tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78616272024-03-06T20:58:46.872-08:00SolilowkeyAn attempt to capture the essence of my thoughts and put them in bearable prose, or worse (as the unimaginative pun indicates). Not too different from my scribbles on paper, only a lot more legible.Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.comBlogger417125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-91518069544373926622019-07-22T02:29:00.000-07:002019-07-22T02:29:26.013-07:00Fade Away<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My poem, published in this month's issue of the Spark magazine. Their theme this month was the 'Culture of India'. The poem highlights the dichotomy of the country - a proud nation with a rich history that we admire, yet the past has to jostle for space with the present, often ending up on the losing side. Read on.<br />
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<a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=2507">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=2507</a></div>
Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-70385241006435899882019-03-05T08:46:00.001-08:002019-03-05T08:46:36.019-08:00The Long Silence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"No. 100"</div>
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At some point in my blogging journey, I decided that to become a better writer, I should open up my work to scrutiny. I started submitting my work to online magazines and poetry sites to elicit criticism, feedback, rejection and acceptance from editors.</div>
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I am proud to share that today I published my 100th publication in a formal forum. It has been a long journey and a cherishable milestone. For those who have followed this journey as faithful readers, thank you.</div>
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Here's a short story about a man who embraced silence in the <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679&extragetparams=%7B%22__tn__%22%3A%22%2CdK-R-R%22%2C%22eid%22%3A%22ARAp6JyiFwqr52rpKBlnMYVzmCvHQ3r0A9FGJxZKr-NyUM3wwoT3V2XvD4hFC7EFWBAE_qrui6ASiBqd%22%2C%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/?__tn__=K-R&eid=ARAp6JyiFwqr52rpKBlnMYVzmCvHQ3r0A9FGJxZKr-NyUM3wwoT3V2XvD4hFC7EFWBAE_qrui6ASiBqd&fref=mentions&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARBKIvbzlw4EL9o292H37gddxMlIYJS0WBTf2m-Fi6BSYNK5TxMWUh8Bg13SzarhRtyIBApjtum8JsZY9q09K3LY7xyqIsh26A5nSMcBqfRpunMwLKqtxoc2hbUFhLhSOTNXFlx8iB-9oGSxh66RtLmwMSxdB3EdeXdNmgOk-zfc4Wp-Mm3MJ64rGF-pAQKT1cVsJwYPPPw-HT24BQ" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Spark</a> magazine.</div>
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<span class="_5afx" style="cursor: pointer; direction: ltr; font-size: 14px; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-long-silence/</span></span></div>
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The Long Silence</h1>
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It was said that Jayant Ramlal Vasavada had not spoken in over twenty years. No one knew why. It had been so long now that no one could remember how he sounded.</div>
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Since no one seemed to particularly know the last pronouncements that came out from the lips of Jayant <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">bhai</em>, it became the stuff of legend in the bylanes of Bhuleshwar. There wasn’t a single authentic version of the story. So naturally, there were many “authentic” versions. Each version reflected a new level of ingenuity from the narrator.</div>
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There was one about the astringent sherbet that he drank once that messed his palate such that his tongue forgot all its function. Another was about the jealous neighbour – whose own clothes shop was nowhere as successful as Jayant – who had blunted him on the head with a mannequin when Jayant was trying to close the shutters of his shop after a successful Diwali sale.</div>
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The purported last words on both these stories were, ‘<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Arre yaar</em>’. You couldn’t blame Jayant bhai. After all, what can a man do when he has been jumped and given very little time to react?</div>
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The stories started outdoing each other as the silence amplified to annex the suburb they were living in. One went that Jayant <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">bhai</em> went to watch the first cricket match of his life at the Wankhede stadium and a strongly hit sixer inadvertently caught him on the head as he tried to eat <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">vada pav</em> in the North Stand. Even the politicians were not spared. One gentleman who believed that government was the root of all evil suggested that Jayant had been caught up unfairly when the police rounded off protesters at a rally and snipped off their vocal cords lest they protest again.</div>
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The doctors who saw him didn’t seem to know any better either. When Jayant <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">bhai</em> was brought over to them, he walked in like a messiah whose flock trailed him. It started with his family taking him to their general physician who was swatting away flies in the middle of a hot and humid Mumbai afternoon and prescribing antibiotics to anyone who showed up, as a catch-all to cure all ills.</div>
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And yet, the curious case of Jayant <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">bhai</em> woke him up from his slumber. ‘He has stopped speaking?!’, he asked Jayant <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">bhai</em>’s family, incredulously. He suddenly felt deeply committed to his Hippocratic oath and experienced the inquisitiveness levels of Sherlock Holmes as he examined this mute patient for over thirty minutes. In all his twelve years of practice, he had not seen a case like this. And having spent a considerable amount of time inspecting Jayant, he finally decided that the sickness may be unusual but there was only one possible cure for it. ‘Antibiotics.’</div>
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The cure did not come and the pilgrimage to the clinics of other doctors continued. It was not unusual to see fifty people silently standing outside a doctor’s clinic and craning over each other to see if the medical man was making any headway with Jayant. Generalists were consulted. Specialists were referred to. Tests were ordered. Scans were performed. Medical journals were checked. Psychologists tried to unlock the secrets of his brain but failed. The medical community from Charni Road to Bandra suddenly had an unsolvable puzzle to grapple with. And yet, not a word escaped the lips of the silent man.</div>
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It would have been a positive reflection on the world Jayant lived in if the horde was there for his well-being. Maybe some were. But curiosity was a force more powerful than compassion. And so, in leading lives that were very ordinary, the masses followed the story of a man whose life had become anything but ordinary.</div>
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The silence of Jayant Vasavada assisted many a needy person. One such recipient was an aspiring writer who lived on the floor below the Vasavadas and shared a small room with five more Bollywood strugglers, who was inspired to write a story about a man who lost his voice. The simplicity of Jayant, however, found no reflection in the movie that told the story of a man who loses his voice when he sees his family murdered in front of his eyes and takes revenge on his enemies. In the climax of the movie, when his dog is about to be shot and doesn’t know about it, he screams at the top of his lungs and helps the dog escape his fate. The movie was made with such conviction that people were left guessing as to whether it was a spoof or a sincere story.</div>
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While everyone had a peripheral interest in the goings on in the quiet little world of Vasavada, the one affected the most was his wife Parul, who was dumbstruck at his state. She had always been the more garrulous one but even between her twenty-minute monologues, her husband had been able to sneak in a ‘Yes, yes’ and ‘Hmm, hmm’ and even the occasional, ‘You are absolutely right.’</div>
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With his silence, she was faced with an impenetrable wall. The one-way conversation, the responses using sign language, the acute awareness of the timbre of her voice resonating through the house – it became too much for her to bear. She decided that silence had only answer. Silence.</div>
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And so it came to pass that the household of the Vasavadas became a silent zone where no words were exchanged. Jayant’s shop, now looked after by a nephew, was a gift that kept on fuelling the fires of his house, as Jayant spent his days seeping in his penance like a tea bag left in a cup of hot water for a while. The superfluousness of Parul’s communication before this new phase now depressed her. Was anything she said ever necessary for him? Was using their hands to communicate love, hate, coffee and dinner sufficient for a marriage to last? She pondered in complete silence, choosing an existence in the house where the only sounds she heard were the din of the world permeating into their homes through the thin walls and open windows.</div>
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The man in the centre of this drama was content. What seemed like a mystery to others was a choice he had made. Jayant had blanked out his voice to clear up his mind. His voice felt like a vestigial organ to him. He had, in a moment of epiphany, realised that just like the rest of the world, he liked the sound of his voice. Perhaps too much. Believing that listening was a lost virtue, the atheist took a vow of silence for a week to bring that virtue back.</div>
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And a week of not talking opened up closed doors to him. He listened. He observed. He absorbed. And a week became a month and a month turned into a year. That little experiment evolved into something unexpected. He saw that his silence shaped the world around him much more than his words did. People projected their own thoughts on this silence as if it were a blank slate. Their opinions, their judgements, their energies, all found a focal point in Jayant’s silence.</div>
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Jayant added another twenty-five years to that vow of silence before his vigil came to an end with his last breath. He was surrounded by his wife and two hundred people cramped in the floors of his <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">chawl</em>. They all wanted to hear some final words. A mantra of salvation. A magic charm. But Jayant’s last breath was an ode to the silence that accompanied him.</div>
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And they all returned to their homes, murmuring at first and then talking normally next. They returned to the comfort of cacophony.</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-14904787152975708862019-02-05T09:20:00.002-08:002019-02-05T09:20:37.427-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My latest poem in <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679&extragetparams=%7B%22__tn__%22%3A%22%2CdK-R-R%22%2C%22eid%22%3A%22ARBaXEAYhGX2K2M4xldBU1_vt_BCO_Xyt6Er7-Xaz8An1lh9StR2rzTpi4XkUx2UHH69Qds413Htrq1S%22%2C%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/?__tn__=K-R&eid=ARBaXEAYhGX2K2M4xldBU1_vt_BCO_Xyt6Er7-Xaz8An1lh9StR2rzTpi4XkUx2UHH69Qds413Htrq1S&fref=mentions&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARBfbPr1Fn4YH_sHPt0Fr7URcZ2gMFnMzmlE0eCd2jOy-YFEs9rB-ed0QXgcUVW8wNmnj5ZZIS3hVjN57dOVIQPO1myJNzw93ENeSXimbGWDDyX5znXfKQ9pw3vRFaaGaJEGgXTaAMt74HqXUH5MfxuvMAQctsF6svF-V4hNGOcSzCRIzUsbs20E_ayrU7Bm0cp39_yh286nYaBteA" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Spark</a> is for all the closet romantics out there. Read on.</div>
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<a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/publication?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARBfbPr1Fn4YH_sHPt0Fr7URcZ2gMFnMzmlE0eCd2jOy-YFEs9rB-ed0QXgcUVW8wNmnj5ZZIS3hVjN57dOVIQPO1myJNzw93ENeSXimbGWDDyX5znXfKQ9pw3vRFaaGaJEGgXTaAMt74HqXUH5MfxuvMAQctsF6svF-V4hNGOcSzCRIzUsbs20E_ayrU7Bm0cp39_yh286nYaBteA&__tn__=%2ANK-R" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">publication</span></span></a> <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/poem?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARBfbPr1Fn4YH_sHPt0Fr7URcZ2gMFnMzmlE0eCd2jOy-YFEs9rB-ed0QXgcUVW8wNmnj5ZZIS3hVjN57dOVIQPO1myJNzw93ENeSXimbGWDDyX5znXfKQ9pw3vRFaaGaJEGgXTaAMt74HqXUH5MfxuvMAQctsF6svF-V4hNGOcSzCRIzUsbs20E_ayrU7Bm0cp39_yh286nYaBteA&__tn__=%2ANK-R" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">poem</span></span></a> <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/romance?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARBfbPr1Fn4YH_sHPt0Fr7URcZ2gMFnMzmlE0eCd2jOy-YFEs9rB-ed0QXgcUVW8wNmnj5ZZIS3hVjN57dOVIQPO1myJNzw93ENeSXimbGWDDyX5znXfKQ9pw3vRFaaGaJEGgXTaAMt74HqXUH5MfxuvMAQctsF6svF-V4hNGOcSzCRIzUsbs20E_ayrU7Bm0cp39_yh286nYaBteA&__tn__=%2ANK-R" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">romance</span></span></a> <span class="_5afx" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"type":104,"tn":"*N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/love?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARBfbPr1Fn4YH_sHPt0Fr7URcZ2gMFnMzmlE0eCd2jOy-YFEs9rB-ed0QXgcUVW8wNmnj5ZZIS3hVjN57dOVIQPO1myJNzw93ENeSXimbGWDDyX5znXfKQ9pw3vRFaaGaJEGgXTaAMt74HqXUH5MfxuvMAQctsF6svF-V4hNGOcSzCRIzUsbs20E_ayrU7Bm0cp39_yh286nYaBteA&__tn__=%2ANK-R" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">love</span></a> </span></div>
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Who Writes Things Like These?</h1>
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The stars, the moon, the sun<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />They fade in the face of your glory,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />The ripples on the grandest lake<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Aren’t a patch on the dimples on your face.’</div>
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‘Who writes things like these?’<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />He thought to himself.</div>
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‘Those eyes, those limpid pools<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Those melting pots of honey,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Those purveyors of great words<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Without ever making a sound.’</div>
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‘Who expresses their love like this?’<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />He shook his head as he read.</div>
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‘There is none but you<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />I am nothing without you,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />I’d leave this world in an instant<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />It’d be living hell without you.’</div>
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‘Oh, these lovelorn people,’<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />He smiled as he folded the paper.</div>
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The poem had come his way,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Left behind on a seat of a bus.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Did the giver forget it?<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Or did the recipient leave it behind?</div>
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This wasn’t how he expressed love—<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />He, of the repressed silences,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />And wordless gestures,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Of the meaningful touches<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />And quiet support.</div>
