minds, while the rest just muddle their way through life, or so I suppose. For me, life is one huge learning process - but for all that learning, we get only one shot at it. So next time I am confronted with a big decision, I suppose I should remind myself of this: one life, one chance. No regrets. In the end, I will be worm food. Might as well make my journey toward the inevitable more eventful. So, I will continue to wear my childish socks, and love my colourful laces, and I will continue talking to myself. I will write here even if no one read this, though I sure as hell will try to make people read it. I will continue to watch sitcoms and dramas till I lose interest in them, and not care that I haven’t listened to, or don’t like, classic rock bands. <br />
<br />
Wait. Watch. Breathe. Now go.</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-55850138291224325662011-04-25T15:25:00.004+01:002013-03-04T20:46:56.428+00:00The Dream<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I had a dream that I owned a house. My own place. It was a strange place, not that I expect any home of mine to be any different. Cozy.<br />
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There seemed to be no front door to this home of mine (Psychologist friends, have a field day with that one). It was small, just a bedroom and a kitchen (even in my dream, my mind is clear about the fact that I have no money). <br />
<br />
I had to break into my own house, by the way. I climbed up a fire escape, and ended up in a corridor. To my right was a window, the kind that slides up, and I entered my house through that window, knocked over something that was on a desk under said window. My bed was next to the desk. Plenty of cushions, lots of reds, browns, and greens. Books everywhere, a small table lamp. There is no phone. <br />
<br />
Through beaded curtains on the right, and there is a wash basin behind another curtain, and right ahead of me is a well sized kitchen. (Where is the bathroom? Where are all the French windows I always wanted?)<br />
<br />
I worry in this house of mine, because of that darned window. What if someone breaks in through it? I look for the front door, but I cannot find it. <br />
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<br /></div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-87024829930198725182011-02-08T19:50:00.017+00:002013-03-04T20:54:50.791+00:00Please, Don't Tell Me a Story!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ideas we are introduced to as children stay with us for life. One's personality is, after all, the result of upbringing, culture and, in the modern world, what the media projects on a daily basis. This is particularly true in the case of notions of gender identity, and the roles and characteristics that society assigns to each – male and female. The third gender is not even considered by society, so let us leave that one for another day. <br />
<br />
Consciously or otherwise, society came up with certain ways to, and I do not use this term lightly, <span style="font-style: italic;">brainwash </span>us, about what is appropriate behaviour for different genders. Education, modernity and the feminist movement have challenged the most outrageous of these norms, but many continue to exist. Of course, they vary from culture to culture, but some common factors are present everywhere. Let us look at three of them in this post – two are important influences from our childhood, and one that continues to assault us even after we become adults: toys, fairy tales and television programmes/films. <br />
<br />
Toys obviously form an important part of play during childhood. In the beginning, we all get the same things – things that make noise, are bright and move. However, once children become mobile, start talking and become capable of absorbing basic concepts like who those tall people who boss us around are, or why drinking out of the fish tank is not an option, the toys they play with change as well. Out go the rattles and in come the toy soldiers and blonde, blue eyed dolls with vacant expressions. Toy guns and miniature kitchen sets. Doctor kits and mock make-over sets, complete with fake lipsticks, blush and mascara. I read about this bizarre ‘Make your own atomic bomb’ kit that came out during the cold war, which actually included four samples of uranium ore (Gilbert U-238 Atomic Energy Laboratory). <br />
<br />
The point of this little toy history is, through them are introduced subtle but clear ideas of what is considered appropriate behaviour and careers for different sexes. Boys need to be tough like soldiers, they should not cry, they should be brave. Girls, lets cook! Let us put on make-up, hang around in the kitchen, drink tea and have unrealistic ideas about what women should look like (If Barbie was human: 37-28-40, 7.8 ft. Really?! What a brilliant role model for inspiring a healthy body image). We outgrow toys at some stage, but the question is, do we outgrow what they try to teach us? Of course, parents may not actually want us to learn these precise ideas from our toys, but some forethought while shopping and gifting would be nice. <br />
<br />
The next important factor would be the stories we hear and read as children. “Please tell me a story!” is a line most of us would have said at some point in our childhood. Growing up in Bombay, in a family that considered reading as the best hobby a child could have, I got access to both western fairy tales and Indian mythological stories. Western fairy tales included Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Rapunzel, Snow White, Ugly Duckling and the like, while Indian ones, thanks to Uncle Pai and his Amar Chitra Katha, included stories of Indian kings and mythological heroes. In retrospect, both were sexist as hell.<br />
<br />
Among the European fairy tales, almost all had a similar theme running through them – beauty is everything, step mothers are <span style="font-style: italic;">beyond evil</span>, weak women are cool and need to be rescued by Prince Charming. The duckling is shunned till it turns into a swan; the Princess lets the Prince climb up her hair (!), kisses random Princes and frogs, sleeps in strangers houses and lets Prince Charming slay her demons for her. And now, the <br />
Princess has made a comeback in the form of Bella Swan and Twilight (refer to previous post). Grow a backbone, please! These stories give new heights to the more ridiculous ideas of being feminine i.e. be weak and wait to be rescued; simultaneously, they instill completely unrealistic notions about how men should behave. Unconsciously, many women do look out for their Knight in Shining Armour, who, when he comes along, may turn out to be a loser in aluminium foil...(Thank you Facebook, this one is priceless). <br />
<br />
As for the Indian stories, don’t even get me started on them – why are almost all the mythological heroes men, and why do women feature as prominent characters only when they are playing mothers or wives to these said heroes? Sorry, I refuse to be the woman <span style="font-style: italic;">behind</span> a successful man. <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> want to be successful, screw him. And though this is not related to what is being discussed, I would just like to point out that Indian Sultans and Badshahs were not lecherous and evil beings waiting to kill Rajputs and take their women. Bloody Hindu propaganda. <br />
<br />
And finally, thank you Ekta Kapoor and co, for depicting women (and only Hindu ones as that, god knows how she would have depicted the Muslim community) as the ever suffering, silent victims of archaic patriarchal traditions. No, no, please do not rebel, do not have a career, worship your <span style="font-style: italic;">mangalsutra</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">sindoor</span>, have ridiculous names and tolerate your cheating husbands. Yes, that is what all Indian women should aspire to be. A Mrs. Somebody who does not have self respect or an independent mind. <br />
<br />
