Musings, facts and fun

Karva Chauth and Indian Telly have a divine connection made from heaven. Yesterday I came across a hilarious video snippet from the Hindi serial "Sasural Simar ka ". If you haven't heard about this soap opera, may I tell you that you are missing on the ability to fathom the heights that Indian TV can reach today. While the name may sound like an innocuous saas-bahu style serial and it was like one when it all started out several years back; the story has taken a turn for the supernatural now with an entire bracket of ghosts, demons and serpent (yes snakes!) showing up in what must be an intriguing plot. Anyway, coming back to the point. The video was about two ladies decked up in the finest of  designer sarees —likely sponsored by one of the many advertisers —keeping the Karva Chauth Vrat for the same man and waiting for him with a sieve in hand for the ceremonial fast break at the end of the day in their respective rooms. Since I do not follow the series, I do not...

Many Indian trucks you come across on the road would be carrying signs of this form “ Blow Horn” or “Horn Please” on the rear end . These phrases are pretty ubiquitous on trucks throughout the nation and are meant to encourage a motorist approaching from behind to explicitly sound a horn if they wish to pass. Coming from a place where horns are very scarcely used on the roads or their usage in general is frowned upon, you might be surprised. While the origin of this phrase on the trucks may have a historical need due to single lane roads in the past, but today horns happen to be an indispensable tool while driving on many Indian roads. Kerala is one place that I know of which is quite different in this regard. I was instructed by my driving tutor to sound a horn whenever I approached a bend, a crossing or if I was attempting to pass someone.  Why would this be? Firstly, the usage of side mirrors isn’t common. While this may not be true for al...

Day 1 Slight bad throat to start the day, but not too bad. Maybe, I would go for a walk outside and then spend rest of my weekend curling on the sofa with a book. Stay-in weekends are the best. 3 hours later. God takes my wishes to the word, literally. A stay-in weekend is precisely what I get, did I mention about that the head has started to throb yet :/ and the fever and the throat and the bodypain? Day 2 Still surprised by what is driving me to so much sleep. The head continues to blast, did someone happen to sneak in a dancing hippo in there. Feeling feverish, need to pop in a couple more paracetamols I think. Take a lot of fluids they say. I think I am floating(and bloating) inside. The seattle dark weather doesnt help at all. Day 3 Was able to get up in the morning and made it to the couch on my own! No force can stop me now. Unless - its the hippo grooving in my head. As the day goes up, the fever is rising yet again and I feel gross :/ Evenings arent the most active ...

Lancing through the sliver mist Dissolving the dark shadows in its embrace Bringing back the colors and the glow to what was steeped in a sombre haze The chilly breeze flows as a chariot with the earthy fragrance so sweet and moist The dew gleams on the blossom Swathed in a crisp air, the little birds rejoice I snuggle up in my warm quilt And its a glance I take The crystal rays of the morning sun danced on the window Lighting up the room and kissing me awake

Dubai, 2016. "Mere Sapnon ki Rani kab ayegi tu" , the delightful voice of Kishore Kumar greeted me as we got into a taxi in Dubai. I was taken in by a pleasant surprise because it was after an extremely long time that I was hearing Kumar's melodies, more so in a place hundreds of miles away from home.. Soon the track changed, giving way to more songs from Sharabi and Padosan. "You have a great collection of songs sir, I could have never imagined getting to hear these outside India",  I said to the driver, naturally assuming him to be from India. He inferred I was an Indian from this comment and said in Hindi, "Maam hum Pakistan se hain lekin Bollywood ki toh baat hi kuch aur hai" (I am a Pakistani and love Bollywood). "Oh wow! From where in Pakistan?" , We asked him visibly surprised. "Multan", he replied. This was the first time I met anyone from Pakistan and I had tonnes of questions for him. We talked everything right...

I took a deep breath as I stood in front of the little black door vexing at the thought of what awaited me on the other side. Deep down somewhere, I knew there was a giant kraken was about to be unleashed, but deferring was not an option — certainly not today; so I took another breath and flicked the keys and the door swung open. Inside, almost mockingly smiling at me was a colossal dump of paper mail that had accumulated over the course of past month while I was on vacation. It was so huge I could barely even keep half of it in my hands at one time. From catalogs of furniture stores that I have never visited to credit card offers from each and every bank, it was almost comical how everybody just seems to be relentlessly trying to onboard a menial me onto their services. And, boy, aren't they so much committed to this goal that they print out an army of glossy pages every week to send out my way only to spend a few seconds in my hands before being tossed into the bin. I rememb...

Its fun, especially if you come across gems like 'coat paint, blazzer ' . Will keep adding more to this collection going ahead.

