tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57047038214062536862024-03-18T09:21:45.879+05:30Keep Sakes"Heave Ho! Thieves and Beggars, Never Shall we Die."
" It's not about living forever, Jackie. It's about living with yourself forever"JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.comBlogger310125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-30948138102871004592022-10-13T11:43:00.001+05:302022-10-13T11:43:13.706+05:30International Day of Failure<p> </p><p><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px;"><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Today is the international day of failure; (yes - a day dedicated to failure - google it, it’s a thing). As my daughter told me that it’s okay to fail at anything today; I wanted to tell her so many things. As a pre teen - she would find my words preachy, so I’m sharing it with you and hoping it will resonate ( though you might find it preachy too). They say don’t fear failure and failure are the stepping stones and all that; but how do you not fear failure? How do you not feel left behind? The first time I failed at something, I attempted suicide (not kidding you); since then - I’ve failed so many times that if I tried the same stunt again; I would probably need to be born as a cat 9 times over. How do you hear that you aren’t good enough? Get bad feedback and soldier on, get passed on for promotion and not treat it as failure? I don’t know. I’m searching for the answers myself - I feel like a failure every time my idea isn’t picked up, every time I get bad feedback, even every time when my presentation is criticised for even grammar, when I set a goal as small as waking up at a time and cannot achieve it; but I can tell you this - it’s failure that fuels me. I don’t like to fail. I don’t take kindly to failure. It isn’t fear; it is irritation and anger that I failed. I allow that to channel my story, I force myself to tell a silent prayer of gratitude that the failure stopped at this, and didn’t extend beyond; and then sit down to perform a post-mortem of everything leading to the failure. I call it a post mortem because I don’t want to ever fail again. I want that to be last ever “f’ing” failure. I don’t know if I learn from it - but I learn enough to know that the only person to blame for it is me - not enough effort, or not enough heart, or didn’t care enough. I force myself to think about this the next time I embark myself on the journey; and yes - embark - I do dust off my metaphorical trousers and wipe the blood from my elbows; force those tears back and stand up. Determined to not fail - to slap failure on its face.</span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">So that to me means the international day of failure - being able to slap failure in its face. All that about “growth” and “ experience” and “it is important to participate” is only for people who fail - I have failed and let me tell you - all these are empty when you fail. </span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Wake up everyday wanting to conquer the world. Only then will you conquer the world. Wake up wanting to win and trample failure underneath those giant footsteps of yours.</span></p>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-39477710544888156982014-09-24T12:21:00.001+05:302014-09-24T12:21:38.310+05:30Yargh<p dir="ltr">Some people should just shut up. They run the risk of being nuked by me if they open their mouth.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Fuck off you bastards. )/!@#$/^&**</p>
JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com87tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-91268412182387538382014-08-09T22:21:00.001+05:302014-08-09T22:21:49.898+05:30Horrorathon<p dir="ltr">Sinister<br>
(warnings, spoilers might be present ahead).</p>
<p dir="ltr">I have always been a sucker for horror movies. The men in my life havent ever been able to figure out this twist in my otherwise boring personality. Dad would try and ban them, and when I got old enough to protest and whine and win him over, I was banned to my room while watching horror movies. The hubby doesnt have a clue why I would want to sit through a horror movie. He prefers the usual song and dance routine.<br>
As a result, watching a horror movie on a 70 mm screen, for me, has always been a pipe dream. Except the one time when the colleages at work decided we all wanted to watch phoonk, but well, that was more of a comical attempt at horror if any - that doesnt count at all. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I make do with watching the crap they put up as horror on TV when no one is at home. I watch each movie with a foolish hope that "now I shall be scared", "now this shall live up to its genre" maybe the movies are bad, or maybe I have hardened over the years.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Exorcist, the Exorcism of Emily Rose, Omen and a few J-horror movies probably are among the few movies that can call themselves belonging to the genre.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Sinister uses found footage with a twist. Instead of jerky random shots seemingly edited from 36 hours worth of film to 90 hours, the footage here, is found by the protagonist. The protagonist (Ethan Hawke) who is looking for his lost 15 minutes of fame trying to write a book that will get him everything that a writer dreams of, movie rights, interviews and of course millions of dollars in royalties. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Combining elements of mystery and horror, it is restrained horror, each scene stepping up to a higher crescendo. <br>