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He went home to that quiet wife of his<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Who matched his silences with hers.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />And on they went to the end of day—<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Food consumed, clothes changed<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />And his gentle snores beginning<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />To fill their small bedroom.</div>
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She picked up a book for her daily read<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />And found a new bookmark in it—<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />A paper, yellowed slightly and folded gently,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Placed there furtively by that sleeping man<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Knowing well she’d discover it.</div>
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She smiled as she read the words—<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Ones that he would’ve never written<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Ones that he would’ve never said aloud:<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />‘The stars, the moon, the sun…’</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-60614163579716188042019-01-09T21:54:00.001-08:002019-01-09T21:54:10.136-08:00Annus Moviebilis VI<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Year six of tracking movies seen. This was my lowest score in recorded years. This was mostly influenced by the fact that I ran out of things to watch on Netflix and Amazon. The number of shows that I saw also went down from 24 to 20. This was a year where I consciously read more and watched less.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Scores:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">2008: 99</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">2014: 86</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">2015: 105</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">2016: 116</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">2017: 132</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"><b>2018: 78</b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">The full list of movies can be found here: </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><a href="https://1drv.ms/x/s!AsQ_MU1XkvrDiOFLMt-xanpoZFOW3w">https://1drv.ms/x/s!AsQ_MU1XkvrDiOFLMt-xanpoZFOW3w</a></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14.6667px;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">I am going to take a break in doing this meticulous recording of movies and shows for 2019 so I can break free of that thread in my head that can't let go of this statistic. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Let us see what happens in 2020.</span></div>
Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-84290506170956276622019-01-05T08:33:00.003-08:002019-01-09T21:47:46.022-08:00The Almirah<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Remember that steel almirah in your parents place? And that beautiful creak and shriek that happened when you tried to open it? That hunk of metal that we all trusted our lives with?</div>
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Mighty privileged to get published in the 9th anniversary edition of <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679&extragetparams=%7B%22__tn__%22%3A%22%2CdK-R-R%22%2C%22eid%22%3A%22ARAqothaZBXBJDU75uW_tHDd5RpvlTzF-RNNZCgTDfJMPLoXvAJaTqbRYbmhgAYv9DZVEFc55nkbLd0A%22%2C%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/?__tn__=K-R&eid=ARAqothaZBXBJDU75uW_tHDd5RpvlTzF-RNNZCgTDfJMPLoXvAJaTqbRYbmhgAYv9DZVEFc55nkbLd0A&fref=mentions&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARDpZ52YtYZdW6tPWF5v1uF1e1ZkI00ajzeLDEGKAndiV3I-d7OIASX90Q2VYnuyyhUjSWO1pyMHdXeJQauUOBSLEtJcWcKHAXtHUX84r8mdMYvknAnNFFI6b1LvnR2hXZ-Hsp2MFcS3vGDBnmU5OTUpWBjM8AvR8ivlSDE_5lZdhc4nKfaPCMJhhF0nEzwhQc6b44lgUbQKxfW-Mw" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Spark</a> with my little trip down memory lane.</div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-almirah/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-almirah/</a></span></span></div>
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<h1 class="entry-title" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; color: tomato; font-family: "Josefin Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 36px; font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.1; margin: 20px 0px 10px; text-align: center;">
The Almirah</h1>
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I was back at my parents’ house. But I had not come back alone as the prodigal son. This time I had returned as a parent myself. My two kids were sleeping on their grandparents’ bed, exhausted from having spent their morning baking in the hot Mumbai sun. I realised that this was my chance. I decided to steal a few precious moments of downtime to myself, to indulge in an activity that was close to my heart. The joy of looking through old pictures.</div>
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I tiptoed in, careful not to wake up the sleeping devils. The bag with the pictures I sought was in a cupboard. An <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em>. ‘<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Almaari’</em>, ‘<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">kabaat’</em>, ‘<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">beero’</em>, and other isolated terms as it is referred to in different Indian households. That trusted steel <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em>, typically made by Godrej, in shades fluctuating between the grey and the green, taking pride of place in the bedroom.</div>
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I twisted the handle ever so slightly. As a kid of the 80s, I knew that unlike the modern day cabinetry which promises the smooth, silent glide of a samurai sword coming out of its sheath, the cabinetry of my childhood was as noisy as the gates of haunted mansions opening up in horror movies. I must have lost my touch, for, despite my efforts, the opening of that Godrej <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em> was followed by a large groan and a shriek. The kids woke up. And I bid goodbye to a promising afternoon.</div>
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I patted the <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em> gently. I could scarcely be mad at it. There it was. That guardian of treasures that was almost as old as I was and very dear to my parents. That cacophony that accompanied its opening it was part of its charm.</div>
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Every family that I knew growing up had one of these in their homes. That perfectly cubicled <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em>within which the most important assets of the household were preserved. Clothes, photographs, documents, ornaments.</div>
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The bottom half would usually be split into three equally distributed horizontal drawers. The top half would have two vertical separations. The one on the right was for hanging clothes. Sarees, ironed shirts, that odd coat that would rarely be worn. The left side would have a few more horizontal partitions.</div>
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‘His and Hers’ were all part of that same <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em>. Oh, and so were ‘his and hers’. I remember the arrangement of my clothes jostling for space with my mother’s <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">sarees</em> and my father’s bushirts. Of course, you would never be so blasé as to let the clothes touch the steel base. You’d first tear up newspapers and arrange them at the base of each drawer and only then would you put the clothes on it. The newspapers would change frequently. So while the headlines of Rajiv Gandhi’s assassination would stare at us for months, Tendulkar’s century at Perth would also be remembered each time I would pick shirts from the bottom.</div>
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The most critical records of our lives found their way to the vaulted <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em>. The most precious pieces were saved in the <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em> within the <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em>. A drawer that would act as a safe and had its own key. This is where the jewellery, the money would be hidden. Godrej must have trusted its own manufacturing to a great extent for any robber would know exactly what to break open to make the most of what the house had to offer.</div>
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The <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em> came with its own set of keys. Thick, gleaming, long keys that hung from a bunch. While it was not true of my mother, I have seen many other households where that set of keys would be tucked into the waist of a <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">saree</em> wearing mistress of the house.</div>
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Whether it was my parents’ place or at the countless others where these boxes of secure storage would be found, some things remained constant.</div>
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The <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em>, when opened, paved the way to a family’s treasures. The <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em>, when closed, played host to the family’s vanity. Along the height of the <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em> would run a half length mirror that would be the perfect place to make sure that the comb had fixed up the hair stylishly, that the fall of the <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">saree</em> was set correctly and that the shirt was tucked in evenly. As if the ornate etching on the side of the mirror was not sufficient, the mirror would be decorated by <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">bindis</em>.</div>
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And as if the <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em> wasn’t utilised enough by the space provided to store things inside it, the space between the <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em> and the ceiling was used to store things as well. Stack of bags for travel, a cycle that isn’t being used anymore, giant pots. There truly was no end to what that patch of a few square feet could accommodate.</div>
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Over the years, amidst its layers, the history of a family built up in that <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em>. The layers of objects that made up its contents became a sedimentation of memories. And as the family aged generation by generation, the <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em> too grew old and started to rust. Patches of its decay would start spreading unevenly across its surface. A little mark of dark brown near the bottom, a bit of paint scraping away from its top. The <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em> grew old with its owners and yet, like every family, strengthened its bond among its imperfections. It was like that unopened bottle of wine that gathers dust on the outside but blossoms in its flavour from the inside.</div>
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Times have changed now. The Indian middle class is upwardly mobile and artisan wooden cabinetry is slowly taking over from this trusted storage mechanism. And yet, the <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">almirah</em> continues its role faithfully in the houses of older people. It serves as a totem pole of memories and its creaks are the sweet sound of a bygone era, a nostalgia that I revisit each time I go back to my parents’ house and attempt to twist that handle ever so slightly.</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-35419875448050599862018-10-08T01:21:00.000-07:002018-10-08T01:22:48.311-07:00A Bookstore Rescue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
I am back to publishing on <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679&extragetparams=%7B%22__tn__%22%3A%22%2CdK-R-R%22%2C%22eid%22%3A%22ARC2yuXf8-js29NHMsNrBcwtQ-i6V-_PaNYvG7FR8hgS-VGXt5pL-Xr5IebUjAkJShqFvLDYhfh51DVo%22%2C%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/?__tn__=K-R&eid=ARC2yuXf8-js29NHMsNrBcwtQ-i6V-_PaNYvG7FR8hgS-VGXt5pL-Xr5IebUjAkJShqFvLDYhfh51DVo&fref=mentions&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARBx-nV72Yos85soU7yLzDadDO1ujmxjWUsFh6v3ORfrCRUR8AuHcxSYOZyYB_LQVXxmJGkZpRPlo5q39RMX79o_3eEbMd7L-gxcb7aEg_aYm_0ulMkoL7ojjUP2ZMICBv6v5imvIAImjCeSvYrKzEVs-g4wb_npjVfx8VKM-AuxknI4xepZyt4" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Spark</a> after a gap when I was busy with the book release.</div>
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Here's a little poem on a troubled man and the unlikely release he finds.</div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/a-bookstore-rescue/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/a-bookstore-rescue/</a></span></span></div>
<h1 class="entry-title" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; color: tomato; font-family: "Josefin Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 36px; font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.1; margin: 20px 0px 10px; text-align: center;">
A Bookstore Rescue</h1>
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“You are three months late …”<br />
Went the letter that he kept away.<br />
With slouched shoulders, the defaulter<br />
Walked out of his apartment.</div>
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He felt breathless, suffocated, boxed in,<br />
Squeezed by tragedy’s relentlessness.<br />
A house he may lose, a wife he already lost,<br />
No prospects, no love, no lovers, no money.</div>
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And then, the skies opened up,<br />
On misfortune’s favourite child.<br />
In despair he took flight to reach<br />
His beloved place of escape.</div>
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The store welcomed him.<br />
With books on endless shelves,<br />
The mass of human knowledge,<br />
Brimming, toppling over.</div>
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Books were his lodestone<br />
On sombre unsettling days,<br />
Where words were his balm<br />
To remedy the bruises on his soul.</div>
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He walked along the aisles,<br />
Skipping past Philosophy, Art,<br />
And that ever alluring History.<br />
None drew him in today.</div>
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He didn’t give a second look<br />
To the Cooking section<br />
Or the absorbing treatises on Politics<br />
Or the holy tomes on Religion.</div>
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Enough, he thought, of this world<br />
In all its gory complexities<br />
And its gruesome grimness<br />
And its excessive dose of reality.</div>
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And so, as light as a feather,<br />
He skipped to the end of the store,<br />
To the colourful racks and the bright pictures,<br />
To the lively and bright Children’s section.</div>
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He collected ten books on a whim.<br />
Stories dipped in pixie dust,<br />
Simple fantasies, uncomplicated lives,<br />
Unburdened souls, Uncluttered morals.</div>
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He read them all, not realizing the irony.<br />
Here was an adult escaping into<br />
A world written by other adults,<br />
Who were attempting to do the same.</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-73882785615833344712018-08-25T22:50:00.000-07:002018-08-25T22:50:59.612-07:00Book release: "r2i: Return to India"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I am very excited and proud to announce the release of my 2nd book, ‘r2i: Return to India’.</div>
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I had decided to write this book over two years ago when I r2i-ed to India and I am grateful that I had a story to tell and the persistence to see it through.</div>
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The book is a chronicle of my r2i experiences and I hope it interests you, entertains you and touches you in ways that my second innings in India has.</div>
