Today's striking revelations

As we are coming to the end of the year... blah blah... and set to enter a new year... blah blah. I am so tired of this. There was a time, as in once upon a time, a week before Christmas, when Dad brought home a bunch of greeting cards and covers. I was the one to be asked to sit near him and put his thoughts into English, and spell out certain words. He would constantly keep goading me that my words were not the way he wanted them to be. “You see... something is clearly missing?” It was just a card Dad my mind would cry, but then, I dare not speak that out, you see it was once-upon-a-time days.

And then came the Millennium, 1999 was the year I got married and 2000 was a big deal as if everything would change forever. But then except the hype, everything was just the usual. And then of course came the era of texting how 1st Feb 2003, 4hrs 56mins was special 1/2/3 4:56. Apart from the days, dates, month, year specialties, the New Year resolution is another cliché that makes me wonder do teetotalers even have a place on Earth?

One thing, the only thing I crave for, on every New Year eve is a diary, with pages wide enough for me to write and my only thinkable resolution every year, to fill up every page with my blusters. But I have never had a diary to start writing from the very first day of the year; I usually got it a few days into the year, and the number of words that I filled them up with, usually faded to just noting down some event reminder. But people always gifted me calendars, something I am allergic to. Recently I politely refused a few, the first time ever and happy about that ;)

So, with Facebook and Skype notifying me birthdays of friends and my smart phone holding contacts, I calm myself blogging occasionally. But the itch to own a diary arises every time I pass shops selling them. Old habits die hard, and so with the year drawing to a close, there was this itch to blog something today, being the last day of the year, and one tomorrow, to kick start a glorious year. As I checked my organizer (well, I am a bit organized!) to decide on what to write, the line “The bouquet of sixteen red roses lay regally on the” caught up my attention.

Early this year I was planning to write short stories, and this was supposed to be in the thriller/mystery genre. By the time I typed the word "regally", I wondered if it would be possible for me to write one, with limited words, and I limited my writing to that one incomplete sentence and moved on. Today I continued the line with "... white satin bedspread" and wrote whatever I felt. It must be one of my, only one of my quick writes.

And what I ended up was my usual pathetic romantic write-up. So at last I have understood that I am a hopeless romantic who ended up being the soul of this practical and witty idiot, who bleeds emotions every time she sits to write seriously. So maybe I have some multiple personality disorder. While I make such nasty jokes, charming one-liners, witty texts among friends, I blog teary-eyed and make my friends wonder if I am seriously in some hot peppered soup.

I am really tired of explaining them that this Blogger-Me is different from the Real-Me, and tried proving by writing lighter ones, and delving into crime (only fictional!), humor and thriller genres, but I failed to write and worse still failed miserably to impress my own self. So I am making peace with myself into writing what my soul wants me to write, that comforts it and is more comfortable.

And another great revelation today, is my favorite color. Every time somebody asks me my favorite color I wondered how to single out just one. I was so unsure. Green was the color of my wedding saree that I had been admonished for by everyone I ever knew. Pink was the color of the saree I bought from my first salary. Black is something mom wouldn’t want me to wear, the only reason the rebel in me love it all the more. White never stayed white, always tinged with the color of the border. Well write about color and I am priding about my sarees. Color for me related more to dress!

My blog template has also been changed so often due to this feeling of mine. I was not able to zero-in on my favorite color and ended up choosing maroon, and some black, and some green and so on. The previous template was black, and I found it straining on my eyes to read. So when changing the template for the umpteenth time did I notice that my heart swelled every time I tried the blue color.

So at last at 41 I have found out that blue is indeed my favorite color. Reminiscing the past, I have ended up designing all my web pages in blue after trying almost every other color. The most loved book that I would love to re-read and be seen reading on my last moment on earth, ‘The Zahir’ also happens to have a blue cover! (that sounds bizarre, right?) My Sony Vaio the one on which I am typing now is blue color (I can actually hear my friend chide me with a 'sounds so childish' comment exactly at this point).