What we need is stories that teach children about independence and self-confidence, emphasise on the importance of inner beauty and loving oneself, and tell them that they can be anything they want to be. Prince Charming can go back to the happy land of singing serfs, benevolent Fairy Godmothers and evil step sisters - we new age women can take care of ourselves.</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-42933403591055125332011-02-03T17:33:00.007+00:002013-03-04T20:47:17.382+00:00Of sparkling vampires and 'irrevocable' love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When I see girls going gaga over Edward Cullen, I am amazed at their obsession with the blood-sucking ‘undead’. Edward Cullen, in case you have been living under a rock in Antarctica, is the vampire protagonist of the Twilight series authored by Stephanie Meyer. It’s not like the books weren’t bad enough (and I should know, I read all four in two weeks. Ah, the insanity of an idle mind); the powers that be decided to compound the present craze over the book by making the truly terrible Twilight movies, which boast of incredibly bad acting, laughable make up and no creative imagination whatsoever. <br />
<br />
Quick synopsis: Bella moves in with her father who lives in a rainy town called Forks, so that her mother can go on tour with her step-father. She starts high school, boys start falling in love with her, though she can’t figure it out, and at this point, which is about 20 pages into the book, the author introduces Edward, handsome, ‘perfect’ Edward , thus conveniently bypassing the need to give Bella any background history whatsoever. She seems to have had no semblance of a life before moving to Forks, and quickly falls in looove with Eddie boy, after exchanging about 20 words with him. Eddie boy is not any boy, he is a vampire, an old vampire, and a vampire who sparkles in sunlight. Seriously, <span style="font-style: italic;">sparkles</span>. Now falling ‘irrevocably’ in love with a sparkly stalker vampire (he sneaks into her room at night to watch her sleep, the <span style="font-style: italic;">creep</span>) vampire is never a good thing, and neither is having a hormonal werewolf for your best friend. The series should have never gotten past an editor without undergoing some serious hacking, but evidently, said editor was on vacation.<br />
<br />
The series are not the best books for impressionable teenagers, and the main reason for that is the female protagonist of the series – Bella Swan. I have never come across a more needy, spineless and annoying character in a book. She shows no sense of self preservation, is morally ambiguous, and her world revolves around her boyfriend. I mean, going numb, curling up into a ball and jumping off cliffs because a boy ditched you? Not cool. Surely falling out of love is an option? No guy is worth jumping off a cliff, for Christ’s sake. Her aim in life is to turn into a vampire and be with her guy forever -- go get a degree, a job!! She idealises Romeo and Juliet (and look how well that story ended). So in the end, what message is the author giving out? Forget about defining your identity, be ambitionless, selfish, dependent on a guy for your happiness to the point of being suicidal; be a perpetual damsel in distress and be careless about the feelings of family and friends? And what is this talk of 'irrevocable' love? Besides sounding slightly daft, it is also sounds completely wrong when a 17 year old says it, who simultaneously wishes to have the sparkly prima donna as her boyfriend for ever or die. What a choice. <br />
<br />
Give me Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel (ooh, David Boreanaz) ANY day. They have courageous, independent and strong characters who can act as perfect role models for teens, rather than whiny Bella Swan.</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-33937235153730209302010-12-05T03:05:00.007+00:002013-03-04T20:47:47.259+00:00Will I grow up?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Some days, I want to be someone else. Not that I don’t want to be me. I like being me, being goofy, serious, neurotic me. But some days, it might be fun to be someone else. (don’t use pop psychology, just go with it ok?)<br />
<br />
The person I want to be most is a reclusive writer, with a cottage in the middle of nowhere, with a dog called Jack (more on this imaginary dog some other time). With no large water bodies or a phone anywhere nearby. Just Jackie boy warming my feet, a laptop, lots of coffee, a cozy table, lamp and me. Books covering every surface. A writer, poet. Changing the world with that brilliant novel. This me knows how to play the guitar and the violin and is quite well read, what with being a writer and all. This me even understands Shakespeare without the Lambs helping out, and can argue whether or not Shakespeare was a chauvinist. <br />
<br />
A winemaker. Mmm. Vineyards in Italy. A nice crumbling stone cottage with a fireplace, logs crackling in the fireplace during winter, lovely employees who sing as they crush the grapes (hey, it’s MY imagination). Besides the winemaking, I am also a shepherd in my free time. “The hills will be alive with the sound of bleating.” Let us establish at this point that imaginary Jack will always be by my side. (Daddy, Ma? See? This is what happens when you deny your ONLY offspring a pet. Too late now. I am evidently damaged.)<br />
<br />
A chef. Surrounded by fresh fruits and vegetables, and so much possibility. Flour <br />
in my hair and a smile of satisfaction at my glorious Christmas pudding. Chopping, crushing, steaming, baking. Spices: star anise, bright oranges, fragrant cumin, glossy red chillies, cinnamon sticks, bay leaves (take out the chillies and the cumin, and I could make mulled wine at this point.)<br />
<br />
Edith was right. I am a hopeless romantic.</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-8953246808739706512010-12-05T02:08:00.004+00:002010-12-05T02:25:03.189+00:00Why I WriteI often see writers trying to explain why they write. They do it eloquently, gracefully. Look at Terry Tempest Williams's essay. (Tempest. What a fascinating name. Does it offer us a glimpse into her personality? But then, are we moulded by our names? I know people who are nothing like their names, many named after gods and qualities they never reflect :D And yet others who are their names personified. Sulekha. Good writer. She is. Mehjabeen. Moonbeam/Moon-like. She lights up a room.) <br /><br />Tempest says she writes because:<br />http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=502133944457<br /><br />I think, I ponder, try to get inspired. I struggle and finally, I squeeze out a few words, about why I write, before I give up. For now. <br /><br />I write to put my memories into words. I write to share my life. I write because it makes me happy. I write because it makes me question, it makes me think. I write because it is the only way I will ever express all my thoughts, everything I feel. I write to challenge my imagination. I write to tell stories. I write to tell you about my day, to cajole you into telling me about yours. I write about things that matter to me, about people who matter to me. I write because I like the sound of words, their taste, their feel. They give me company on sunny days, on rainy evenings and on silent nights. They surround me when I am alone; they protect me in a crowd. They float around me like dust motes in a bright sunny room, and I follow them with my eyes, frantically trying to commit them to memory, or to paper at least. They flutter all around me, make me what I am. I bat at them like a cat, try to pluck one out of the air and pin it down. It’s hard. Yet, I love these words. Words, do not float away from me. Stay close.Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-18986439610542484052010-10-28T15:17:00.005+01:002011-07-11T13:22:22.350+01:00Chocolate! Fire alarms! Paris!! Spell!!!Dear Reader, <br />
<br />
I am battling bloggers block and the urge to eat chocolate, a combination that has a tendency to drive a person mad. I get ideas when I am about to be claimed by sleep, and by the time I wake up, poof! All fantastic (at least in my semi conscious state, they seem so) post ideas are gone. So as I sit here before my laptop and wonder what to type, I am struck by random, random thoughts. Should I inflict them upon you, or should I sift through them and pick up one that I could elaborate, tweak and beat into submission, into something that vaguely resembles some coherent flow of thought? I wonder, I ponder and I decide: Blitz Krieg! <br />