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Please find the book at the following locations:<br />
Kindle (worldwide): <a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://amzn.to/2P75lU9" href="https://amzn.to/2P75lU9" rel="noopener nofollow noopener" target="_blank">https://amzn.to/2P75lU9</a><br />
Print (US and RoW): <a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://amzn.to/2P75lU9" href="https://amzn.to/2P75lU9" rel="noopener nofollow noopener" target="_blank">https://amzn.to/2P75lU9</a><br />
Print (India) : <a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://pothi.com/pothi/book/parth-pandya-r2i-return-india" href="https://pothi.com/pothi/book/parth-pandya-r2i-return-india" rel="noopener nofollow noopener" target="_blank">https://pothi.com/pothi/book/parth-pandya-r2i-return-india</a></div>
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<figure class="graf graf--figure" name="4a00"><img class="graf-image" data-height="1998" data-image-id="1*SACOuhkP_TWGiFNhl_BTDg.jpeg" data-width="1249" height="640" src="https://cdn-images-1.medium.com/max/1600/1*SACOuhkP_TWGiFNhl_BTDg.jpeg" width="400" /><figcaption class="imageCaption">r2i: Return to India</figcaption></figure><br />
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-35701715145885986652018-06-05T10:37:00.001-07:002018-06-05T10:37:14.382-07:00The Girl with the Whiskey Voice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The old pine for youth but youth may not offer everything expected of it. Read my latest poem published in Spark magazine.</div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-girl-with-the-whiskey-voice/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-girl-with-the-whiskey-voice/</a></span></span></div>
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The Girl with the Whiskey Voice</h1>
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They called her<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />The girl with the whiskey voice<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Like ether held together, with water</div>
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Perched on a delicate stool<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />She sat on the stage alone<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Tuning her guitar to her soul</div>
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She was all of twenty-three<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Youth coursing through her veins<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Through unclogged arteries and nimble joints</div>
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And yet her soul was a fragile parchment<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />The scars of her past were<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Stories preserved with ink and vinegar</div>
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They sauntered in every night<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Filling in that little joint<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />With smoke and their emotions</div>
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Each moth bringing their baggage<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />As a homage to that iridescent flame<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />− Lust, love, admiration, sorrow</div>
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They fed off her youth<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Off the fullness of her body<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Off the absence of any blemish</div>
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Off that freedom from responsibility<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Off the freedom to dream<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Off the freedom to just be</div>
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But youth is sometimes<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Just a promise of an oasis<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />A mirage to those removed from it</div>
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The girl with the whiskey voice<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Was a soul aged with torment<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />And wisdom of a life lived precociously</div>
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The night began and she sang of love<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />And youth returned to those who heard<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />While she travelled to an older time</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-40273643190486136912018-05-08T07:47:00.001-07:002018-05-08T07:47:06.237-07:00A Love Affair<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A woman arrives in a city that was never hers and soon becomes a fragment of that whole.</div>
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Read my latest verse in <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/?fref=mentions" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Spark</a> that tells the woman’s story and her relationship with the city that took her hostage.</div>
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A Love Affair</h1>
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This city was never hers<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />She belonged to a calmer origin<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Where the sun rose and set unabated<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />By sounds and dust and other filters</div>
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Now she lives in a place where<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />The sun in incidental and silence is a transgressor<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Her shadow on the walls of her house is<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />A pantomime magnified on cracked lime</div>
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The city was never hers<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />But she now belonged to the city<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />She inherited her labels from it<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />She bequeathed its various moods</div>
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Her parents wondered why<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />She laboured in a place far away<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />In that cauldron that consumed<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Dreams, peace and sleep</div>
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They did not know that she was escaping<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Memory’s short-changing trap<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />An unrequited love, an unfulfilled wish<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />And a relentless, unremitting ache</div>
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Her surrender was an escape<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />And the city gladly took her hostage<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />She was now a part of a whole<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />A speck of dust in a giant dustbowl</div>
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The city was her lover now<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Filling the voids she surrendered with<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />She roamed within its ironclad doors<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Free as a bird in a giant cage</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-53538360547021299362018-04-06T02:51:00.003-07:002018-04-06T02:51:51.134-07:00The Secret Life of Unfulfilled Dreams<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Eight years ago, a non-profit literary e-zine was started by two very passionate editors <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=539253822&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/anupama.viswanathan.1?fref=mentions" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Anupama</a> and <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=623564901&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/vani.viswanathan?fref=mentions" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Vani</a>. Today, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/?fref=mentions" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Spark</a> published their 100th issue. I have been privileged to publish in 84 of them!</div>
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They invited me to contribute to the issue with a non-fiction topic of my choice. The topic I picked is 'The Secret Life of Unfulfilled Dreams'. In this case, my dream to write. Hope it inspires you to pursue yours!</div>
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<a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-secret-life-of-unfulfilled-dreams/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-secret-life-of-unfulfilled-dreams/</a></div>
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The Secret Life of Unfulfilled Dreams</h1>
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The stage is on fire. Not the literal kind of course. It has been set alight by the mesmerising performance of the music band. Their lead singer has the audience eating out of his hands. His strong, clear and melodious voice travels through the speakers to the one hundred thousand strong audience. They are chanting his name. They are in the midst of an evening they will not forget for the rest of their lives. And he isn’t just singing. He is playing the guitar too like a virtuoso. His tresses fly in the air as he shakes his head and plays riff after impossible riff. It is heaven. It is a dream.</div>
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(Well, it actually is.) The singer wakes up. The singer is me. The dream takes its roots from a slice of reality. I was in a band as a <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">tabla</em> player. When a performance would get over, it was the good boys – the keyboard player and the octopad player and the <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">tabla</em> player – who would be quietly packing up their instruments while the lead guitarist and the vocalist would have admirers swarming up to them. Having not learnt either how to sing or to play the guitar and possessing very moderate skill in playing the <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">tabla</em>, I decided to stay content with visions of that glory. While the dream itself has tempered down over the years because practicality has taken over, the part that I wish would really come true is that about the abundant hair.</div>
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We all have dreams. They fuel the effort we put in towards leading a fulfilling life. The whole point of dreams is for them to be unreasonable. ‘Stretch goals’, as they are referred to in corporate jargon. The arc of dreams goes from the impossible to the mildly possible as we seep into the regularity of our lives. Our entrenchment in the world of responsibility takes the edge away from the fantastic nature of dreams.</div>
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We bridge the gap between the fantastic and the plausible each day, to walk away with a sense of success. Not all of us are Sachin Tendulkar. He dreamt at the age of 11 to play for India. As a kid, I did the same. Who wouldn’t want to take on those pesky Aussies in their backyard and smash them all over the Sydney Cricket Ground? But by the time I reached my twenties and I found myself more adept at creating PowerPoint slides than hitting good bowlers for boundaries, I moderated my desire. I would now envision myself hitting the winning runs of the final ball of the finals in my local cricket league. A touch of pragmatism in the world of dreams never hurt.</div>
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I’ve had one such dream and it relates very much to the place you are reading this work. I grew up dreaming of being a successful writer: a picture of me with all my brooding intensity would be on the back cover of the book which would be stacked up in piles beside my table in the busiest bookstore in the city, where I’d be signing copies of my book. Sure, I had a knack for telling stories, but even in my limited peer group, there were others who were better. Life too had other plans and like so many people who did it every year, my life went in the rather prosaic field of engineering.</div>
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I didn’t let go of the dream though. I tempered it. I took to writing on my blog. That process of writing on my blog week after week, month after month, year after unflinching year helped me gain the belief that maybe my writing was worth more than I gave myself credit for.</div>
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I decided to expand my horizons. The first place I took my writing to was Spark. I realised that in my current station in life, the ability to produce quality work month after month which was critiqued and validated by editors who knew what they were doing, was fulfilment of a lesser dream. In the process, that dream became all the more endearing.</div>
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For me, writing has always been about a two-way conversation. I want people to read my work and be moved (or disappointed) by it. I want to hear if they found a poem moving or the ending of a short story surprising. Spark gave me that forum.</div>
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Since no one had filed an injunction against me for writing more, I took it as a sign to spread my wings further. That latent dream of an eight-year-old boy was brought to fruition −I published a book. I co-wrote a book called ‘r2idreams’ about the Indian immigrant dilemma on whether to stay or to go back to India.</div>
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The book came about despite having a very hectic job and two very hectic kids. I was driven by a sense that this story needed to be told and I was the one to tell it. Fulfilling the dream was not easy but it was fulfilled nonetheless. The story hit its mark with many readers and the reaction left me elated and vindicated.</div>
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For years, I had shelved the thought of doing anything big beyond my field of work because of what I had imagined to be the sheer difficulty of it all. My attempt at breaking through this chain of thought (pun intended) taught me otherwise.</div>
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I have two young kids who are not bound yet by the chains of pragmatism. They dream of going to the moon for a weekend picnic and being the number one tennis player in the world and of having the ability to time travel and having a magic pen that would write their homework for them. I cherish these without judgment and am careful not to discourage them. Who knows what will spark from these little aspirations blooming out of their imaginative minds?</div>
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I often find myself unwittingly becoming a motivational coach for my friends and family. I see people abandoning their pursuits, selling themselves short or abandoning their aspirations to merely sail through their lives. That deserted attempt at running a half marathon, that dream trip to Ladakh that has been put off, that painting that has been unfinished, that novel that has not been attempted. I am always on their case and I take great satisfaction in the few success stories I have been able to engender.</div>
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To me, the pursuit of my dreams has given a lot of fulfilment and if there’s one thing I want to tell others it is this: Find that unfulfilled dream of yours. Let it breathe. Let the dream live. Trust me, their secret lives have a lot to offer.</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-39343454508270354782018-03-06T02:27:00.005-08:002018-03-06T02:28:13.644-08:00The Mannequin In the Window<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A man invests his dreams in a shop and a mannequin in the shop window bears testimony to it.</div>