So more than me going after blue color, it is blue that reaches out to me soulfully. What a revelation on New Year Eve! Feeling blissfully at peace at last... :)

To You From Me

The bouquet of sixteen red roses lay regally on the white satin bedspread, tied up with a pink satin ribbon, and a yellow note that carried the same four words that I am so used to reading the past sixteen years, each alphabet written so neatly and deftly, "To You From Me".

In the beginning, I was thinking and pounding my head, questioning who the sender was. Trying to imagine all those who looked good to be the sender, but I have such a bad head, it always sprang up with names of those I never liked or the ones who were constantly made fun of. It was so embarrassing that I never shared it with anyone I could speak to. Not that I had lots of close friends to speak to. My inner personal circle is so horribly uninhabited. Not that I am an introvert. I do have people talking to me, listening to my nonsense and seemingly admire the nonsense too.

But then these are not the people to whom I could reveal the real me. Well, who is the real me? Research still going on. I will let you know once I am done with. OK. Coming back to the bouquet, I did not have anyone to talk to, about who could have possibly sent it to me. You see these friends I was telling you about, they are so quick to laugh at everything I say, that either they would think I was making it all up or suggest an odd person of the lot and pass on this stupid idea to everyone and laugh at me. The worst outcome would be that the odd person I was telling you would behave as if I was making up this story eyeing him!

Now, don't look at me like I am overthinking. It has happened many times... well, at least a few times. The moment I start discussing the book I read, my friends are like, "are you trying to make me your reading partner?" The moment I discuss some movie, they are like, "don't tell me you want me to watch it with you". The moment I send some funny text that sounds sarcastic think I am feeling low, and say, "now don't worry, you will be alright soon, don't be so self-loathing".

And then there were those that started creating stories about me and somebody, like the odd person I told you or somebody I never even talked to, nicknaming me with acronyms of all possible disgraceful words and amusing everyone around. The worst part of this is while everyone who knew this was just fun stopped it and grew up, some openly put such nicknames on my Facebook wall happily content that they are spreading this while I end up being asked by my other friends on why I was nicknamed thus!

Well... when the bouquets were delivered the next year and then the one after that, I wondered if indeed there was a secret admirer, or were my friends simply playing pranks. While the number of roses increased every year starting from one, the red roses, pink satin ribbon, yellow note, handwriting and the words remained the same. I was a paying guest then, staying away from home. Probably this would stop once I reach my home, so instead of wondering who and why the bouquet was sent to me, I started admiring the One-who-did-not-want-to-be-Named.

The choice of the roses, the elegant knot of the ribbon, the white polka dotted pink satin, the fresh leaves, the lovely handwriting that made those simple alphabets look their best, what else could I admire? My days were occupied with the secret admirer. No, not exactly! my mind was occupied with my admiration for him. Wait! How did I conclude it was a him and not a her? Well... Why not a him? I preferred a him.

During the day I had so much to do and such thoughts acted as boosters, mood enhancers, made me feel good, ever smiling and more forgiving. But nights! I dreaded them. The moment my head hit the pillow, thoughts grew on me like who would it be, why is he not revealing himself? What sort of a rude joke is this? Is this prankster just waiting for me to reveal about it to my friends and all at once let out a big laugh? Or is it sent to me by mistake? Would it be? No, can't be... All these years? It was sent to me, I am sure.

The bouquets became more welcome with every passing day, and I was turning desperate, why wouldn't I, there were 31557600 seconds before I get another one! There were nights that dutifully moved on to the next day with poor me not closing my eyes. And then there were nights that I slept, only to wake up at odd hours like 12AM and 3AM, and continue my thoughts. There were nights when I wondered if I should ask for some help from some friend. What big deal if they laugh at me, at least it would all be over. But I was sure I did not want it to be over.

These nights there is one more thing I have started worrying about. What if these stop? These bouquets... What if the One-who-did-not-want-to-be-Named stops sending me these bouquets? And then a even worse thought strikes me, what if the One-who-did-not-want-to-be-Named forgets me or worse still dies? Would you think I am being too stupid if I tell you this thought brought tears to my eyes? You may be too polite to say you don't, but you might as well think I am a stupid woman, but then I did shed a few tears, think what you may.