“I am not going to school today”, Ruhi whined stomping her feet as her face continued to turn red. “Yes, you are. You just cannot miss school for random reasons”, I sternly retorted while bundling up her lunch case. “Mom! Have a look outside, it’s raining heavily. My clothes and shoes will get all wet and dirty”, she tried to point me towards the heavy downpour outside, standing on her toes to reach the window I sighed. Unlike most kids her age, Ruhi was extremely punctilious to ensure her clothes didn’t have even the tiniest bit of dirt. “The monsoon season has started, Ruhi. The weather will be like this for months; and I am not letting you miss school anymore. Now, why don’t you make it easy for both of us and wear your rain jacket and get ready to go. Come on, I know how much love your new red polka dot raincoat, don’t you? And since you are so particular about getting dirty, I will also keep your old jacket in your bag as a spare. Now, Is it okay?” I said as I motione...

I recently made a series of acrylic works around the basic elements that make up the world around us. My intent was to capture each in monochrome with a solid background while infusing in a little artistic touch and keeping the subject abstract and easy. If you didnt guess already, the paintings represent air, water and land.

Warm mornings, Or breezy evenings, Whether simmered slowly with a hint of ginger, Or coupled with a dash of elaichi and pepper. When there are showers outside, Or when there is a chill inside. Whether its at home or the nukkad shop at the far end, But definitely never at a CCD or Starbucks, friend. While in a train as it chugs ahead, Or when the bus comes to a halt at end. During conversations that stretch long, Or even when someone is alone and forlorn. When the first rays of the sun light up the floor, Or when the clock strikes a nightly four. Whether you'r paired with Samose fresh out of the skillet, Or frugal on your own with a Parle G packet. When in office and your eyes start drooping, Or by the smirk on the colleague's face you know a chai-break is coming. Whether you come steaming with a lot of milk Or with loads of mom's love blended in. Whether the mood is jubilant, furious, sullen or just fine. A first sip of your hot cup is s...

Its 68 years since India was freed of colonial rule. You would argue that 68 years is a small time frame for a growing nation of a billion people; but if you look at it from another perspective, its long. Long enough for a generation to pass, long enough for a generation worth of oral history to be ebbed away, long enough for us to forget some of our unsung heroes who only remain in the memoirs of our previous generation. I am someone who is fascinated by stories, not just the ones we read in textbooks or those which come fore into the spotlight; but the stories of the real people, stories of the ladies who came out and picketed silk and liquor stores, stories of the teacher who made sure he instilled the right beliefs in his students during times of turmoil, stories of the men and women who went to prison for the dream of freedom, stories of the people who barely made the cut of glory but made a significant contribution to what was a revolution of an unprecedented epic proportion...

It is a human virtue to help those in need. And when you see that some people are in dire need, many of us go about either directly volunteering to go the place where the disaster struck or collecting blankets, clothes and toys to donate. Their intentions are noble but what we need to understand is that the execution may not always be. When amateur volunteers just get on the plane in a quest to help, they instead end up interfering with the plans of professionals who are already there. I read about how the Kathmandu airport got super congested due to incoming goods and people that the actual movement of victims and help for them got affected. Such untrained people swarming there would only add up on those who have to be housed and fed, and this could disorient the efforts of the actual humanitarian societies for those who are in an actual need. I also read about how certain packages with clothes were rejected and I think it makes sense. Someone who is bleeding would not do much o...

When the question of sexual harassment and violence against women comes up, many of us believe that such acts happen due to some estranged and perverted extremists out there. We shirk it off by saying 'They are a bunch of psychopathic weirdos.' But are 'they' different? Do 'they' differ in terms of ideologies towards women? The point that many of us miss is that such people only represent a surface of a much larger issue which looms, or should I say engrained deep into our societal fabric which we all happen to subconsciously endorse. That such people share mindsets like us. Losing Honor Take for instance our colloquial language, the act of rape is manyatimes referred to as 'izzat lootna' (In English this translates to losing ones honor). The victim did not commit any crime; she did not venture forcedly into someone else's personal space. How, then, could she be desecrated because some feral man decided to impose himself on her? What doe...

I love her. She is the only one I have in the whole wide world. I can do anything for her. Anything. Even the agony of the long days when I sit at the window waiting for her to return, melts away in seconds at the sight of her getting down the car and a precious dimpled smile appearing on her face as she looks up and spots me. She would run towards me, calling out my name loud and hug me tight. I love the feeling when she tightens her grip around me, her fingers tickling my back. No matter how hectic a day she had in office, she ensures we go out for a stroll outside every night. Those 30 minutes constitute the best time of the day for me. Sometimes we run, or walk or play. Manyatimes we would just sit beneath the shade of the large mahogany tree as she relates the proceedings of her day to me. Sometimes she would be sullen, probably pissed off at her work but her way of narration in a chirpy tone and with full gestures always takes my heart. It was another such day. The sun w...