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Read my latest publication in <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/?fref=mentions" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Spark</a> magazine which tells the story of that man and the shape his dreams take.</div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-mannequin-in-the-window/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-mannequin-in-the-window/</a></span></span></div>
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The Mannequin In the Window</h1>
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There is a large glass window<br />
in front of the shop<br />
that is now dwarfed by a huge<br />
shiny mall that has come up next to it.<br />
The establishment of “K.K. Tailors” was once<br />
a shiny diamond among aging ones,<br />
when its doors first flung open.</div>
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Krishna Kumar sewed his initials<br />
into those “Safari suits” he specialized in −<br />
sewing for those middle men<br />
who trudged to the corridors of power,<br />
where other men who wore kurtas<br />
ruled as if by royal decree.</div>
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When the shop was opened in Connaught Place,<br />
Krishna Kumar had installed a mannequin<br />
in the shop window (though he didn’t need one),<br />
and a picture of Indira Gandhi behind his desk −<br />
the only feminine presence in a shop<br />
which advertised itself as “Men’s tailors”.</div>
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The mannequin went from wearing<br />
safaris to bushshirts to cotton shirts<br />
to polyester creations,<br />
keeping up agelessly with the styles<br />
that the patrons sought K.K. out for.</div>
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The shop window started tainting<br />
as the years passed.<br />
The shop that was once new<br />
had peeling plaster and power cuts<br />
and a moldy flavour that travelled<br />
back with the few who still bothered<br />
to get their clothes stitched.</div>
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Bit by bit, the window’s blots grew<br />
despite K.K.’s loving attempts<br />
to clear the fog away.<br />
And it was one day that resembled every other<br />
that K.K. looked at his mannequin<br />
and said, “We have faded”<br />
and shut the shutters on his thirty-year dream.</div>
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Now he lives in a cramped and clean<br />
flat in Lajpat Nagar,<br />
with a rusty trunk in the corner of his room<br />
that he keeps locked at all times,<br />
lest his grandson steal away.</div>
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It holds within it<br />
a cut of Safari cloth, a picture of Indira Gandhi<br />
and the torso of a mannequin<br />
hunched at the shoulders<br />
bent by years of bearing dreams<br />
and falling short in the end.</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-69989283246162348602018-02-06T02:48:00.002-08:002018-02-06T02:48:14.909-08:00A Sibling Squabble<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Are you a parent of two kids? Or been a sibling yourself?</div>
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Read my poem from the latest issue of the <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/?fref=mentions" style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Spark</a> magazine on the bitter-sweet encounters between the two boys in my house and the underlying affection that binds them together.</div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/a-sibling-squabble/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/a-sibling-squabble/</a> </span></span></div>
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<h1 class="entry-title" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; color: tomato; font-family: "Josefin Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 36px; font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.1; margin: 20px 0px 10px; text-align: center;">
A Sibling Squabble</h1>
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Was I meant to be born with a whistle?<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Refereeing two parties, forever aggrieved –<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Two pugilists in their own corners,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />One in the blue pajamas and one in red.</div>
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That little combatant is slouching on the couch,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Hurt and tears clouding his eloquence.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />“He did. It was he who is making me cry. Ask him,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Ask that big brother of mine.”</div>
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That accused is standing with his hands folded,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />His face contorted in righteous anger.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />“Ask him what he did before that. Ask him,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />“Ask that little brother of mine.”</div>
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I linger in that moment of déjà vu.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />I am the civilian in the cross hairs<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Of two little men and their gigantic passions,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Each assuming my bias against them.</div>
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But silence gradually wins the fight<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />As words start simmering down,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Like a balloon losing its air<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />And then fluttering unpredictably.</div>
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Their fight lingers on in my mind,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />But it has vaporised from theirs.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />The memories of that passionate spat<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Are buried under peals of laughter.</div>
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The contretemps are but reminders that<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />They often can’t stand each other.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Only reinforcing a truth that<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />They certainly can’t be without the other.</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-74423750060364283262018-01-09T02:49:00.001-08:002018-01-09T02:49:17.267-08:00The Death of Blogging<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Remember the days when everyone had their personal blogs? The days when you posted fearlessly and someone actually read it? The days when you met new people through your blog? Those days are over.</div>
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Read my article in the Spark magazine which goes into a journey through that phase.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-death-of-blogging/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-death-of-blogging/</a></span></span></div>
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<h1 class="entry-title" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; color: tomato; font-family: "Josefin Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 36px; font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.1; margin: 20px 0px 10px; text-align: center;">
The Death of Blogging</h1>
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The year was 2004 and I had launched my personal blog titled ‘Solilowkey’. Now that I think back to it, I can’t put my finger on what prompted me to enter the world of blogging. I had been an accidental writer through my school and college years but there never was a fixed outlet for all my work. I had the frequent daydream of being a successful writer whose books would adorn the shelves of bookstores and who would read from his books to spellbound listeners. However, there was no intent to pursue that dream. The blog was a certainly a new outlet but without a particular focus.</div>
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Blogging was an accidental discovery but it turned out to be a fortuitous one. I started writing more regularly than I had in a long time. Short stories, poems, commentary on all things I cared about, translation of <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">ghazals</em> – they all made an appearance on those virtual pages. For someone who had not kept a private diary, I was now maintaining a public one.</div>
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The beauty of the blog wasn’t just that I was writing. It was that I was now engaging with readers. Since there were no other means of promoting the blog (social networking sites were non-existent then), the people who came to the site were the ones who stumbled upon it. And they read. And stayed. And commented. Through these interactions and my own process of stumbling upon other blogs, I slowly formed a network of bloggers. These were strangers who were hiding behind online identities. Our only knowledge of each other were through the words we had shared. In some cases, the barriers of the anonymity were breached and I made new friends. The kind whom I had not met in real life but whose essence I had become familiar with through their words. For what else is writing but a conscious effort to bare your soul.</div>
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Blogging was new. Blogging was attractive. And blogging allowed for discovery. The internet was growing by the day but without the presence of social networking, people relied on e-mail and instant messaging solutions to communicate with one another. In short, the distractions were limited.</div>
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Some Indian bloggers that I knew turned my daydream into their reality. By being diligent about blogging and offering interesting content, they started building a following that would far exceed amateur bloggers like me. Bloggers like Arnab Ray (of the Great Bong fame) would go on to publish books, fuelled by a recognition that his blog had allowed him.</div>
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While they had been launched in 2004, Orkut and Facebook started really catching on as the decade was coming to a close. A new form of dopamine was unleashed on this world. Suddenly, everyone’s basic desire to be connected intimately to the lives of others came true. The possibilities were infinite. You could spend hours trying to hunt down the people you have lost touch with. For others, the engagement was passive and yet time-consuming. The age of the smartphone also meant that this addiction was fed during every waking moment. If this was not enough, a low bandwidth messaging solution called WhatsApp also invaded this space. And let’s not leave out the democratisation of video content through YouTube.</div>
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Suddenly, the world was in your pocket and was refusing to leave. The reading habits of people changed slowly but surely. This might not have been a conscious choice but with a finite amount of time at hand, something had to be nudged out for a new way of life to take its place. When I reflect on my own habits, I realise that I went from being a voracious reader of both online and offline content to spending an enormous amount of time on social networking sites.</div>
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I was posting on my blog with the same frequency but fewer people were reading it. Bit by bit, the other bloggers I knew started exiting the medium. Their rationale was very similar. No one ever came. No one ever read. The conversation with the readers which was one of the more enticing parts of the experience was vanishing.</div>
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Only the top thrived and prospered and they did so by bringing their blogs to the newer platforms. They would have active Facebook profiles and would share their blog posts there. In turn, like a rolling stone, good articles would get picked up and passed around. For the rest of us, it was down to watching cat videos and liking pictures of each other on Facebook.</div>
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Fast forward a few years and we are now squarely in the world of dwindling attention spans and increased distractions. The same social networking tools that were once in their stages of inception now have tentacles that reach deep into any empty moment that poor humans might have. You would know this if you have ever received every forward ever in your family WhatsApp group, or an ongoing thread on Twitter that you can’t get out of, or those pictures on Instagram by your favourite celebrities who simply can’t stop posting, or those pesky Facebook user targeting algorithms that hook you with exactly the things you ‘need’ to read.</div>
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In this new world, the blogger is fighting a losing battle. A well-written short story never has a chance, being buried in the avalanche of everything that sits atop a pile waiting for attention. Even the type of writing that grabs eyeballs has differed. WhatsApp is primarily driven by misinformed forwards and GIFs containing good morning wishes. Facebook is littered with short Instagram style posts focusing on humour. Even the long form of writing is mostly governed by your echo chamber. Outrage writing or deeply personal stories make the top of that list. A blogger would now have to truly put their writing explicitly in front of the readers to get eyeballs.</div>
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I deal with this issue personally. When I publish my short stories and share them on Facebook, I often post and re-post it because I have little faith in Facebook’s algorithm to show this to the end user. Often times, I actually (against every fibre of my being) send these articles in instant messages to my reader to get them to pay attention.</div>
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Blogging is dead. The age of serendipitous friendships between bloggers is passing. The blogger as we know it needs reinvention, or risk being irrelevant in a world that increasingly values short and vapid things to read.</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-38560957068995162092017-12-31T18:52:00.002-08:002017-12-31T18:52:37.871-08:00Annus Moviebilis V<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Year five of tracking movies seen and I am happy that the #100moviepact that I signed up for was met. This was my highest score in recorded years.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Scores:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">2008: 99</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">2014: 86</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">2015: 105</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">2016: 116</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"><b>2017: 132</b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">The full list of movies can be found here: </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">https://1drv.ms/x/s!AsQ_MU1XkvrDiNBYccb81rTOPrnS_w </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">In addition to tracking the movies that I watched, I also tracked shows this year. The count for total seasons of shows watched was 24.</span></div>
Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-31254911303796191962017-12-05T20:57:00.002-08:002017-12-05T20:57:33.417-08:00A Whiff of Perfume<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It is the simplest actions that trigger the sweetest memories.</div>
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My poem in this month's Spark magazine is an ode to a small slice of my childhood, prompted by my own children.</div>
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<a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/poetry?source=feed_text&story_id=10156980274039546" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #4267b2; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">poetry</span></span></a> <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/publication?source=feed_text&story_id=10156980274039546" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #4267b2; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">publication</span></span></a> <span class="_5afx" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/nostalgia?source=feed_text&story_id=10156980274039546" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #4267b2; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">nostalgia</span></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/a-whiff-of-perfume/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/a-whiff-of-perfume/</a> </span></div>