You know after years of wondering who, why and all the many thoughts that filled me, I am just looking forward to the bouquet more as a proof that the One-who-did-not-want-to-be-Named is still alive and breathing. And when my horrible mind chuckles and asks me, "and what if it stops?" heart quips, "I would still be waiting for it to arrive".

I thought you forgot me... :'(

Every day brings with it something to be solved,
something to be checked, something to be organised,
something to be listened to, something to be acted on.
As I keep doing them one after the other,
mindless of time, mindless of space,
mindless of reason and check the last one,

Something peeps out of the dark corners of my heart,
Have you any time for me? It asks,
sullen and silent. Of course Yes, Why wouldn't I?
It starts sobbing, I thought you forgot me.
How can I? It's you who keep me moving,
it's you who stops me from going ahead.

It's you I hate for all the failures you remind of
It's you I love for all those happy moments I am unworthy of
Everyone advice, order, threaten and beg me
to throw you away once forever, but Silly,
they seldom do it to their own past.

Why does Indrani Mukerjea evoke so much interest?

The recent discussion in our pantry club turned up to this topic. And well, any crime or for that matter any incident that involves a woman is what evokes interest, or rather what the media feels evokes interest. And when the mastermind seems to be a woman no wonder it tops the headlines, even after as many as three years having passed after the crime. I hear people commenting, “These women are so ambitious, they would do just anything, just anything to realize their dreams. Any God Damn thing... and must be shown their place.”

The same tongues that wagged when Indra Nooyi quoted women can’t have everything.
 (The rebel in me asks, do men have everything? All the compromises a man makes at a workplace, well to what degree - differs from individual to individual, but compromises exist. So it’s not just women, even men can’t have everything, there are missed vacations, hobbies that you wanted to make a career that have to be foregone because your family wanted you to share the family’s financial liability, missed moments of holding your baby in your arms the moment she was born, her first talk, her first walk, her first laugh. )

Aren’t there so many men out there, manipulating things and gaining things hook or crook? Well, if there are some 7 men who do that, why does 1 woman doing that come under your scanners as a big blot? I am not supporting the crime or the person who might have done that. A crime is a crime irrespective of the gender of the person who did it is all I wish to say here.

Patriarchy characterizes women as capable of certain things and incapable of certain things. It is because they define rules and limit the capacity of a person as a woman. And it is this preconceived notion that makes them perceive and react this way. I would like to register that just like there are so many wonderful men, who treat us as their equal, who are hurt by character assassination the way we women are, there are a few women who behave differently.

It is so common. Manipulating and scheming are negative qualities and not specific to any particular gender. So don’t scream, shout and start your opinion with, “These women.....” and end with, "... must be shown their places". It only speaks volumes of what you are and not what women are.

The player and the pawn

Nothing lasts long, nothing lasts forever
You may be promised, or you may promise,
But promises are made, only to be broken.
The more you say, the more it plays,
Deeper you know it will never last.

Until you stay aloof, it hovers around you
You may call it silly, but it has already got you
The beguilingly painted long nails from afar
Are indeed sharp ugly claws waiting,
ready to lacerate and rip your heart in two

Your heart weeps, your mind shouts,
Little do you learn from the scarlet scars.
Like the tantalizing shine of a distant candle
Harshly intense as you near, ready to singe
And scorch as you shed tears of despair.

It’s like playing a game of deception,
The longer you watch, the longer it lasts,
The moment you fall prey, you realize,
You were not the player, you are the pawn.

(** I changed deep red scars to scarlet scars due to the Minions effect)

Animal or vegetable

Recently been reading an article on how the food items we consume at public places like restaurants are contaminated with such and such items that are not only harmful to our health, but also detrimental in the long run. In the article, the author mentioned the word ‘dead body eaters’ which denoted non-veg eaters, pun intended or not as the case maybe. The same sort of mentality is also found among non-vegetarians, who don’t shy away from calling vegetarians as ‘grass eaters’. The reason is simple; in some way we are trying to be acceptable, trying to portray we are better.