<br />
In Paris (yes, you lot are going to hear about this place so much, you might as well give in), in Paris, I went to a pub with the group I was travelling with. In the dark pub that was lit only by UV lights, everything became very interesting (anyone remember that Friends episode where Ross whitens his teeth for a date?) Our t-shirts, teeth, eyes glowed a ghostly white and the ambience was seductive. A pianist, super cheerful with a glass of whiskey next to him, played out tunes in a surprisingly accent free voice. People around us were steadily getting drunk, while he sang soulful songs. But after every song, there would be just a couple of people clapping, and as I sat there looking at him, I wondered how he did this job. Imagine sitting there, playing for a bunch of people for whom your music was just white noise? My soul would die a bit each night if I were him. Whiskey would help prop up my spirits too though, I suppose... <br />
<br />
You know what technology – text messaging, online chatting, facebook - has done to this world? Besides making us into complete idiots who depend on technology for the simplest of things, it has ruined our ability to spell (mum, don’t laugh, I can spell, ok?). I often wonder what would happen if people (and I don’t mean annoying teenagers, I mean fellow 20+ year olds) type ‘you’ instead of ‘u’? or ‘this’ instead of ‘dis’? it is amaaazzzzzziiiinn dat ppl r unabl 2 typ cmplte wrds. I wonder how much effort it takes to type that odd vowel? I assure the followers of this culture, that contrary to popular belief, those ‘a’s, ‘e’s and ‘I’s are important. Really, they are. <br />
<br />
I love fire alarms. Everyone I know and lived with for the past one year in halls greeted them with pure, unadulterated loathing, while I would run out of my room with a huge grin. I consider fire alarms to be a fantastic opportunity to catch up with friends. Others did not agree though. The general hatred towards the alarms was compounded by the fact that it always went off at odd hours, usually between 1 am and 6 am when some fellow creature of the night was burning food or smoking stealthily (and unsuccessfully) in their rooms. In my case, this meant I was wide awake every time, since I don’t keep to human times. Shelby called me a “bloody prophet” because the alarms uncannily went off often on days when I would mention them. “Ooh Shel, love those pyjamas, I hope the fire alarm goes off so that people see them”/ “Sigh. Last days, and no fire alarms. So sad.” Were followed by the ear splitting “teeooooteeeoooteeeoo” of the alarm. I think my flatmates hated me a bit because of this.<br />
<br />
Strange and highly disorganised monologue done. Thank you for reading.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
<br />
Me.Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com1B15, Paul Robeson House, Islington, London WC1X 9EH, UK51.5310427 -0.1139081999999689351.5303847 -0.11464619999996893 51.5317007 -0.11317019999996893tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-22133826117214622972010-10-16T18:15:00.008+01:002011-01-02T02:27:03.949+00:00FamilyI am reminded of home by the simplest of things, things I had not thought of for almost a year. My aunt is using her mixer grinder, or as we know it, the Mixie, and that sound just transported me back to my living room in Bombay, where that sound was a fixture on Sunday mornings. Dad talking on the phone, surrounded by every English newspaper published in Bombay, Ma in the kitchen, yelling for dad to come help cook something. if I ventured in there, she’d promptly send me off, telling me she did not have the time to clean up whatever mess I’d make in there, in other words “you are useless, go get your dad to help me”. Dad would go into the kitchen with a long suffering expression, and then relegate mom to the post of a dishwasher, or the sous chef, i.e. cutting veggies while he dumped copious amounts of Maggie tastemaker and every spice he could lay his hands on into what was cooking. <br /><br />So this post is about my crazy parents, who, I think, are the two most influential people in my life, not to mention the most entertaining. <br /><br />I often tell my friends that it is a miracle I survived my childhood. From being forgotten in the house as a baby (Ma: Ok, I’m ready, let’s go. Dad: Where is the baby? Ma: Oh right!), to dad’s occasional lack of attention to details (Friend: Oh, so this is your daughter? How old is she? Dad: Four or five. Ma (glaring at dad): She’s four!!) to Ma’s experiments (Ma: Ok, my two year old child, put your head through this oddly shaped window grille here, let’s see if it fits. Me: happily following orders. Ma: damn it! Her head is stuck in the grille!!! Me: happily waving at people walking four floors below us and at birds flying past. Dad comes back home: What the hell happened here?! Ma: Oh she did that when I was not looking. Get the baby oil, we’ll ease her head out of there). Cycling, that is another thing I remember. Dad tried his best to teach me, but while under his supervision, I mowed over a kid who was playing cricket :D <br /><br />They were cool when it came to religious instruction though. They taught me the basic concepts, you know, God, karma and the ‘thou shall not kill’ rule, brought me Amar Chitra Katha comics so that I would know the mythologies and then pretty much left me to my own devices. ‘Interpret as you please’ was the rule. It never was an issue that I did not pray every day, or that my faith is ambiguous on the best of days. Dad is currently a Buddhist, while Ma finds comfort in the rituals of daily prayer. She also finds comfort in teasing dad when he prays daily, despite his having stated that he does not believe in Hindu rituals anymore. Dad tries his best not to laugh when she starts a hilarious running commentary when he goes to pray. <br /><br />Unlike a lot of Indian parents, mine encouraged me to make independent decisions from childhood. That, I think, is what I am most grateful to them for. I was not a bad student, so marks never mattered to dad, as long as I learnt something, while Ma was happy that I kept my head out of trouble. <br /><br />This is most definitely not my best post, but I am posting it anyway. For those two clowns back home. Kisses.Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-21380390532669620302010-09-29T01:44:00.007+01:002010-09-29T02:07:50.722+01:00Music for your soul?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjadAskKv8qTYcJ_psYYGPqQGBYfvvqJ-HtwDTTdptVxBySr23mHs5qo8pPcWRWL1KJgpfrH8OPpjfwu_Lp_r2Gx911bpcomRKj2_WuYxgRZtpeLW22J4QH5vkCEn1ktJJdXy3SfKkOmec/s1600/tabla2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 166px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjadAskKv8qTYcJ_psYYGPqQGBYfvvqJ-HtwDTTdptVxBySr23mHs5qo8pPcWRWL1KJgpfrH8OPpjfwu_Lp_r2Gx911bpcomRKj2_WuYxgRZtpeLW22J4QH5vkCEn1ktJJdXy3SfKkOmec/s200/tabla2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522134255872207378" /></a><br />Some Hindi/urdu songs are sheer poetry. Not the new ones though, gah. <br /><br />Gulzar and Javed Akhtar have come up with some of the best lines through the ages, and so have the guys in the period before the horror that was the nineties. The magic of good old hindi songs – the music, the singers. Sigh. <br /><br />Some songs I love (my main source of old Hindi songs is Ma, and my knowledge is nowhere as vast as hers): <br /><br />1. Abhi na jao chod kar (Hum Dono) – My favourite. Always makes me smile. Love the playfulness of the lyrics, and the wistful longing behind them. Mohammed Rafi (aka God, always sounds like he is smiling as he sings) and Geeta Dutt, what a pair.<br />2. Dil dhoondta hai (Mausam) - pure nostalgia<br />3. Is mod se jaate hai; Tere bina zindagi se koi (Aandhi) <br />4. Mera kuch saaman (Ijaazat) – not big on this one’s musical arrangement, but the lyrics – what imagery. <br />5. Tere mere Milan ki yeh (Abhimaan)<br />6. Huzoor is Kadhar, Do naina aur ek Kahani (Masoom) <br />7. Tum itna jo (Arth)<br />8. Ehsaan tera hoga (Junglee)<br />9. Katra Katra (Ijaazat)<br />10. O sajna Barkha Bahar aayi (Parakh)<br />11. Kahin Door jab Din dhal jaye (Anand) <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“Mere khayalon ke aangan mein koi sapno ke deep jalaye” <br /></span><br />I could go on. These are some of my favourites though.