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<h1 class="entry-title" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; color: tomato; font-family: "Josefin Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 36px; font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.1; margin: 20px 0px 10px; text-align: center;">
A Whiff of Perfume</h1>
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On lazy Bangalore Saturdays,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />when we are about to set out to eat<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />and then return for a well-earned siesta,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />my boys come to me with their arms raised,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />waiting for me to spray my perfume<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />on their shirts over their armpits,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />on their unsullied bodies,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />rejoicing in this little ritual −<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />quite unnecessary yet wholly satisfying.</div>
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It takes me back to my many summers in Surat,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />an annual ritual of my childhood,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />when my cousins and I<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />would raise our arms in surrender,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />to the uniform perfume that was sprayed on us.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />United in blood, united in fragrance,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />we would exit into the streets<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />of a city that didn’t seek a<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />sense of purpose to exist.</div>
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Nothing ever happened there –<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />nothing needed to.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />We were happy in this nothingness,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />enjoying somnolent lunches<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />and waving newspapers to convene air,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />when the electricity deserted us,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />spending hours playing cricket<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />and walking through the by-lanes of an old city,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />evading the motorcycles that narrowly<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />dodged the cows on the road.</div>
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Dusk would see us walking back home,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />washing the city off our hands and feet,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />changing out of the clothes<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />from which the perfume had long evaporated,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />and eating food under the loving gaze<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />of our grandmother,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />who never asked what we did<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />in a place where nothing ever happened<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />and nothing ever needed to.</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-64115515273611540792017-11-06T02:35:00.002-08:002017-12-05T19:13:50.487-08:00The Metamorphosis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span id="yiv3985504912yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1509945271899_3306" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">A short story of a friendship that hits a pause button for years. What happens when they try to press play again? Do old equations change? Do people change? My latest short story in the </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/?fref=mentions" id="yiv3985504912yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1509945271899_3307" rel="nofollow" style="-webkit-padding-start: 0px; background: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Spark</a><span id="yiv3985504912yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1509945271899_3308" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> magazine. Read on.</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-padding-start: 0px; background-color: white; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/metamorphosis/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/metamorphosis/</a> </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Metamorphosis</span></span></h2>
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Prashant first saw Sanjeev when he walked into his classroom on the first day of fourth grade and found a new addition to his class from the previous year. A boy was hunched over a wooden bench, carving something intently into it with a metal compass. His hair was dishevelled and the pocket of his shirt was torn. A crimson line streaked across his arm.</div>
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He had clearly been in a fight and was worse for the wear. Whether he had been victorious – it was hard to tell.</div>
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Prashant found himself inexplicably drawn to this battered and bruised boy who seemed to be lost in a world of his own. He sat next to him and struck up a conversation.</div>
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“Hey, what’s your name?”</div>
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“Oh, and where are you from?”</div>
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“What are you carving?”</div>
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There was an easy symmetry to their conversation. Sanjeev’s frugality with words was compensated by Prashant’s generosity with them.</div>
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Between the words and the silence, time ran circles around the clock, pages of calendars were turned many a time and the years piled on. Their friendship had grown as thick of the weeds lining the outer walls of their hostel.</div>
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On the last day of their school, they sat on the terrace of their hostel and drank beer for the first time in their lives. They could see the city stretch far into the horizon from that height, inviting them to join its masses.</div>
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Their lives took on different paths once they left the cosy confines of their boarding school. Prashant chose a path that would eventually lead him to getting an MBA. Sanjeev decided to join the armed forces. Prashant remembered being very surprised when he heard the plan. His friend Sanjeev, who had never vocalised his patriotism, was showing his admission letter from the National Defence Academy.</div>
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When pressed, the quiet fellow that he was, he merely said, “Someone has got to guard the gates.”</div>
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The two stayed in touch for the first few years. Slowly, new companions filled the void that they had left for each other. The words dried up between them and they fell out of being in each other’s lives. Prashant got his management degree, Sanjeev his military rank.</div>
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The fragility of the silence between them was broken when Prashant unexpectedly got a call from Sanjeev’s mother on a Sunday afternoon.</div>
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“How is Sanjeev, aunty?”, Prashant asked, surprised by the unexpected voice on the other end of the line.</div>
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“He is fine, <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">beta</em>. It takes a lot to get him to call us and tell us about what he is up to, but he is doing fine,” said his mother, laughing.</div>
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“Where is he?”</div>
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“In Kashmir.”</div>
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“Doing what?” Prashant queried, feeling silly even as he asked.</div>
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“Fighting the terrorists,” her voice quivered.</div>
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“You know, he is expected to come home at the end of the month. His sister and I thought we’d surprise him with a birthday party. We haven’t seen you in so many years; I thought he’d be really pleased to see you.”</div>
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“I’ll let you know, aunty” Prashant responded matter-of-factly. “Take care.”</div>
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Seven years, he sighed. “Seven years since I have seen him. How did we manage to do that after being so close?”</div>
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He opened the freezer and took out a bottle of cold Bira beer. Sanjeev would have liked it, he said to himself.</div>
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Sanjeev, my friend. He must be enjoying the famed apples of Kashmir while meditating on a rock covered with snow perched on a high mountain.</div>
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And now memories came flooding. Memories that were buried. Memories that were now the bottom layers of stratified rock, crushed and aged.</div>
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Suddenly, Prashant found himself opening up his laptop and starting to type, a subconscious drive coercing clicks on the keyboard from him. He imagined himself making a little speech in Sanjeev’s honour at the party.</div>
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“Sanjeev is a true friend.”</div>
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“In all the years that I had known him, Sanjeev has always been a rock. Never wavering, never dithering. Always sure of his beliefs and ready to fight for them.”</div>
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Prashant’s mind drifted to the solitary figure of Sanjeev standing in the middle of a circle, as the seniors who were ragging him, continued to heckle him for not going and proposing to a girl. But he hadn’t uttered a word.</div>
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“Sanjeev has always been a man of few words but the words he spoke were never said in vain. He has always been, above all, a genuine person,” he typed.</div>
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Prashant couldn’t help recalling how when his father passed away, Sanjeev had stayed by him for days at a stretch. In those silent days where Prashant mourned for his father, Sanjeev matched his silence, only breaking it once to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him, “I am sorry for your loss.”</div>
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The little speech took shape as Prashant emptied the vessel of his memories for his friend onto a Word document. He then pressed the Save button, shut his laptop and slept contentedly.</div>
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Days passed and one evening, when the neon lights across his building had come into life, Prashant’s phone rang. The voice at the other end of the line was unmistakable.</div>
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“How are you?” asked Sanjeev.</div>
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He had come back from duty a week early and surprised his mother. Her well-laid plans of a surprise party were thwarted.</div>
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It was his turn to surprise the people who had been there for him. Would Prashant like to meet?</div>
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“Yes, of course.”</div>
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The two old mates met the next evening at a bar.</div>
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“Beer?” asked Prashant.</div>
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“Whiskey,” Sanjeev asserted, smirking.</div>
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Prashant raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise. He sipped his drink quietly while a stream of words flowed from Sanjeev.</div>
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“Doing the right thing is overrated.”</div>
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“Why should only the bastards pulling the strings get a cut?”</div>
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“I am done with this job. Another six months and I am out.”</div>
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The city slumped into the depths of night as Prashant sat and listened to his friend from another age. That embattled, bitter pragmatist, who seemed to have buried the dreamer that Prashant knew, somewhere, much like his memories.</div>
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When the evening got over, they shook hands and went their ways. When Prashant got home, he turned on his laptop and pulled out the speech he was intending to give. As an afterthought, he typed:</div>
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“I missed Sanjeev. I will always miss him.”</div>
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Prashant realised that the last sentence read more like a eulogy. A remembrance to a person who wasn’t there anymore. And wasn’t that apt because the person he searched for was no longer there? Lost to life. Lost to war. Metamorphosed.</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-12983513319935905102017-09-20T10:10:00.000-07:002017-09-20T10:10:01.303-07:00Of Dreams<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I wish I could dream<br />The dreams of my children<br />Those impractical, juvenile,<br />Infantine trips to worlds<br />That I now know to<br />Be fiction</div>
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There hardly is a point<br />In dreaming dreams<br />That are impractical</div>
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There are no gardens<br />Where the fountains<br />Have the elixirs<br />That imbibe me with powers<br />Or butterflies<br />Resting on rhododendrons<br />That are in fact<br />Filaments of gold<br />Sewn together<br />By a magical hand<br />That I waved</div>
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I’ll merely kiss my kids goodnight<br />And watch their eyes droop<br />As they fly out to their lands<br />Awash in belief</div>
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I will close the door<br />And silently bid them goodbye</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-14361065366748214232017-09-05T10:23:00.001-07:002017-09-05T10:23:17.661-07:00An Ode to Lake Bellandur<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The lake that catches fire. The lake that spews foam. And now, the lake that inspires poetry.</div>
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The Bellandur lake in Bengaluru is in the news for all the wrong reasons. Here's an ode to it.</div>
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<span class="_5afx" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/bellandur?source=feed_text&story_id=10156679713384546" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #4267b2; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Bellandur</span></a></span> <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/blr?source=feed_text&story_id=10156679713384546" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #4267b2; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">BLR</span></span></a> <span class="_5afx" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/poetry?source=feed_text&story_id=10156679713384546" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #4267b2; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">poetry</span></a></span><br />
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An Ode to Lake Bellandur</h1>