Why should you be critical of what I chose to eat, as long as it is not harming you or any other person in particular? If non-vegetarians are dead body eaters, every vegetarian diet is not complete without milk and milk products, and everyone knows it is an animal product too, taken from the animal while it is still alive, painfully. You want to know about the pain? Read Maneka Gandhi’s books on why cow’s milk is to be done away with. Also, there is an increasing number of people that would vouch for an egg being a vegetarian item. My question to these, you want to eat eggs? Go ahead, why create such absurd ideas just for acceptance?  It is just either including animal produce or avoiding the same in your diet.

I have stopped eating meat and eggs ever since I conceived. People interpret it from their perspective and propagate too. I have my own reasons which are not spiritual or religious but purely personal. Need to mention here that I had conceived after seven years of marriage, and constantly advised by many vegetarian friends that it was due to me being a non-vegetarian, and I never changed my diet till I conceived. The striking thing was the proponents of the theory had an infertile couple in their own families whom I knew very well of. Well, if I had not answered them back on that, it was purely because I felt sorry for their ignorance and cultured enough not to laugh loudly at their insane idea.

The moment I disclose that I don’t eat meat and eggs, many people ask if I belong to such and such a caste. Where a person says they avoid such items on such and such days, people take it with no questions asked, saying you stopped eating such and such items forever sparks a thousand questions. A friend went on to another level of commenting, ‘Despite not eating meat and eggs, you can never belong to my caste while despite me eating meat and eggs, I shall never be considered an outcaste’. I knew it was rude and tried to answer it in the most composed way like, ‘I don’t think I am foolish enough to even want to belong to your caste’.

Some friends ask me about the eating habits of my kids. Well, I was brought up in such a household, I cook for them, though I don’t taste it, need to mention here, cooking for more than 15 years, not every dish has to be tasted for salt. If I have my doubts, my husband and kids are there to help, after all it is for their taste buds that I cook, and let me put it here, I revere the food I prepare for them more than the food I prepare during religious functions.

Some friends blatantly say, ‘good you have become a vegetarian, make your kids vegetarians too’, which irritates me a lot, why would I make a decision for my kids in such a simple thing as eating? Well, healthy eating is one thing, which I definitely would imbibe in my kids, no binge eating too, but why would I be choosing his menu? If I had the liberty to stop eating meat, doesn't my son have an equal right to decide on eating meat or otherwise?

Parents like me take so much pain to not offend or discomfort peers in school by packing only vegetarian food. I think we should also instill tolerance in our kids, if we happen to belong to pure vegetarian eating group, that showing disgust at other’s food and typecasting people on that basis simply proves that we have not yet grown up as humans. Let’s remember, a human when called an animal is despised no matter but being called a vegetable is even worse.

Blazing desire

As we both delve deep
into each other's eyes
for what feels like an eternity
to people around us,
our lips gushing with
smiles over how
you narrowed and I
expanded into a We,
our hearts whelming with
joy over how
our pasts collided
and futures merged,
Time's definition wanes
demarcation fades
as we stray like little kids
into fields of our past
 and future randomly
like in a maze.

Our egos ignite,
burning themselves
thereby raising
our thoughts to a
single lonely cloud
pregnant with flames
of our blazing desire,
annihilating our fears,
doubts and differences.

One not so fine morning...

There are some days, when waking up I find eyelids heavy, the region above the eyebrows constricting with a slight dull ache, that feels more like I am just imagining. A slight pain in the throat, that feels more like mounds of emotions arrested right there, neither going down, nor out. And the thinker starts thinking.

What could it be, anything wrong? Is it something residual from the previous day. And the previous day enacts in the mind. Sometimes the previous day does have some silly incident, many times it does not. Well, I try to distract the voice throwing too many questions in my mind with some song, and what song do I choose? That most pathetic song, that always brings out sweet bitter memories, and so the mind starts delving deeper into those memories, with questions thrown judiciously, on why the hell did I behave the way I did.

Shouldn't I have been more sensible, more intelligent. How could I be so stupid and easy going? How life would have changed had I behaved differently... Or may be not, Life might have still been worse than now.  All the while the song goes on and on, and gets struck somewhere. What were the lines actually... And I try repeating the previous lines, and wonder is it this word or that. How could I have forgotten the lyrics so easily. Does it mean the song doesn’t hold anything more to it now... Or am I forgetting things?