<br /><br />Among the newer songs, some really good ones:<br /><br />1. Chod aaye hum woh galiyan (Maachis) <br />2. All songs from 1942 A Love Story, Khamoshi<br />3. Piya tora abhimaan, Mathura Nagarpati (Raincoat)<br />4. Bawra mann (Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi)<br />5. Gali mein aaj chand nikla (Zakhm)<br />6. Tose naina laage, Maula mere maula (Anwar)<br />7. Mehfuz (Euphoria)<br />8. In dino (Life..in a Metro)<br />9. Mori Araj Suno (Tina Sani, Coke Studio)<br />10. Chal Diye (Zeb and Haniya, Coke Studio)<br />11. Bhaage re Mann (Chameli)<br /><br />What say?Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-8427443561931304812010-09-05T17:57:00.008+01:002010-09-07T16:41:59.046+01:00Silence and Noise<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaVokJ9PtDvn191pF-fgptzbDuWXNkA-6ZnKrojmvGNzx1d9Jhnk3r-7VRJ03rN0XJEMtE6nmn3UGSksMFEto5oDRIA2n8C2ODtuxJM1SM_fLzqD_QJIiCXC_9Gb3zucmUmR_QhMVSbxE/s1600/After-the-Rain.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaVokJ9PtDvn191pF-fgptzbDuWXNkA-6ZnKrojmvGNzx1d9Jhnk3r-7VRJ03rN0XJEMtE6nmn3UGSksMFEto5oDRIA2n8C2ODtuxJM1SM_fLzqD_QJIiCXC_9Gb3zucmUmR_QhMVSbxE/s200/After-the-Rain.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513475142468327602" /></a><br />How do you put a feeling into words? A sense of what should be? Imagine a silent valley. A house, a veranda. You recline on a comfortable chair. Dusk. Silence. The suspension of reality and that in between world where memories, ones you never even knew you had, stroll in to accompany you for the evening. <br /><br />Memories, are we not made up of them? Do we not make more memories every day? They are more than pictures or videos. They capture that part of life that was ordinary, mundane. They transport you back to those sights, sounds, smells of long ago, or yesterday, or an hour ago, to everything you felt and did not feel. <br /><br />Your father reading the newspaper, his glasses at the tip of his nose; your mother waking you up. A dear friend’s laughter. The face of a stranger who held your gaze for a second longer than necessary. The sound of trains. That BEST bus bell. Conversations. Your reflection in the mirror. Laughter. Thunder and rain. The hypnotising wave of the wiper on the windshield of the car, tiny rivulets running down windows. <br /><br />Silent summer afternoons. So silent that the birds huddle in trees that are still, no wind to bring relief. Evenings. The television plays, and the strains of an old hindi song tiptoes out from the kitchen, bringing memories of its own.<br /><br />Diwali. The crack of fireworks, the twinkle of fairy lights on every window you see. Silent lamps standing guard at every doorstep. The day after Holi, slightly pink people on the streets. Ganesh Utsav, ten days of bells, drums, incense and chanting.<br /><br />Silence and noise. They seem to mark out moments more than anything else sometimes.Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-60282343154789775912010-08-24T16:01:00.012+01:002013-03-04T20:48:16.075+00:00Thoughts of a person pretending to be working on her dissertation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A few things that crossed my mind in these past few months:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">1: Electronic life</span>: Has anyone else noticed that life today is starting to resemble life depicted in futuristic movies made in the 90s and early 2000s? Tiny USB sticks, tiny computers, touch screen gadgets (remember that fancy computer thing in Minority Report?), voice recognition programmes, electronic.....everything! I find it unnerving sometimes.<br />
<br />
The worst - e-books: I tried e-versions of books that I already own in their real format – you know, <span style="font-style: italic;">paper</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span> – and I must say, it has none of the charm of reading the actual paper book (describing a book this way is starting to depress me); and worse still has to be those e-book readers that I see everyone carrying on the tube and on buses. I was told that the e-book reader is very convenient – it does store thousands of books and takes up no physical space, just virtual; and the experience can even be real: you can turn pages ‘manually’. Sorry. I think turning e-pages, which are essentially in that format to enhance your experience of using the contraption, and hence are <span style="font-style: italic;">imaginary</span>, is just stupid. <br />
<br />
For me, and I agree that this need not be the case for everyone, but for me, the pleasure of reading is the whole experience of it – the act of stepping out of my house to go to a bookstore on a lazy afternoon, browsing, the smell of new books. Going home with the reassuring weight of the new tome in my bag, curling up in an armchair in a corner, and then being oblivious to the world around till someone screams for you to eat something. Funny, witty, pretty, exotic bookmarks holding back a story already read, pointing you to the new world waiting to be discovered. Shutting a finished book with a sigh of satisfaction, and looking down at what now looks like a book that has been read, tiny cracks on the spine, a very faint dog eared appearance. And most importantly: shelving it with other loved and well read volumes, all living together in a space that promises still more undiscovered delights and known comfort. Somehow, I don’t see such an experience being offered by the e-book readers and e-books themselves. Imagine curling up under a blanket with a self lit book that is unyielding in ones hands, and needs to be turned off. Jeez.<br />
Of course, it has its pros, but I still refuse to support it.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">2: Obsession with food</span>: While in Bombay, I was and I will be indifferent about food – give me coffee and apples and I will be out of your way for an entire day. However, here in university, where no one makes food that I can eat if and when I feel like it, food has come to occupy a very important place in my life. Days are planned around food. Eating is just the final outcome of a very long and elaborate process - planning a week’s menu, preparing grocery lists, at least two hours of shopping, followed by cooking. What makes everything more interesting is the fact that I am surrounded by friends and flatmates who love food equally – so when we are not eating, we are planning to eat, swapping recipes and trying to get each other to eat. Any visitor or random flatmate entering our kitchen is offered food; a friend who was offered snacks by three different flatmates of mine one evening asked, “why is everyone in this flat trying to feed me?!” We even plan elaborate flat dinners at least once a month; any reason to organise a feast, which lasts for at least a minimum of four hours, with starters, mains and dessert, followed by several rounds of very enthusiastic and sometimes violent UNO. My Facebook account is filled with pictures of food, and then of people eating said food. Happy fattys. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">3. Social networking sites</span>: I use Facebook because it allows me to be in touch with 300 people simultaneously, and regularly – no need to write painfully long emails when you can post a hello anytime you fancy. However, when people (no, assassins) offer you weapons in mafia wars, and a friend you swear is an accountant invites you to farm, or when random people send you “gifts” that you don’t get (as that hilarious facebook song goes) you can be justifiably annoyed. <br />
<br />
And when one reads newspaper articles, starting with something along the lines of ‘serious charges of corruption were laid against the minister of state’, followed by ‘the minister, however, vehemently denied being involved in the affair when he <span style="font-style: italic;">tweeted</span>....’, one can risk spraining one's neck due to incredulous double takes. <span style="font-style: italic;">Tweet?!</span> Images of a tiny yellow canary with speech impediments flash before my eyes.<br />
This new networking phenomenon has led to people discarding tact and discretion: ‘Just had lunch, yummm’, ‘had a shower’, massive hangover’ and ‘scratched my butt’ are things we really don’t need to know, you know? <br />