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And the white clouds floated on land<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Past the clutches of those pesky weeds<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Trampling the iron mesh of tyranny<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Snowy glory on a tar-filled road</div>
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Lake Bellandur flowed onto the roads<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Spreading liberally, its blessings in foam<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Like a Dali painting unshackled from a frame<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />White Christmas on a sizzling morning</div>
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What do they know of you, of Bellandur?<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Calling you a lake of filth<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />A symbol of greed and decay<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />The death knell for a verdant city</div>
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Why do they only see that fire on your surface<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />As waylaid chemicals in a giant bog?<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />The stinging smoke as poison to the lungs<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />The clingy weeds as shackles on growth?</div>
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Ignore the accusers, avoid the guilt<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Your sprawl matches that of the city<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Your failures nothing but its inaction<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />You are but a mirror and nothing more</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-55346455770582225032017-08-05T19:33:00.000-07:002017-08-05T19:33:15.360-07:00The Birthday Party Juggernaut<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Birthday parties. If you are a parent in this generation, you are either going to one or preparing to host one. Such is their frequency.</div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">Read my latest publication in</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;"> </span><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/?fref=mentions" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; text-align: left; text-decoration-line: none;">Spark</a><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">magazine about how birthday parties are not the memorable occasions they used to be.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #404040; font-family: Josefin Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-birthday-party-juggernaut/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-birthday-party-juggernaut/</a></span></span></div>
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The Birthday Party Juggernaut</h1>
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I am a child of the 80s who grew up in the middle of middle class India. This naturally meant that the things that today’s generation of kids take for granted was an exercise in extravagance at that time. A birthday was an occasion where you would mandatorily visit your local deity and garner some blessings (and perhaps a gift or loose cash) from your elders. The only party we knew was a political entity who came around the time of elections every five years to garner some votes.</div>
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I remember my sixth birthday celebration vividly. In Kodak Eastman color. I say so because the celebration was the only one I had in the first decade during which I also got the chance to take some lovely pictures with my parents, friends and family. It was truly a momentous occasion, a rare one.</div>
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Three decades later, while the earth has been quietly spinning around the sun, life has come a full circle for me. I am a parent of two Gen-Z boys. Parenting does not come with a manual, but does come equipped with a to-do list. One of those activities is chaperoning the children to birthday parties.</div>
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The math itself is intimidating. Both my children have twenty kids each in their class. Even if ten kids from each class invited them for a birthday, that takes away twenty weekends of the year. Add to that friends from the building and you realise soon enough that you can’t buy gifts at a pace that matches that of the party requests.</div>
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In full disclosure, everything that I state below will be applicable to me as well since I too host two of these birthday parties every year.</div>
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It doesn’t matter when the birthday actually occurs. The celebration is almost always pushed to the weekend. Months before the birthday comes about, parents have to pick the place of the jamboree. Should it be a new gaming zone or a new restaurant? Do it at home or in an indoor sports place? It can’t be too far, it can’t be a repeat of another birthday party, it has to be something your child likes, it has to be something the other children like too. Once you navigate the labyrinth of choices, the booking is made. Just as you heave a sigh of relief, you realise that only half the battle is won. The food has to be organized, the return gifts have to be bought and in today’s hyper-connected world, a WhatsApp group of all the parents who are bringing their tots to the party has to be created.</div>
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Note that it isn’t that simple though. There are people who aren’t able to confirm until much later and that dreaded head count that you need to provide to the place hosting the party isn’t ready until much later.</div>
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The day of the party nears. You have done your due diligence. A Ninjago cake has been ordered (because Mickey Mouse is so yesterday) and is set to be delivered at the right time for the party. The caterers have been told the menu and you hope and pray that their output matches the recommendation that led you to them. Everything is set. The birthday child, the siblings and the parents.</div>
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You arrive early at the venue to receive everyone. No one arrives on time. You wait, and still no one arrives. The birthday boy is getting fidgety. Hungry. And then they come. The swarm of parents and the attendees of the birthday party.</div>
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A birthday gift is recklessly shoved into your hands by the child as you are greeting the parents. The child attending the party has most likely got no idea what he or she is gifting. It doesn’t seem relevant to them.</div>
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“Come, let’s play” is the call, and off they go into the rumbly-tumbly world of bouncy balls and places.</div>
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An hour later, the famished masses are dragged away from the play area by their parents and the children are gathered for the most-awaited cake-cutting ceremony. The cake naturally tends to be the center of attraction and it requires an exceptionally focused adult guarding it to ensure that the cake is not squished before it is cut. The Happy Birthday song is sung with gusto, the cake is cut, pictures are taken and the children are distributed on the chairs in anticipation of the food. Most rookie parents make the mistake of giving hungry children the cake before the food. Sugar on an empty stomach for the little brats simply spurs them to more devilish deeds. Food is brought out but not all children eat the lavish spread well. The hosts generally always order more than what is needed because who wants to host a party with insufficient food? Birthday parties are a great example of how good food is wasted inconsiderately.</div>
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Eventually, when it is time to say goodbye, the return gifts are brought out. Kids are so used to getting one that I have had many a kid walk up to me at the start of the party itself and ask me what the return gift is going to be. The goodie bag with the little trinkets is one that all parents hate and yet they impose it on other parents.</div>
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The party ends and parents of the birthday child pack their cars with all the gifts and head home. The children open their gifts and enjoy them, but not with the same sense of awe and gratitude that we did. Often, when we celebrate my boys’ birthdays, we ask the guests to not get gifts but instead donate that to charity because the act can go a long way in instituting a higher sense of compassion in children.</div>
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The dauphins of France might not be as spoilt for choice as today’s children are. Which naturally means that they will be more dissatisfied than the brats of French royalty ever were. The ease with which they get everything also breeds a sense of entitlement.</div>
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Birthday parties have become an obligatory celebration for the parents because of peer pressure and an entitlement for the children because they know no better. Perhaps it isn’t too late for parents to stem the tide. To realise that hosting fewer but more meaningful parties is a better choice. That the yearly journey of the earth around the sun for your child can be special without streamers and a gathering and return gifts. The choice is ours.</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-30165418972679995242017-07-06T09:08:00.003-07:002017-07-06T09:08:58.046-07:00It is Alright<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;">Read my latest publication in </span><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/?fref=mentions" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; text-decoration-line: none;">Spark</a><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;">. Their topic for the month was 'Night'. I have written a poem about the succor it brings, for those who dread it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/it-is-alright/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/it-is-alright/</a></span></span></div>
<h2 style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; padding-top: 20px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It is Alright </span></span></h2>
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It is alright for your night to arrive<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />You have been embracing this world<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Since the sun’s first surreptitious rays<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Losing charge as the hours go by<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Like the million devices you command</div>
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It is alright for your night to begin<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Its cloak trailing in the gentle breeze<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Gently concealing the world around you<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />The gains the city made<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />The losses its inhabitants suffered</div>
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It is alright for your night to pass<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />For what is night but an egress to many worlds<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Where your rainbow tinted dreams<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Meet your uninhibited thoughts<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Under the canopy of closed eyelids</div>
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It is alright for your night to end<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />The first moments when your eyes open<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Are your bulwark against reality<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />When you are neither awake nor asleep<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />And life doesn’t feel insurmountable</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-37808089438566300172017-06-05T20:39:00.002-07:002017-06-05T20:39:31.326-07:00The Story of Our Lives<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Read my review of the docu-drama based on the cricketing journey of <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=344128252278047&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/SachinTendulkar/?fref=mentions" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Sachin Tendulkar</a> published in this month's <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/?fref=mentions" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Spark</a> magazine.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Or as I called it when I saw the movie - a pilgrimage</div>
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<a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-story-of-our-lives/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/the-story-of-our-lives/</a></div>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
The Story of Our Lives</h2>
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Sachin Tendulkar tickles the ball to the fine leg boundary. He completes a century and India completes a famous win in Chennai. It is not just a victory. It is a balm to the nation after the horrific attacks in Mumbai. It is December 2008.</div>
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I turn to my son and whisper in his ear over the din of the movie, “Do you know what’s so special about this match?”</div>
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My eight-year-old shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly.</div>
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“You were born that day.”</div>
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His eyes light up. I have just given him context.</div>
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It is a fleeting moment in a movie filled with many such moments. The movie is ‘Sachin: A Billion Dreams’ and it is a documentary drama based on the life of the legendary Indian cricketer Sachin Tendulkar.</div>
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I took my sons (8 and 5) to this movie so that they could learn about their father’s favorite cricketer. That was the purported reason and yet, it turned out to be a movie where they learnt a little bit about their father. They saw me animated, engaged, emotional. That is what context does. That is why the children of the 80s and the 90s have warmed up to this film.</div>
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This is not a story about Sachin. It is a story of our lives.</div>
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For many like me who have followed his career since we first heard of him as a precocious cricketer in 1989, our lives have been dotted with one Sachin innings after another. They ceased to be just runs made in a cause. They were milestones in our lives.</div>
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The movie lays them in our path within a span of two hours.</div>
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A young Sachin, born into the middle class household of a sensitive poet, a hardworking mother and loving siblings puts aside his love for mischief and discovers an undying passion for cricket when his brother takes him to the famed coach Mr. Ramakant Achrekar.</div>
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The movie traces these moments in Sachin’s life through the wonderful enthusiasm of the child actor portraying him. The movie takes you in through the journey of the little boy who combined his precocious talent with a formidable work ethic and a strong support system to make it to the Indian cricket team to tour Pakistan at the age of 16. The message that talent alone is not enough without the will and hard work to see it to its logical end is there for everyone to grasp.</div>
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Tendulkar narrates most of the movie himself, with his family members, his teammates and opponents all pitching in.</div>