No... Wait.. I can't be forgetting, I used to have such good memory. Ask me anyone's birthday or anniversary and I would give the entire family's. Isn't it serious then, that I forgot a few words from my favorite song? Is it age? Am I getting old? God, I know I am growing old day after day, but not like this. So soon I forget things at 40. But then, it is almost two-thirds of an average normal person's life. I have lived 40 years... Have I? And so soon I have turned forgetful, yes I remember, I kept searching for my specs, all the while wearing it, my son did point that out. The other day I kept searching for the locker keys that I had placed somewhere securely.

Well, need to accept the fact that nowadays I have started noting down simplest of things to be remembered, only sad part being I forget where I noted them down. Oh come on, I am just 40. I have such young kids. Oh God, what would they do if I leave them at such an early age. And as I try doing all these chores thinking, questioning, replying and worrying, Dad asks me, "Are you on leave today?". I say, "Why would I? I have already taken my sick and casual leaves, what is left for me?" and then alarmingly turn towards the clock to find I hardly have 10 minutes to leave home.

Was it a crappy day... Or did I make it one?

A for ....?

Writing about Indian authors is not only incomplete, but lacks a good start, if not started with Arvind Adiga. The white Tiger was one of the loveliest reading experience I ever had. Right from the first word what ensued was a bold and frank no-nonsense fiction that was very real though dark. I have read several reviews that criticized the work as being too much of India bashing, to just reap the Booker. My humble opinion is that it was well written, perfect, and brought out the chilly dark side to India rather than the sweet cultural hegemony and integrity brought out in most Indian fiction that sound like Indian youth have just one problem Love, and marrying his beau is what constitute his younger days.

Most people in my circle and the ones I meet are sure to drop ‘Two States’ the moment they hear that I love reading. Did I like Two States? I don’t want to demean it, but that story is not something unusual, it is there in every Indian movie. I was actually irritated on how every character is just a stereotype, I don’t know if it is a North Indian syndrome, where all north east or south Indian people look and behave the same; add to it the detailing on all south Indian females not waxing their arms.  How on every page I was like... stop it these things don’t happen in places other than your imagination. There are more real people with real issues, daily ones.

Compare it with Adiga, who in the very beginning warns what you can actually expect. The threat, the warning, it actually kept me interested, moving every page cherishing every single word. I even wondered half way, what sort of a woman I am that relishes and cheers reading such dark writing. But the truth is I really enjoyed the real portrayal of this country. Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry also brings out the darkness of the Emergency period and its impact on the real people, but with a little subtlety, while Adiga simply doesn’t seem to care.

I was so much in love with Adiga’s style that I went on to check out his Last man in Tower, which was one shade less dark. While Balram Halwai was a male from the lowest strata of Indian society, the characters from the Vishram Society are middle class, who are often portrayed as goodies, portrayed in the darkest hues. Can such people exist in real...? Never did this question come into my mind, since at some point of life most of us have seen these people exist near us, travelling by the same transport, going to the same shop, movies or office, staying next door.

But the pace was a bit relaxed, such a long story and the punch was just missing. The novel set me thinking, wandering between pages, how sick, creepy and deadly the human mind is. Between the assassinations did not go well with me. It neither looked like a collection of short stories, nor a novella. Some of the stories felt wanting a climax, while the same stories featured in some other story of the same collection, very disjoint and yet joint. Whatever the style, it did not go well with me. But then no news of any further work from him has been announced. I happened to read a few write-ups by him which were once again needless to say full of style, very much looking forward to reading more from him.

Remembering Manju...

Today is Manju’s birthday. The girl with the big smiling eyes, who immediately took me for a friend or sister, I don’t know what. We met at a computer academy. I was just out of school, and such a dud, very much in my own dream world, that I took time understanding and adjusting to the real world, with teachers being friendlier and less of disciplinarians feeling out of my imaginary lasso and almost flying. With all the students being elder to me, I was doted upon. That was the exact place I lost all my inhibitions at talking and making friends.

Coming back to Manju we travelled by the same bus to our destinations, after savoring pastries at the bakery near the bus stop. She was an English major, enough for me to be enslaved upon. Somebody to talk to me about literature and books is always more than anything I would ever wish for.