<br />
Rant ends.</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-80553625195841842552010-07-01T01:23:00.000+01:002010-07-11T00:01:25.546+01:00Randomness Again and a very ‘I, me, myself’ post<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzx8HkW-GVrXh54NEH-S0vYiEldnVqpWQUNeMiiE07pc6dene3blok1uL5dwlUl06O5e_3q8fhLJoVQhNK8qatATI09_DEPT8b3UQM4eJXEIZ9QsPWJlUzAbgZckBr0u49l2WonvlvDw/s1600/IMG_2435.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzx8HkW-GVrXh54NEH-S0vYiEldnVqpWQUNeMiiE07pc6dene3blok1uL5dwlUl06O5e_3q8fhLJoVQhNK8qatATI09_DEPT8b3UQM4eJXEIZ9QsPWJlUzAbgZckBr0u49l2WonvlvDw/s200/IMG_2435.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488727627264065938" /></a><br />Why do they call it 2 minute noodles? It NEVER cooks in two minutes. <br /><br />I love the smell of Jeera tadka, haldi, the sound dried red chillies make when you run your hand through them, and the taste of ginger. <br /><br />I also love the smell of Brut, apples, paint, old books. <br /><br />Remember as kids when we scraped our knees/elbows in school, we would be fine till we saw Dettol coming out of the first aid kit, and start crying <span style="font-style:italic;">before</span> the dettol soaked cotton touched the scrape? <br /><br />Does anyone else remember the sheer terror a visit to the dentist evoked? (After paying away half of my father’s savings to my dentist, I am totally over the fear – Earlier, my questions started with “Will it hurt?” Now, knowing that the answer will ALWAYS be YES, my first statement to my dentist is “inject the local anaesthesia and THEN excavate/drill.”<br /><br />I don’t have any fond memories of Doordarshan programmes. I don’t remember any. I remember Zee TV and Sony. Zee horror show, Aahat, Woh (Lilliput was the clown under the bed, scaring the hell out of people), Hip Hip Hurray, Family No. 1, Dekh Bhai Dekh. I dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, Different strokes were fun, till they got dubbed and became annoying.<br /><br />Does anyone else love the way their parents smell when they come back from work? And when you tell them, they shoo you away, tell you they are sweaty, and need to shower?<br /><br />As a child, I liked Chunky Pandey. (WHY?)<br /><br />I think crows are annoying. Pigeons are a waste of space. Sparrows are the only cute birds you find in Bombay. <br /><br />I can procrastinate like hell. My best (?) work is the done at the last minute. I am procrastinating this very minute, by the way. <br /><br />I have officially fallen in love. With Paris. The city, not Hilton. I also love you Bombay, but Paris..... sigh. Can I retire and move there? NOW?<br /><br />I am the nerd who quotes ‘Friends’ every two days. <br /><br />The only class I looked forward to in school was English. I would finish reading the textbook before school started. Maths has given me psychological problems that refuse to go away.<br /><br />I have newfound interest and respect for Mohammed Ali Jinnah. I think he was a fascinating leader. <br /><br />I love my flatmates in London. They are a very diverse, interesting, intelligent group of girls and we have together taken the term ‘love for food/gluttony’ to new <br />heights.<br /><br />I get high on coffee. Then I become a fun (and slightly scary) person.<br /><br />I store utterly useless trivia in my head. Wikipedia will be the cause of my downfall. <br /><br />I love bright socks with cartoon characters on them. Bright pinks, orange, stripes, stars, giraffes, sparkles. Bring it on! Funky pyjamas > even better. Think Winnie the Pooh, funky bunny, mickey mouse. <br /><br />I once applied Tiger Balm on my nose. I also once washed my hair out with Rin. I applied kohl all over my babysitter’s face while she slept soundly. I squirted perfume into my eyes. I was also very young when I did all of this. <br /><br />I can sleep like I have no care in the world. Once, the watchman had to climb down the terrace, in through the window to our 3rd floor flat and open the door for my frantic father who then yelled me out of my slumber while the entire building looked on. I woke up, walked to the other room and went back to sleep.<br /><br />I had no favourite colours as a child. I have not seen the Lion King movie, never flown a kite, eaten ‘golas’ or climbed trees. They are on my to do list. And yes, I did grow up in Bombay. :P<br /><br />I think summer is the most glorious thing in the world. <br /><br />I think it is time to end this self obsessed post. Any suggestions for the next one, considering the serious lack of updates on here?<br /><br />* <span style="font-style:italic;">Picture: Ashwati/Mej. </span>Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-9754851277728273382010-03-02T03:38:00.000+00:002010-06-13T16:41:21.158+01:00A Short Story?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwyWocUs0V3iyr4p2wv_T8T23Qyo6fMhl795E0I0pItu_BxbKDoGA5AWMtxynPBKdUt69IWQkZExvhdQyMAZqxRSMiKlWj1edhtOtXtp2lMs0JbLUdDkUAcG78wjSg1PPF6YYv7BAuoQw/s1600-h/Rocking+Chair+on+Porch.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwyWocUs0V3iyr4p2wv_T8T23Qyo6fMhl795E0I0pItu_BxbKDoGA5AWMtxynPBKdUt69IWQkZExvhdQyMAZqxRSMiKlWj1edhtOtXtp2lMs0JbLUdDkUAcG78wjSg1PPF6YYv7BAuoQw/s200/Rocking+Chair+on+Porch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443883281945108402" /></a><br />Mist descends on the valley, and settles itself for the night. The valley takes on an inkish hue at twilight, the air of a day at its end - ploughs resting, machines silent, the cattle fed and watered. Her cottage submerges into the fog swirling around it. Silence. She sits on her cane rocking chair, rocking gently. She had dozed off in the afternoon, and had woken up to find the sunlight bleeding away from the folds of her clothes, journeying back across the veranda, receding into the yard, and then slowly fading away. She could now see the darkness before her lit by little pinpricks. Fireflies. She had always loved them.<br /><br />She remembers other such evenings, when she was a little girl, back from school, sitting on this same veranda, reciting multiplication tables by rote, the chirping of crickets keeping beat with her recital. Her ear would be straining for the sound of her father bicycle coming down the lane, for the bell that he would ring, knowing she was waiting for it. She can still remember her mother, humming as she cooked in the kitchen. The sizzle of vegetables cooking, the sharp fragrance of spices enveloping her. If she peeks back, she might still see the sparkle of her mother's silver toe-rings, her sari swishing around her feet as she moves across the kitchen. Might hear the clinking of her bright green bangles. <br /><br />The boatman sings a lonely song, his voice carried by the loving wind across the river to echo around in the valley.Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-16265952043507080122009-11-22T05:05:00.000+00:002013-03-04T20:49:01.503+00:00Another night passed me by<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Inspired by Nick Drake's 'One of these things first', among others. <br />
<br />
I could have been a writer, inky fingers, high on coffee, surrounded by books and papers, unaware of time passing by.<br />
I could have been an archeologist, brushing earth off another world.<br />
I could have been an adventurer, riding horses in the Kazakhi steppes, climbing Mount Everest; or diving into the depths of the Pacific.<br />
Could have been a travelling musician, strumming my guitar; a fiddler or a flautist.<br />
Could have been a dancer, a graceful figure across a wooden floor.<br />
Could have been a potter, sticky muddy fingers, wet earth.<br />
Could have been a sailor, under open skies, tasting salty air.<br />
Could have been a painter, my world a canvas of many hues. <br />
Could have been an actor, reveling in dramatics.<br />
Could have been a singer, music reverberating through my soul.<br />
Could have been a farmer, coaxing new life through the ever giving earth. <br />
Could have been an architect, raising a city from scratch.<br />
Could have been a trader, of dreams, of stories, of words.<br />
Could have been a kite, floating off into the sky.<br />
Could have been a steam engine, chugging my way through mountain passes.<br />
Could have been a bell, chiming my delight.<br />