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As the years roll by, his pursuit of the World Cup gives the movie its rhythm. Through this turmoil, the rise of Tendulkar paralleling the rise of India in the 90s is shown. His great innings start rolling on the scenes and I could hear knowledgeable people in the theater nod their head when he carts Caddick for a six or smashes Kasprowicz in Sharjah. Don Bradman makes an appearance when he talks about how Sachin reminds him of his younger self and Akram chimes in to say that their strategy to win against India was centered around getting Sachin out.</div>
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Sachin lays clear his self-doubt when playing his first test match, his frustrations at being dumped as a captain, his thoughts on the the match fixing saga that enveloped cricket, the pain of the many injuries he suffers. But those looking for spicy tidbits or controversy will be largely disappointed. To that end, the movie panders to the non-critical fan, not the neutral observer who might be expecting to hear about the Ferrari controversy or the famous 194 declaration incident.</div>
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We get a glimpse into the partnership that makes him tick – that with his wife Anjali. We get to see him as the goofball father who regrets not getting enough time with his children but makes every moment count when he is with them.</div>
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I sat through the movie absorbing this life story even though I knew everything there was to know about it. I could recognize every statistic that was mentioned. I had reveled in all the victories that were shown and I had felt heartbroken at every defeat that we had suffered with the little man at the center of it all.</div>
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And yet I stayed glued. A.R. Rahman’s pulsating background score with chants of ‘Sachin, Sachin’ remind the viewer of what stadiums felt like when Tendulkar was in the middle. James Erskine does a good job as a director and his most important feat was getting Tendulkar as a narrator to very simply and effectively tell his own story. Special mention must be made about the editing of the movie for it could not have easy to walk through hours and hours of footage and pick the right gems that people could relate to.</div>
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The movie rides on nostalgia. It rides on emotion. And that is appropriate. For calling Tendulkar a mere batsman, however good he may have been, does disservice to what he meant to people. There is a poignant moment at the end where Ramesh Tendulkar says with pride, “The thing that gives me most satisfaction is that people think of Sachin as their own. As part of their family.” That sums up the reaction to this film. That sums up my emotions as I sat through this.</div>
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Even die-hard Tendulkar fans accept that post retirement, his aura has dimmed as he tries to find a footing in the world outside cricket with constant product promotions and social media pandering. This movie can either be viewed cynically as another rung down the ladder for him or a sincere attempt to share his inspiring journey with the world. I chose the latter.</div>
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I have never cried in a movie theater before but found myself welling up quite often. My sons will grow up in the age of Kohli and in the razzmatazz of the IPL. And yet they’ll have known now that Sachin is special. Because the movie said so. Because their father was teary eyed.</div>
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Sachin wistfully says in the movie, “Cricket is like oxygen to me.” Surely he must know that for the India that witnessed his growth and continues to shower love on him despite him struggling to find a way to stay relevant post retirement, he has been like oxygen.</div>
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At the end of this very subjective review, I can only ask you to watch this movie in a theater. You’ll not be disappointed.</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-88088228817464056852017-04-09T05:21:00.000-07:002017-04-09T09:50:42.436-07:00Kishori Amonkar: A Tribute<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">We recently lost the great classical vocalist, Kishori Amonkar. A lot of more knowlegable people have written about her singular greatness as a singer, as a true genius, of her dedication to her craft. I'll talk about my personal connection with her.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">This is a small anecdote from
the early 90s. Her son used to live next door to me in Andheri, Mumbai. She
used to often come and stay with him on weekends. She would get up early on weekend mornings and do riyaaz. At that
stage, I had no idea who she was, but her singing was so stupendous, so special
that even to my untrained ear, I knew something special was afoot.</span></div>
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I have put together a sampling of some of her work that I have enjoyed. Hope you enjoy it too.<br />
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1. 'Sahela Re' - One of her most famous renditions in Raag Bhoop</div>
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<a class="x_OWAAutoLink" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipauyMfVYso" id="LPlnk734336" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipauyMfVYso</a></div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipauyMfVYso" id="LPImageAnchor_14914760099950.07961576961034966" style="display: table-cell; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"></a><br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipauyMfVYso" id="LPImageAnchor_14914760099950.07961576961034966" style="display: table-cell; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><img height="187" id="LPThumbnailImageID_14914760099950.004805979815083905" src="https://www.bing.com/th?id=OVP.9lD7Z19e52ZLVa7GdnqH2wHgFo&pid=Api" style="border-width: 0px; display: inline-block; height: 187px; max-height: 250px; max-width: 250px; vertical-align: bottom; width: 250px;" width="250" /></a></div>
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipauyMfVYso" id="LPImageAnchor_14914760099950.07961576961034966" style="display: table-cell; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipauyMfVYso" id="LPUrlAnchor_14914760099970.5238412624541493" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Sahela Re Kishori Amonkar</a></div>
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www.youtube.com</div>
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Mesmerizing song by Indian Classical Singer Kishori Amonkar</div>
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2. A beautiful song in the raag Sindhu-Bhairavi (many have heard a famous version by K.L. Saigal)</div>
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<a class="x_OWAAutoLink" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WdH5u0cWEg" id="LPlnk504669" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WdH5u0cWEg</a></div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WdH5u0cWEg" id="LPImageAnchor_14914756523330.5490746589146205" style="display: table-cell; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"></a><br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WdH5u0cWEg" id="LPImageAnchor_14914756523330.5490746589146205" style="display: table-cell; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><img height="250" id="LPThumbnailImageID_14914756523340.7494018112499812" src="https://www.bing.com/th?id=OVP.BjNjcwRFchyKeyo2eZ1wWgEsEs&pid=Api" style="border-width: 0px; display: inline-block; height: 250px; max-height: 250px; max-width: 250px; vertical-align: bottom; width: 250px;" width="250" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WdH5u0cWEg" id="LPUrlAnchor_14914756523380.3939201472883469" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Hariprasad Chaurasia-Kishori Amonkar Jugalbandi</a></div>
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Eternal Jugalbandi. Raga Sindhi Bhairavi--Thumri in Kaharva Taal. By Hariprasad Chaurasia (flute ),, Kishori Amonkar ( Vocal )....</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "calibri" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">3. A beautiful rendition in the raag Yaman</span><br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CpEFP0Ws8Y8" id="LPUrlAnchor_14914756955850.037722116633083225" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Raag Yaman by Kishori Amonkar</a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "calibri" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">4. A tarana in Raag Hamsadhwani</span><br />
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5. Raag Miyan Ki Malhar. You can almost 'feel' the rains around you.</div>
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6. Raag Malkauns </div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7JF9EBTpni4" id="LPUrlAnchor_14914765506060.10115664020920812" style="text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Smt. Kishori Amonkar - Sampoorna Malkauns</a></div>
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Smt. Kishori Amonkar - Sampoorna Malkauns from the album 'Maestro's Choice'</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-31655983372744725212017-04-05T10:08:00.003-07:002017-04-05T10:08:36.548-07:00An Ode to the Gulab Jamun<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I am not a foodie at heart, but when I had to write for this month's </span><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/" style="background-color: white; color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration-line: none;">Spark</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> magazine issue themed 'Food', one dish that truly touches my heart came to mind. The sweet, delicious, sinful Gulab Jamun. Read my ode to it.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/an-ode-to-the-gulab-jamun/">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/an-ode-to-the-gulab-jamun/</a></span></span><br />
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An Ode to the Gulab Jamun</h1>
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There you are, just a foot away from my restraint<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />You, floating like heaven suspended<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Imperfectly spherical, like a hand-crafted ball of snow<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Light as the feathers of an Indian bustard<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Smooth like the marble of the Taj<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Levitating, like a yogi in bliss</div>
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Caressed, cajoled, nourished,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />by the sweet comfort of sugar syrup<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Indeed, there you are, an orb ordained<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Shades of red in a sea of brown<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Like the glorious sun, overcooked</div>
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You are but a sweet, they say<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />A dessert just like any other<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />A messenger of decay, a sweet harbinger of death</div>
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To them I say, that is not true<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />For you are not a mere gulab jamun<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />You are the memory of my mother’s love,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />A treat of joy for my limited glory,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />A taste of the homes I have been in,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />The shortest path to my heart,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />An adjective I use to describe my children.</div>
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When all else fails and the day is<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />But another one in a quotidian life<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />You are my guiltless pleasure<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />My one act of bravery<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />That one thing I steal<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />From the confines of the refrigerator<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />When the night has gone to sleep</div>
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There you are, my sweet taste of heaven,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />waiting to be consumed,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />Completely missing the irony;<br style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1em;" />You have already consumed me!</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-27328325559089023632017-03-07T19:58:00.003-08:002017-03-07T19:58:32.111-08:00Talisman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Amitabh Bachchan. Haji Ali. A perfume maker and his son. A talisman. They all come together in a story of hope, prayer and unexpected miracles.</div>
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Read my latest short story in Spark</div>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1488945158453_5481" style="-webkit-padding-start: 0px; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span id="yiv4741567318yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1488945158453_3620" style="-webkit-padding-start: 0px; font-size: 14px;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/talisman/" id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1488945158453_5480" rel="nofollow" style="-webkit-padding-start: 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #196ad4; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;" target="_blank">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/talisman/</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-padding-start: 0px; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Talisman</span></h2>
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<span style="-webkit-padding-start: 0px; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-family: "Josefin Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; padding-top: 20px; text-align: justify;">
The red thread was an innocuous-looking object.</div>
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“The object doesn’t matter”, his grandmother said. “It is just a vehicle to carry your prayer”</div>
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“No, no, it does. Why do you think I went all the way to Ahmedabad to get the right one?” argued his father Salim, who believed that the quality of that vessel was critical to the transference of the appeal.</div>
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“Look at Rafiq”, he said, “Didn’t you see his new Maruti? How do you think that came about?”</div>
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In the corner, Iqbal sat on his haunches, his back gently touching the wall which was adorned with framed pictures of his family. There was one enlarged close up of his late grandfather looking soullessly into the camera. There was one of his parents, stern, yet resplendent on the day of their wedding. And then there was him riding a bike with Taj Mahal in the backdrop. This was taken when he was three and they had gone to the fair and a photo booth using India’s most famous mausoleum proved too much of a temptation to resist.</div>
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“But isn’t there another way? Why send the boy all the way to Bombay by himself?” His mother Sultana’s voice, dripping with concern, floated into the conversation.</div>
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“<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Arre</em>, the boy is 22 years old. Don’t you think he can go there by himself?” Salim said, irritated by Sultana’s petition.</div>
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The 22-year-old had resigned himself to the fact that he had no say in this matter. How did it come to this, he asked himself? Everyone wanted a solution out of this mess and everyone had their solutions for it.</div>
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You see, Iqbal was in the possession of a completely ordinary fate. He was failing again and again to clear his B. Com. By making himself the first person in that family to have made it to a college, he had set up some rather false expectations from his family. There were visions of great successes that everyone from Salim to Sultana to his girlfriend Meher had claimed. Yet, Iqbal did not seem to be blessed with any penchant for education or enterprise.</div>