On one occasion when she asked my birthdate, she told me, that she was elder by exactly 3 years and 3 days, wasn’t that awesome.  By the time the information registered into me, she wondered how most of them around her had cancer. I was like, what, who has cancer, and she says, even you for that matter and I am dumbstruck and croak, but I don’t have cancer, and she corrects me without slighting me, that she meant my sun sign. Thus began my rendezvous with the sun signs, every time I get introduced to a person, or familiarize with an old acquaintance, I make a note of their sun sign, and instinctively match their personality with their sign.

Someday, when I was home from hostel, she took me to a temple, telling me that she had prayed to bring me along when there was some accident mentioned in the newspapers, of a bus that was also destined to reach Chennai. I did as I was told, I am still naïve and clumsy at things people do at temples, like, start from that deity, then this one, go left, go right, don’t turn and all that stuff, all the time wondering if she considered me so close, or loved and cared for me so much.

I think I listened to her, more than I talked to her, and maybe that made all the difference. The last time we met, I was still wondering what we were to each other, the thinker that I am, because I never felt we were friends, but I have always admired her and looked up to her, in a way I would have an elder sister. Almost 20 years since we last met; her memories still keep haunting and taunting me.

Feeling blessed...

Ranting about your silence, your absence... always filled me with you... Starting the day knowing it would be one more that goes - how inconsequential you have become, how life moves on without you, how my days have changed,  how this... how that... and as the sun sets and moon makes her prominence, thoughts go haywire and... heart rules. 

It makes me guiltier of everything I said and not said. It starts pricking me with thorny words, how could you have hurled those silly, insolent, vulgar, pointless, inane words at him it asks. You know, It mocks at me, calls me an undeserving soul. Yes... probably nothing was all I deserved. I know... I was so mean. I am no goodness personified... I was never good to you, just been profoundly imprudent.

Well, today was different... and miracles happen(?). Standing at the same place where you very understandingly said it would suffice if I just listened to you, at almost the same time today, when you fuss over my breakfast... was when it happened. Of course you didn’t break your silence, I didn’t nag either, while your words are always (shouldn't it be, have been?) the most intoxicating for me... your silence was weed to me today.

It’s been a lovely day... another lovely day and another doesn’t make it any less... it is just that, there have been so many lovely days... It feels more like a miracle today. I am feeling so thankful, overwhelmingly blessed, and what not. The very moment my thoughts took pride in labeling me an atheist, God with his benevolent hands gives me a hearty slap and smirks at me, asking...”...Really?”

With tears in my eyes, here goes another prayer to Him, for his exceptional love for me, thanking heartily... and yet again feeling that I am his blessed child... ready to argue, ready to shout and ever ready to cry. 

Born thinkers

When kids are naughty,
I ask why dont you sit silent?
When they are sick and silent,
I wonder when they'll be naughty again
As kids, we always wanted to grow fast,
experience everything soon,
As adults, we always try to demonstrate
that we are still young,
We feel every moment is flying so fast,
and we have no time to relax,
When we get time to relax, We wonder,
"Am I wasting my time?"
When we are always thinking only about us
and no time for others,
Funny we always worry on
what others would think about us?
During extreme happiness and sadness,
Death seems to be welcome
Other times, scared of Death,
scared of future :)

True, We live like we will never die,
and We die, like we never lived

Aren't we the craziest of God's creations?
Confused so much,
Aren't we born thinkers?

Lesson learnt this week...

There are several things that can boil up my blood, and the media is full of these - current affairs, the downplaying of important issues, over-reacting on simple events/occurrences of history, criticizing known or unknown person on some matter wholly personal to that person...well it is an endless list, same things repeated or newer things added.

It is 40 years of my existence and at least 35 years of understanding and coping with the externals. It ends up leaving me high and dry and feeling hopeless. Since, looking back, certain things look the same, nothing has changed, nothing has progressed in a positive manner. A very negative feeling that spreads fast, leaving my throat constricted, like, something blocking it, and would only leave me if I vented it.