Could have been the breeze, gently blowing through cracks and corners of windows and doors, through narrow alleyways and over open fields.<br />
Could have been the rain, pattering down on roofs and leaves.<br />
Could have been a tree, waving my branches just because I felt like it.<br />
Could have been a star, twinkling down at night.<br />
Could have been the Sun, smiling cheerfully at the world below me.<br />
<br />
<br />
Here I am, just a student, blinking away the night.</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-79336993867437368092009-10-07T01:28:00.001+01:002013-03-04T20:49:23.579+00:00Home!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Its 1.30 am and thanks to the nice cup of black coffee i had earlier today, here I am, bright eyed and bushy tailed, updating my poor ignored blog :D<br />
<br />
As most of you know, I am in London, studying (At least supposed to be) at SOAS :) Second week here and it feels great - I have met so many interesting people, from such varied backgrounds and seen...actually not much. Yes, will get down to that soon.<br />
<br />
SO anyway, this post is another list of sorts, of things I miss - <br />
<br />
Family - Chattering with mom or remote claiming competitions/grocery shopping with dad. My ultra cool grandparents.<br />
<br />
Friends!!!! <br />
<br />
Dumb Charades, Uno :D<br />
<br />
Pani Puri! Pav Bhaji!! <br />
<br />
Drums classes, the picnics, the very recent and unfortunately short jam sessions. The long chats with everyone there. <br />
<br />
Singing aloud, completely off key > Thin walls here, I freak out every time my alarm clock rings, thinking that my other flat mates will wake up as well! So singing is out of the question.<br />
<br />
Btw, news - I have almost completely stopped swearing. Just noticed it yesterday.<br />
<br />
Dancing to music playing on the computer > No, no one sees this, its me dancing when I get bored at home. Completely insane :) Unfortunately, if I dance in my room here, I will probably crash into my bed or study table, or knock down a lamp<br />
<br />
Normal drinking water!!! Hard water here :( <br />
<br />
Kurtas > Need I say more on this?<br />
<br />
Vt - Colaba -Fort > Call it whatever you want, that is one hell of a place to wander about in. Asiatic Library. <br />
<br />
The Dhobhi :D :D :D Seriously. Ironing my own clothes = not fun.<br />
<br />
Sunlight!!!! Marathi! Hindi films, songs, Hindustan Times, Mumbai Mirror (I know, I know), my books, Federer pics. <br />
<br />
Diwali > the cleaning, sweets, lights, though they do celebrate it here.. <br />
<br />
So clearly, I do miss Bombay. And my crazy family and friends... See you in a year!</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-23884225226145091242009-09-15T17:40:00.000+01:002013-03-04T20:50:44.324+00:00If wishes were horses...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
If ever in your life you get the chance to relocate, where would you go? A city that 'never sleeps' or some place near the ocean or mountains? <br />
<br />
I would, if i could, run to a place far from the maddening crowd, to live in a wooden cabin with a porch that has a swing, a rocking chair and a lantern. <br />
<br />
A warm cabin that would be lost among rolling hills, where sheep and cows would graze peacefully on nearby slopes. Where I could lift my face up to the bright sun and feel the cool air caress me. Every season would march in with fanfare : Summer - glorious, and bright, butterflies and flowers, new life. Monsoons - water dripping from the trees at twilight, thunder, mist descending every evening, rendering everything around obscure. Autumn - Fiery red-orange-yellow leaves twirl down around me, leaving bare trees reaching up to the sky. Winter - Silent, a warm fire and a dog near my chair. Peaceful walks in the woods.<br />
<br />
A place where the only sounds I hear are the calls of the birds, crickets' chirps, the hooting of owls, the wind and whispers of trees, the crackle of wood burning at the fireplace. Where an evening means - Plenty of books, dvds, coffee, a blanket and me.<br />
<br />
Ah, life :)</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-36620607837829282092009-07-29T16:49:00.003+01:002013-03-04T20:50:16.579+00:00And I now present before you....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Well, the moment I mentioned one in some post, I knew I was dead :P <br />
<br />
So, this is a post about my 'bestest' friends - people I have known from school and college. Probably not of interest to those who don't know them, move on to the other posts :)<br />
<br />
Alphabetical order (I try to be politically correct)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Maansi</span> - Partner in crime, fellow movie lover, and we believe that we are the best dumb charades team around. Hah.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhsDC6n7fM_1VMJBybLyu2KYRZ6TpDAS7-Tf4mQK7ZUKfV4xashh_ORznOVfS3IIxyXGxfFpK7oZdhebqHOjvqf5yex6caQkg5djtaUPKJhqCQVnCNcESubhY5czbLC3RfumunjA4qaBc/s1600-h/edit.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392596526056423058" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhsDC6n7fM_1VMJBybLyu2KYRZ6TpDAS7-Tf4mQK7ZUKfV4xashh_ORznOVfS3IIxyXGxfFpK7oZdhebqHOjvqf5yex6caQkg5djtaUPKJhqCQVnCNcESubhY5czbLC3RfumunjA4qaBc/s200/edit.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; height: 200px; width: 154px;" /></a><br />
She (often with Namrata) comes up with half of the crazy plans that we put into action. Is extremely aware (political, economic stuff, AND gossip, so important), appreciates my sarcasm :) Most of the stupid plays and excellent films I have seen are thanks to her, and I firmly believe that I have introduced her to some of the better music around (definitely better than Metallica :P , and no Namrata, nothing can beat the Beatles) <br />
<br />
AND - Elephants are NOT purple. This is wrong!!!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Manjusha</span> - We were in the same school for 15 years, but I think we spoke for the first time in college. Unusually patient. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdSgaWal9vXOSgJp4OaIs-l6PTOtFkH2YWUm-YqMQHfijfXDlkaiTtLob8Ps05g_Ob0-kZ0P3GaZddMrse4-9WowrG8H-r6pgC18hrB4xpuC_7ttk3-rzpn1HiF0UJ6-NGakP5sgVfaA/s1600-h/Image007.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392597059623859010" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdSgaWal9vXOSgJp4OaIs-l6PTOtFkH2YWUm-YqMQHfijfXDlkaiTtLob8Ps05g_Ob0-kZ0P3GaZddMrse4-9WowrG8H-r6pgC18hrB4xpuC_7ttk3-rzpn1HiF0UJ6-NGakP5sgVfaA/s200/Image007.gif" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; height: 190px; width: 158px;" /></a> Can make Mona behave. Is excellent with small animals; my father thinks she is sensible (He is the only one to think so) :P I've spent half of my college years covering for her, while she was stirring up trouble somewhere. Is my constant shopping, bird-watching companion. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Mansi B</span> - She's perhaps the only person in our 'clan' who can actually understand what the guy on CNBC is droning on about. Has real <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmdkCWUQf5-kxReVqOvhmH571PWnTDSZbl0KwI6qZ0m5h5KNXj7C0534ZhLBC7lhsrshndShj6gMHraeSfKscKIr2GloZ5skahW5TSptRcRs5nfFDohiTwjjBF4kr9_OocMkqwsGkhGak/s1600-h/IMG_0858.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392598178048173794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmdkCWUQf5-kxReVqOvhmH571PWnTDSZbl0KwI6qZ0m5h5KNXj7C0534ZhLBC7lhsrshndShj6gMHraeSfKscKIr2GloZ5skahW5TSptRcRs5nfFDohiTwjjBF4kr9_OocMkqwsGkhGak/s200/IMG_0858.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
work experience. Hates kids, is currently teaching brats at a school she says should be shut down. Watch out for her, she'll be one of those people you see on tv, commenting on financial...stuff or running a big financial consultancy or or, doing something big at Bombay Stock Exchange :) Does not like posing for pictures.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Monisha</span> - Mona Darling! If there is one person who she is scared of, it is M ;) Mona, to a great extent, taught me to be <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVqV463xJrUo9Fnksul13C0Ks2P8qgYB0QCKTrlH6jV1wUjyOlg0LmeyriDOKvhA-ggrxcqYGRah-18uIflAyQZAP5Cnuf3PLYf2Ii8p_f6z9KCGGFYKbkPokmXX_RpoOV1wSsjp5eUM/s1600-h/CIMG1084.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392599186338611106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVqV463xJrUo9Fnksul13C0Ks2P8qgYB0QCKTrlH6jV1wUjyOlg0LmeyriDOKvhA-ggrxcqYGRah-18uIflAyQZAP5Cnuf3PLYf2Ii8p_f6z9KCGGFYKbkPokmXX_RpoOV1wSsjp5eUM/s200/CIMG1084.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