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Iqbal’s father had a shop handed to him by his father who in turn had received the key from his father and so on. They were dispensers of <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Ittar</i>, the perfumes that were bottled up in the smallest of flasks. It was a business that spanned generations but in the age of deodorants and bottled perfumes from various companies, this was a dying art. Their fortunes had shrunk, mirrored by the smallness of the bottles in which they poured their art. There had to be another way forward and Iqbal was going to lead the charge into a new future for the family.</div>
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****</div>
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Salim, was an optimistic man. He was once pragmatic too. But dire times call for dire solutions. Having hedged his bets that Iqbal would change their fortunes, he was now shackled by his son’s lack of progress. Salim resorted to the one thing he would have labelled as superstition in his heydays when he had youth and money at his disposal and a reputation as a wild stallion in his circle of friends. His remedy was a prayer.</div>
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And not being of the religious dispensation, he sought to seek inspiration in the only higher power he believed in. Amitabh Bachchan. You see, Salim had little faith in the conventional Gods. He had instead decided to place his loyalties at the feet of the superstar. Lost in the wilderness of faithlessness, Salim had turned to the one true hero in his life. He never missed a release of his, and so inspired was he by the actor’s turn in the movie <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Coolie</em>, he even named his son Iqbal after Amitabh’s name in the movie. In fact, <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Coolie</em> had more than a fleeting influence on him. When Amitabh was injured during the shoot of the movie, Salim had, in a state of extreme delirium and desperation, gone to Bombay to stand outside the hospital where he was admitted. To make things right, he went up to the Haji Ali <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">dargah</em> and tied a thread in hope of a speedy recovery for AB.</div>
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That tide passed and as he grew older and got married and suffered the consequences of running a household, Salim never revisited that state of mind again. Until now. His favourite actor might not have been dying, but his family’s future was. So, Iqbal was sent to Mumbai, red thread in hand to the Haji Ali <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">dargah</em>.</div>
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****</div>
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Iqbal did not believe in his father’s fantasy. What possible powers could that little thread, which was ready to unspool into its constituent parts, hold? And yet, the lure of visiting Mumbai on his own was too much to resist. So, off Iqbal went, by bus to the station, by train to Mumbai, and by his own two feet onto the railway station where thousands milled around him minding their business. Once he got out of the station, he caught a taxi and went straight to the home of his maternal uncle in the suburb of Borivali where he enjoyed food and rest. Without any consideration for his exhaustion, he disinterestedly set off straight to Haji Ali in a local transport bus.</div>
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He had visited Mumbai twice in his life but this independence was a revelation to him. He kept admiring the chaos, star struck, until the bus came to a grinding halt. A film shooting was being set up. Iqbal got off the bus on a whim. Surely, Haji Ali could wait. The pull of curiosity was too much to resist.</div>
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“Who is the actor?” someone asked.</div>
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“Not sure, <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">bhai.</em>”</div>
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“Bachchan <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">sahib!</em>”</div>
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“Really??”</div>
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“<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Pakka</em>. I heard someone else say that!”</div>
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The rumour spread like wildfire and sure enough, the crowd grew exponentially in the next fifteen minutes. Iqbal found himself being absorbed in it, blown like a feather in the wind.</div>
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A Mercedes Benz appeared from the corner of the street.</div>
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“Bachchan,” whispered the whispers, loud enough to be a collective voice.</div>
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The crowd started pushing and shoving, trying to get a glimpse of the star.</div>
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Iqbal leaned forward too. The masses were being held back by a few security men and a frivolous rope. They should have known better. As the car hurried through the road, Iqbal felt the hand of fate on his back propelling him forward. He fell. He stumbled. He rolled on the road. The car came and hit him.</div>
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Bleeding from cuts to his forehead and scrapes on his arm, he looked up with a flash of anger, and had he paid attention to <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Coolie</em> with any amount of diligence, he would have known that the passion of his namesake in that movie was evident in his face.</div>
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The car stopped, a towering man looked from the back seat, and in a baritone asked his driver to take Iqbal in. The next few moments were surreal for Iqbal as the man his father idolized took him into his trailer, had him patched up, spoke a few kind words of inquiry and got him a seat to watch the shooting.</div>
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The hours rolled on and the mission to go to Haji Ali faded in the distance. The shooting packed up.</div>
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“Take care of yourself,” said that baritone again and started to walk towards his car.</div>
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Iqbal had a vague recollection of having nodded and then the car became a blip in the distance.</div>
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He took out the red thread from his pocket and took a good look at it. That little object had borne the weight of his father’s hopes and had decided to reward him in the most unusual of manners. Iqbal’s destiny would not be fixed for the prayer had been answered with an unexpected blessing. A smile the size of a half-moon crossed his face and he hailed a taxicab.</div>
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“<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Kahan?</em>” asked the taxi cab driver.</div>
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Still grinning, Iqbal replied, “Haji Ali!”</div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7861627.post-79391679624604158442017-02-05T22:07:00.000-08:002017-02-05T23:59:59.714-08:00Good News<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"Good news". A term of endearment and celebration sends Vibha down a path she has been trying to avoid.</div>
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Read my latest publication in <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=240605447679" href="https://www.facebook.com/sparkthemagazine/" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;">Spark</a> magazine to know how a couple deals with a difficult situation in their own way.</div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica neue, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=10562">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=10562</a> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Good News</span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">The lamp at the end of the street flickered as if it was about to be snubbed out. Vibha walked briskly towards the house that was standing as a sanctuary right behind the lamp. She was walking quicker than usual, the thoughts in her head prompting her to take her strides at a faster clip. Her job wasn’t much to write home about and it was her well-cultivated habit to leave out any thoughts of work once she took the train back home. She was however finding it difficult to do that today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“Good news”. The phrase was ringing in her head with a volume larger than the combined sound produced by the bells of the local Shiva temple she visited every Thursday because she had been asked to do so by her mother-in-law’s sister. Vibha was in a foul mood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">It all started with a team meeting at her office in the morning. Her boss had walked up to the front of the room, addressing his troops as he did each Monday. After the initial hurrahs and reprimands, the weekly summaries and salient points, he decided it was time to celebrate some individual triumph and turned his attention to Vibha, who was halfway into a yawn she could no longer contain. He gestured and said, “Vibha has some good news to share with us.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">There was a moment of audible silence and then a deafening roar broke out. Vibha, whose yawn was in its waning phase, was caught unawares like a cartoon character who had been flattened on the middle of a road by a fast-moving truck. A poor choice of words by her boss had obliterated what could have been a moment to celebrate on her successful delivery of a project.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“Good news”. In an office where the boundaries of humour were always stretched thin, this was a red carpet laid out with an invitation to come and join the party. Vibha had no children. That little fact was wrapped up in the guise of a guffaw and presented to her by people who she wouldn’t normally term as malevolent. Through the entire day, they ribbed her and she had taken it on the chin the best she could, but now that she was on her way home, a storm was simmering in her chest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">She walked in the door, turning an errant key with great force, flinging the door open like a hurricane, disrupting the peace. Kavish came running out of the bedroom. Manchester United was biting the dust for the fifth match this season but his devotion to the team had him glued to his television. He was so startled by the noise, he assumed a burglar had broken in. A burglar was something he could handle. Vibha in the mood she was in was a much tougher proposition.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">He circled around her cautiously and wordlessly, waiting for her to settle. Vibha washed her hands and came and sat on the table.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Nervously, he asked, “How was your day at work?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">There was no answer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">A query for “Dinner?” was followed by silence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">The lack of clarity meant that he had to take the safer option. He brought the dinner out. He breathed a sigh of relief when Vibha started eating. The silence was punctured by the scraping sounds of spoons and forks on the plates.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Twenty minutes later, they were both in the bedroom, leaning against their pillows, laptops propped in their laps like mollycoddled children. That analogy occurred to Vibha and instantly she regretted it. She shut her laptop down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">It had been seven years since their marriage and every cosy nook of her house reminded her of the lack of a child who could have made it his or her own. It wasn’t for want of desire or trying. However, by now, her fatalism had convinced her that some things were simply not meant to be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">She wondered whether she should tell Kavish about what had happened today, but seeing him staring at his code on his laptop with the intensity of Arjuna trying to hit the eye of the bird made her change her mind. It wasn’t going to do either of them much good anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">She reached to the drawer in the night stand by her side and pulled out the novel she was reading. Books were her refuge but on days of dull despair, nothing brought her out of the troughs of depression than stories of a dystopian future where robots or zombies or aliens had taken over a post-apocalyptic world in the throes of a nuclear winter. The despair of the stranded humans gave her an odd sense of sadistic pleasure. She wanted them to lose, for the race to be eradicated, for them to suffer the ignominy of childlessness and then vaporise away without a trace.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Vibha read fifteen pages of the book and decided that the day was beyond salvaging. She shut down the book, closed the lights and tried to go to sleep. Kavish got up from the bed and left. She noticed his absence. A series of lights leading up to the kitchen went up in the house. Attributing it to his sweet tooth and a propensity for a midnight snack, she closed her eyes and continued her attempts (in vain) to fall asleep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“Vibha?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“What is it Kavish?”, she asked squinting her eyes against the light projecting from above his shoulder from the kitchen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“I got us a cake.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">She realised in that moment that it was past midnight and that the clock had turned over to signal the start of 4<span style="bottom: 1ex; box-sizing: border-box; height: 0px; line-height: 0; position: relative; top: -0.5em; vertical-align: baseline;">th</span> of January. That epiphany punched her in the gut, knocking the wind out of her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Kavish added with a dreamy smile, “She would have been four today.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">A tear rolled down her cheek, encroaching on the little space between her heavy heart and her denial. She had tried to lock away the date she had lost her child, a premature baby lost to the wiles of illness. She had tried to consign that memory to the fires of a monotonous life, but Kavish brought it up each year like the blessing he believed it to be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">The irony of this did not escape Vibha. No one at office knew about her past tragedy and they brought up this topic. Kavish knowingly drudged it out for her to endure. Vibha could not fathom why he thought it was a matter of celebration, but had resigned to the fact that he saw a way forward in his healing by doing this. And oblivious to her disagreement, he expected her to heal the same way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“One day at a time,” he said to her, his optimism and hope only matched with her resigned acceptance of that. Through this veil of pain of the past, he saw some hope.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">His hope perplexed her. His hope strangled her. And yet, his hope bound them together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">She cut the cake with the butter knife he had brought along and fed him a piece. Kavish smiled. In between munching the piece, he repeated his question, “How was your day at work?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">“Oh, nothing special,” she said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">The smile that he expected to see was reluctant to come to her lips. The cake looked ready to crumble but had miraculously held on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">After a few eternities had passed, staring at the ceiling, she muttered, “I had some good news to share.”</span></div>
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Parthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10756964089084413413noreply@blogger.com0