I recently visited an art store for buying some supplies for oil painting. While skimming through the shelves which were pretty overloaded with a vast range of art goodies, I came across some sets of oil pastels. I was curious to try them out for it has been ages since I did so. The last memory dates back to my primary school days when pastels and crayons were the only mediums I had explored. Quite unsure of my ability, I picked up the student quality pastels(junior level) instead of the myriad professional ones available. It took me a few days to finally overcome the inertia and get started with the new medium I bought. Very surprisingly, oil pastels have proven to exceed my expectations drastically. Simply put, oil pastels can weave magic even for someone who is just starting with this medium. Everyday I unravel something exciting. Well, there is a lot to explore in this domain and I very earnestly look forward to whats in store. Posting some experiments here. 1. Start wit...

He tries relentlessly, reaching out to the stars For they are too high And he doesn’t care for scars The ambition is strong, the will undeterred Night and day he works, Everything else was just blurred Sometimes he would delude, but then remember his goal again He would resume on his stride, Picking up his pace main He was joined by others but he has his vision on the stars set No matter what happened, He would not settle for anything less People came and left but he went on, for he believed his belief That the stars he was headed towards, Held an end to all his grief He looked down and reveled as he had come a long long way The mighty world was down under, The heights he attained was way too great He stepped ahead with bated breath, as he finally found himself standing in stars amidst Stretched out his hand to feel them but they dissolved as if made of mist Startled he looked around, to question what just happened if in a myth He was standing at the peak ...

“What is this! Just a few lines strewn on a canvas and they cost you thousands. Sheer daytime robbery!“, Sahil mumbled as he came across a large painting. He had already been to several other rooms in the exhibition and everytime just came out with more exasperation. The girl standing next to him who was also looking at the same painting overheard his remark and turned to face him. Her eyes caught his as she spoke,  “Well I think there is always more to something than what meets the eyes, whether it’s the case of a person or a thing. Same goes for the paintings.”. She spoke with an endearing smile on her face and walked ahead to see the next painting. He was in a daze for a moment as he quickly assembled himself and caught another glimpse at her. She was a dawning beauty, wearing a white linen tucked in shirt and stone washed jeans, her hair flowing as she glided to the next sculpture. “What can really be there behind those random lines that could mean anything...

Let me start off with some little incidents: Scene 1: Hyderabad Airport  I am waiting for a bus back to home with a friend after seeing off my mum at the airport. Lost into conversation and in my eagerness to board the bus, I leave my wallet on a bench at the stop. I get into the bus, racing to grab a window seat completely oblivious of the non existence of my wallet. After a substantial 20 mins in the bus and my blissful ignorance, the conductor comes in to announce that he received a call from the stop that somebody left a wallet there. This freaked me out as I realized that the somebody was me and the wallet had all my bank cards and IDs. Since the bus had already travelled half the distance, I was told to wait at the destination stop for the next bus to arrive. After another half an hour of anxious wait, the next bus came and didn't fail to disappoint: the driver was carrying my wallet wrapped and taped carefully in newspaper. Scene 2: Madhapur Hyderabad My friend co...

It was an unforgettable day for me. I handed off 50 bucks to the auto-wala and hesitatingly entered the college gates for the first time only to be welcomed by an amazingly never seen before spectacle. “Is this supposed to be a place to study!” were the first thoughts to cross my mind as I saw a bunch of guys sitting in a pool of smoke in a corner, gaudy graffiti written on the cafeteria walls and girls promenading in the smallest of clothes. I was myself in a total chaos at that moment, wearing an old pair of jeans and a loosely fitted kurti iced with unkempt hair, a combo which left absolutely no stones unturned in making me out of place. I silently gruntled at my parents for having me admitted in a place where apparently only the creamy class studied; or seemingly caroused for that matter. “Why did dad get me admitted in this madhouse; how am I going survive a single day here, let alone 3 years”. As I walked past looking from one side to the other; I was taken aback by the eno...

Everyone is a writer.. Yes everyone!..You, me, Shakespeare, Rowling, Beatles, even the illiterate house maid who comes every morning and has practically no knowledge of the three 'R's. Don't be surprised, because even as your eyes are scanning this piece of text, the nerve signals flexing inside, the brain attempting to interpret what you just read, your hands probably scrolling the mouse; there is a untiring part in you that is writing, and mind you, it just writes all the time; etching on to a book every moment... Everyone is an author of a book of their own lives; albeit few write better than the rest. When a baby is born God gifts him a blank book and a reed to cover it with. The number of pages and the length of the book may be governed by the Almighty but the contents are the baby's. Though he hasnt been to school yet, but the child keeps on updating the pages everyday as the world unfolds in front of his eyes. It has been observed that generally the books...