The other day, there was a forwarded text that read, "Psychology says, when you truly care for someone, their mood can literally affect yours". My immediate response/thought was - that is why we should never care about anybody. When I shared the original message with my siblings, I got a wonderful reply from my sister. She wrote, "Very true... That is why I try to keep myself happy and more confident". I don't know what she truly meant, since texts can be interpreted in different ways depending on our mood or mental make up. But, how I interpreted it was - she wanted to keep herself happy and more confident, so that the ones who truly cared for her were affected by her positive mood, in a positive way. 

When I communicated my appreciation of her attitude, she replied, "It was because, you always told me... Be Positive". I was flabbergasted (one of my favorite words in English... at last used in my blog *wink*). I am so often reminded by dear ones like her, that I inspire them, I am their pillar of strength... of course it is all very superlative... but what really struck me was, why didn't the thought occur to me. Why did that statement make me feel negative, like, the people whom I cared about were affecting my mood, why didn't I feel that I am capable of changing the mood of people who cared about me?

Well... I need to work on that. Not just say Be Positive... but BE POSITIVE myself. Imagine me as being capable of changing others, rather than worry about being changed by everybody's moods, criticisms, whims and fancies. It was the most positive lesson learnt this week.

So going back to the starting paragraph of this blog... has nothing at all changed? Well... things have changed, for people who wanted to change, positive or negative as they wanted it to be. And can things change? Yes... if everyone WILL to be. Will things change? YES... Why would they not? We, each one, the tiny droplets of the ocean that we maketh, when each one of us change our mind positively, and create positive vibes around us, and the ones who care for us.

Love affairs... Part I

Books are the best love affairs. I hear about some, I find some at bookshops; sometimes it is the cover that attracts me or the title, the author’s name, while sometimes people suggest, other times I choose it just as a pastime. Most affairs start right from the Preface, just like watching a movie starts right from the moment the certificate is shown.

While reading TFIOS, the climax made my heart weep, and I kept reading to the end of the book, the credits and all, to just stop crying aloud. And at the end I hated John Green so much. Sometimes the plot twists and turns the protagonist, that I take a sneak peek on the climax, just to tell my heart, “look it will change for the better in due course”, or to harden my emotions, “well... that is what is destined to happen, so all the good things that happen towards the end wouldn't last after all” and then wipe my tears.

Though I fall so much in love with the plot, the characters, and most importantly words, that can be chewed and swallowed tasting every bit of it, if the plot keeps dragging towards the end, it irritates me a lot. Well, many good books turn chewy gums when I am 100 pages away from The End.  

Very few books spring surprises, with neat cuts and crispy climax... So, what was I saying, the pendulum that is my mind drifts to and fro from the topic. Yes... love affairs, so, books are the best love affairs, some make me think about them until Alzheimer’s may capture my memory, who knows may be I would still remember Darcy. And some are best forgotten, like Anita Shreve’s The Pilot’s wife, and Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love.

I had written reviews about these two books, just that I don’t remember under what pen name. Alzheimer catching up...  I won’t say that they were poorly written. Well, the beginning few pages of The Pilot’s wife, were good, the words very representative of the feelings of this woman. The style and the plot were all good, but then, how long would I have to continue to be in the pathetic situation. I just couldn’t contain myself in to reading this, the depression was engulfing me. Well, books get into me, the characters get into me. So I just stopped at around 75% of the book.

Regarding Gilbert... I caught a glimpse of the movie, when it was over and credits were shown, wherein I could see the Asian old man, looking like a guru, and Julia Roberts doing yoga, and I added it to my TBR. When I started reading the first few pages, I was bowled over by the fact that Elizabeth Gilbert was a Cancerean too... Voila! And all the emotional turmoil she writes about, I am a little like that too. So, here I have my half-soul, I say myself. But then... it just stops until she visits Italy. The eat part was good, but love part went on to be glum, gloomy and morose.

That was the very moment I abandoned my eagerness to write. Some of the reviewers of my work, ask me, why so much of grief? And then unable to proceed further, I stopped and vowed myself never to be carried away by the sun sign, or Julia Roberts.

Well... Regarding the Part I in the blog title... to be continued...