objective and non judgemental. <br />
She is the one with whom I discuss everything - tv stars, sitcoms (we watch all the dumb ones), other people, food - everything! Is my ex-class companion, gaddar :P <br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Namrata</span> - I could write a complete post about Namrata Patel (to be pronounced Pa'tell'). My first memory of her is of a hyperactive 11th std student with her hair braided into 2 pigtails. This alone would have made me do a double-take, as, for the rest of us, one of the high points of starting college was kissing pigtails/plaits goodbye. But let it never be said that Namrata did not do a job thoroughly....the braids were topped with a bandanna. A red bandanna. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3vPEyuW7OXKP4ftjKBDVynEyXsrNfBd9NI-AirLQqEgkty4dEki1ic8yQKwe7emxqtE59HXVwlJBZQx2pzcWb3gSRxtuFOwkKcBiNomkMlKazM-GpN7K46ACKboHolWoOKn-4a3Bdi8/s1600-h/IMG_0803.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392599631977564610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3vPEyuW7OXKP4ftjKBDVynEyXsrNfBd9NI-AirLQqEgkty4dEki1ic8yQKwe7emxqtE59HXVwlJBZQx2pzcWb3gSRxtuFOwkKcBiNomkMlKazM-GpN7K46ACKboHolWoOKn-4a3Bdi8/s200/IMG_0803.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 150px;" /></a><br />
<br />
You cannot help liking Namrata. She is utterly unique, high on life and a Beatles fan (This is the part where I confess I have never heard a Beatles song. I can almost see her jaw drop) Another thing about Namrata is that she is kind and exceedingly generous - with her time as well as her dabba :) <br />
Dancing Phalanges!!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Sasneha </span> - 'Rabbit' is what I call her. On the 'sensible thinking' scale, she's right up there with Bhambhani. She was the <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvFPSZLev5qJ9mmrrYiR8K4nfYK0oGSCq8TOG-36ffsQkYkkoMzSv7L3k4EDXQOyikG-hz9FMSFAwJ4xU38QFmQpJu_F-OxNY0FR-skF5fM0JMHy1ZLs5KrLnHsu6ZJzLz8CAE29Y6Ek/s1600-h/Picture+006.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392600301089689842" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvFPSZLev5qJ9mmrrYiR8K4nfYK0oGSCq8TOG-36ffsQkYkkoMzSv7L3k4EDXQOyikG-hz9FMSFAwJ4xU38QFmQpJu_F-OxNY0FR-skF5fM0JMHy1ZLs5KrLnHsu6ZJzLz8CAE29Y6Ek/s200/Picture+006.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 150px;" /></a><br />
financial secretary and/or the hospitality head of almost every club and event in<br />
college. Very adept at organizing, calm and very, very good with dates and events, especially Indian History.<br />
And in addition to all this, she is probably the only person who can actually handle Namrata :)<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Snehal</span> - Moonface, school buddy, we meet up <br />
<br />
once in a while, but always know whats going on in each others boring lives :) Very <br />
perceptive. Usually the mediator, and tries to keep me honest :) Named me 'Soup'! (Unfortunately, no individual picture of her. Send me one Sne.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Vishal</span> - Ah. Shouldn't even write about him, he hasn't read my blog yet :P Best bud since the last 5 years, he's always <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Nu3Vg6qjZagTUC2YIA3HK48-b6hwn00ymBuA6LYnq1dhAsA9w2XG0r0G8WngpCiupjno7pszdBbLsVa4ZK03-GePx4T7dOIhf_25c0e6N2nv2yjQwgIDZFC2HaXIZ4i0GK90A7j2JAM/s1600-h/Picture+026.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392600977134608434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Nu3Vg6qjZagTUC2YIA3HK48-b6hwn00ymBuA6LYnq1dhAsA9w2XG0r0G8WngpCiupjno7pszdBbLsVa4ZK03-GePx4T7dOIhf_25c0e6N2nv2yjQwgIDZFC2HaXIZ4i0GK90A7j2JAM/s200/Picture+026.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 150px;" /></a><br />
around to calm me down when I am panicking, is amazingly sensible, level headed <br />
and very, very focussed. Of course, my contribution to his mental well being is monumental - he wouldn't have lasted college if it hadn't been for my wise inputs and commentaries on so many, many issues in his life :P <br />
<br />
<br />
Well, I will conclude my testimonial about these lovely people who, after my parents, have perhaps had the greatest influence on my behaviour - those who know me today think I am slightly er.. quirky/eccentric/crazy/talkative/childish (you must have seen me skipping, nodding my head to imaginary music or sticking out my tongue when I am bored) - now you know why.</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-74310159388159530932009-07-12T10:21:00.000+01:002013-03-04T20:51:14.057+00:00It's all about Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
I’d written this one some time ago, but in light of the current debate over Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, I guess its the right time to post it. <br />
<br />
The first time I was told what ‘Gay’ meant, I was 12. What I did not understand was the hushed tone, the eye rolling, the shrug....I still don’t. So really, what is the big deal? You love someone, how does it matter who it is? Hey, if you do, then you do. So few are lucky to find true love, and love comes in many forms.<br />
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I was discussing the topic with someone once, who said ‘homosexuality is a perversion’. Pray, tell how? They justified it with this – “If homosexuality was ‘natural’, then why would there be two sexes-male and female, and not just one?” In that case I can ask, why all these varieties of flowers, so many animals and plants? Why don’t we just have roses and donkeys? Why bother with lotuses, marigolds, jasmine, tigers, lions, rabbits? <br />
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And WHAT is with the term natural?! Who are we to decide what is natural and what isn’t? Devdutt Pattanaik hits the nail on the head in The Pregnant King (That’s right, KING) –<br />
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"Careful of the word unnatural, it reeks of arrogance. You are assuming you know the boundaries of nature. You don't. There is more to life than your eyes can see. More than you can ever imagine. Nature comes from the mind of God. It is infinite. The finite human mind can never fathom it in totality."<br />
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Another thing I heard in a movie – ‘Nothing is unnatural really, whatever happens, in the end is happening within nature, and hence, natural and more importantly, possible.”<br />
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As we progress, our minds seem to regress. Religious scriptures are quoted by conservatives to justify their stand. But what everyone seems to firmly turn their eyes away from is the fact that every religious scripture is open to interpretation. Nothing is written in stone. Let’s be realistic. God did not beam down any of the books to earth – it was man who claimed to hear God and translated His teachings for the rest of us less enlightened mortals. <br />
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Over time, many such men decided they were entitled to interpret these scriptures, and the fools that we were, we allowed them to. Today, they decide what is right and wrong, sin and blasphemy. Which actions will take us to heaven or hell. Key here is the term <span style="font-style: italic;">decide</span>. They don’t know for sure - no one does. Do heaven and hell even exist? Really, do you think we are going to float around sitting on clouds with harps, or stew in cauldrons, with little demons poking us with pitchforks?<br />
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Chew on this - None of us have seen God, spoken to Him. Perhaps in those who raise us, who teach us, in the kindness of strangers and, if we look hard enough, in ourselves, we may find Him. <br />
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My conclusion – I like to think there is someone out there who has got my back. I am going to assume this is someone who is understanding - if He really created us, he knows we are all goofy (FYI, I’m firmly with Darwin on evolution). More importantly, if there is a judgement day (which would reinforce the concept of heaven and hell, which I really, really don’t believe in) He really isn’t going to ask us who we loved. I think it will be our other actions on earth – kindness, honesty, courage - that are going to count. <br />
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P.S: For those concerned Indian citizens who have been greatly traumatized about the legalization of homosexuality and who claim that it will ‘corrupt’ the great Indian culture – wake up and smell the garbage : dowry, child marriage, cruelty towards women and senior citizens, child labour, illiteracy, eve teasing (ugh!), demolition of religious buildings by politicians, corruption, defacing of monuments, lack of general civic sense - spitting on streets, littering – Really? What are your priorities? Do you truly love your country? Deal with these then.</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-77691227389130154842009-06-25T20:31:00.002+01:002013-03-04T20:58:01.193+00:00Reminiscences of college days past<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I MISS COLLEGE!!!!! :(<br />
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I miss waking up at 5.30 in the morning (of all the things)<br />
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I miss travelling on the train, rushing into class at 7.40, fifteen minutes late, sitting on the first bench (no, not a complete nerd, but when there are only 10 people in class, your choices are sort of restricted. Besides, its fun, try it)<br />
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I miss pining for Vishnu's coffee early in the morning, then drinking gallons of it when I finally got to the parking lot.<br />
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I miss the 7.30 video sessions on architecture of Indian monuments, during which I slept soundly in the audio visual room.<br />
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I miss the dumb college festivals, film screenings and incomprehensible plays we've attended.<br />
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I miss playing charades (if there is a National Charades competition, we'd qualify), GK quiz (Watch out Derek O'Brien), slurping solos (ice candy), the marathon gossip sessions in the parking lot.<br />
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I miss the winter fun, coming all bundled up in sweaters and laughing at people wearing shorts, tank tops AND then a shawl - Whats the point? (Thanks for reminding me Maansi!)<br />
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I actually miss my teachers and lectures - they were fun.. The absolutely brilliant history teachers, to the fun ones - Wouldn't you miss someone who keeps a straight face while teaching Dating Techniques and Open Striping Method (Archaeological Survey terms, what ARE you thinking?) to the political science teacher who announces that Prince Charles is the British monarch (And when it is pointed out that the British Monarch was Queen Elizabeth, says, "Is it? I don't know, I'll check.")<br />
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I'll definitely miss the canteen. So many things happen simultaneously - birthday celebrations, people tripping over a loose tile halfway through the canteen, juniors dressed in bizarre outfits, at least three different people screeching each day when one of the many cats that throng the place brush against their feet or jump at their table, the canteen aunty screaming at the canteen staff.<br />
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The exams. I know. The 'who cares?' attitude 20 days before the exams, the 'kal se pakka' declarations 10 days before the exam, the 'uh-oh' in our heads when there are 5 days to go and the frantic notes exchanges, marking, cramming, panic calls the night before the exam. <br />
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The crazy 14 hour sleeping pattern that lasts for 3 days after every exam (in my case, it lasts the whole vacation)<br />
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For five years, I was on an extended vacation, one that my parents paid for quite willingly, and while I may have learnt a few things about politics, economics, psychology and history, I have...(dramatic pause)...learnt a lot about life.<br />
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Oh well, maybe not all that much. :)<br />
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Last thought - I have no pictures to go with this post, nothing that will come close to giving you a glimpse of what the last few years have been like... think sunrise, trains, tree lines avenues, sunlight, silence and noise, rain, cold, books, chalk dust and blackboards, wooden benches and echoing classrooms, coffee, exhaustion, staircases, music, old buildings, steam billowing out from restaurant kitchens and the canteen as dosas and pav bhajis are made, wet umbrellas, wading in knee deep water, running nowhere and laughter. That's college.</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392214968954859268.post-14296192350903898352009-05-26T08:39:00.001+01:002013-03-04T20:52:41.414+00:00Why So Serious?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'd written this post last August, just edited it...<br />
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I still remember the moment when I first read about Heath Ledger's death. 23rd January, 6.30 in the morning, I was at Mulund station, waiting for the train. Flipped the folded paper after reading the headline and there it was, the tiny headline which made me do a double take : 'Brokeback Mountain star dies at 28'<br />
My jaw dropped and I had to read the article 3 times before the whole thing sunk in. Ledger had been found dead, lying next to his bed, by his maid. The cause was later determined to be an accidental overdose of sleeping pills.<br />
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I have seen very few movies of his. So when The Dark Knight came out - the latest Batman film and the last movie Ledger completed, I looked around desperately for someone to go with to see the movie, which had garnered rave reviews. After delaying for weeks, I finally grabbed M, one of my best friends, on a very wet, cold afternoon and went to see the movie. And what I saw blew me away.<br />
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Christian Bale as Batman was good enough, but his face was concealed behind the Bat mask for about a third of the film, so I couldn't really appreciate his acting. But Ledger(playing Batman's arch nemesis-the Joker), who had burst upon the screen in the beginning of the movie itself, was a force to reckon with. His beautiful (OK, handsome) face hidden under ghostly white and red makeup, green tipped grimy blond hair, shabby purple suit, voice modulated to sound whiny & sinister, a lopsided walk and posture all culminate to bring on screen one of the most impressive performances seen in recent cinema (How many movies adapted from graphic novels can say that?)<br />
He was quite creepy, with all the shuffling around, the nasal laugh and no apparent conscience. And of course, his "why so serious?" is definitely the line of the year.<br />
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On a high after the hugely successful Brokeback mountain which garnered him an Oscar nomination for best actor in a supporting role, Ledger had, with this role in Batman, completed dabbling in almost all genre of cinema - romance, drama, action, science fiction...One can one ponder where this actor would have been 5 years from now. He might go down in film history as one of those great, would have beens, a la James Dean and Leaf Phoenix<br />
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Heath Ledger has, quite literally, delivered the performance of a lifetime (reducing Jack Nicholson's portrayal of the same character in one of the earlier versions of the batman movies to a mere caricature). I smell an Oscar (Hey, he won it). What is the saddest part is that it will be his first and last.</div>
Supriyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07904108131756327578noreply@blogger.com2