I hate movies that call themselves horror by putting in a couple of screaming bimbos, and a few brawny retard hunks who get their skulls slpattered all over the walls. It isnt horror, it just a snuff film. This movie keeps the scare to the protagonist, the emotional ripples are felt by the family, each in a different manner, the relationship with the spouse, the escalating night terrors of the elder kid, and the silent horror of the younger kid; the main torch wielding and looking down dark corridors and getting scared is left to the dad, who fulfills his role of being scary to the Tee. I would have loved to see the "deputy so & so" angle a little well explored, but cant say I was too unhappy about him being just a minor cog in the wheel who puts the final puzzle into place, just seconds before it all goes to town.</p>
<p dir="ltr">A letdown would be a predictable plot - missing children after each family murder usually implies the child performing the gruesome act under some supernatural influence. Moving into a house where past murders have taken place, is standard horror movie plot frame; and I wonder if there is some sort of a dummy's guide to writing horror movies from which all script writers pick up their scripts. Other people trying to rationalise the fears of the protagonist, a screaming wife asking to get out the house; children wandering around at night - all predictable. </p>
<p dir="ltr">The challenge though, would be to take a predictable plot, and use an already used to death technique and keep the viewers at the edge of their seats, and Sinister, definitely manages to get there. The background score makes sense, and the brilliant cinematography that moves with the protagonist and helps the viewers understand his escalating sense of unease and then fear, helps elevate the plot. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Overall, a 3.5 out of 5 it is</p>
JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-15042080246480394712013-11-10T00:40:00.000+05:302013-11-10T00:40:36.486+05:30So much<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So much time wasted, so many emotions spent.<br />
<br />
So much in thinking about what the world feels, so much about how you look in the eyes of the world, so much about wanting the world to like you, so much about wanting to like the world.<br />
<br />
So much to erase the sense of inferiority, so much to stop the craving for companionship.<br />
<br />
So many walls built, so many "I dont cares" to mask the reality of caring too much, so many thorns hoping that <i>someone</i> shall find the rose within<br />
<br />
So many sleepless nights pondering, musing and worrying about the future, should you be a doctor, would the world rather have you be an engineer. Would the <i>family</i> respect a chartered accountant, or would you just rather please a husband and be a <i>good</i> housewife?<br />
<br />
So many questions on how to earn the respect, awe and wonder of the world, so much spent in trying to cover up all your tiny and huge faults.<br />
<br />
So much thought put into "spontaneity" so many rehearsed "witty" lines, funny and charming and worldwise, isnt that what <i> people</i> want?<br />
<br />
And a decade later. Still Trying.<br />
<br />
So Much.<br />
<br />
It is indeed sad to be you.</div>
JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-87372989333305869972012-10-12T15:55:00.003+05:302012-10-12T15:55:41.746+05:30grey. gray. grey.gray<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tm142ChYMAA&list=PL3C683EF944D4C99A&index=8&feature=plpp_video" target="_blank">this episode</a>. the girl. the mother, the nanny.<br />
<br />
this is me. this is my daughter. and I hate it.<br />
<br />
It should be me. me. and not some nanny who hasnt given birth to her.<br />
me who loves her, me, whose reflection she is. she has my eyes. why do they search for the nanny?<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-66214886445922500602012-10-05T12:04:00.000+05:302012-10-05T12:04:36.771+05:30enough?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
why is it, that you do everything you can, and more. tear yourself out, stretch thin, kill yourself and try and do everything.<br />
but,<br />
<br />
its never enough.<br />
<br />
it is NEVER FUCKIN ENOUGH!</div>
JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-90980178908431258372012-10-02T21:33:00.003+05:302012-10-02T21:33:38.079+05:30un-love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
She looked at her computer. For a moment, everything was just nothing. All those words, all that had happened, all that hurt. Nothing mattered.<br />
<br />
Rationality was, as if nonexistent. She had thrown everything out of the mental window. her eyes blurred with her unshed tears. as she touched that little red dot next to his name on the messenger, she realised all that she would ever have, was this. a little red dot that taunted her, for now, he belonged to someone else. Apparently, he loved her. He no longer loved her now. She did not exist in his universe. Apparently, now, he was just a red dot in her universe. </div>
JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-68815021869214896602012-09-30T18:51:00.004+05:302012-09-30T18:51:55.144+05:30musing.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It seems like all we do is spend time. Whatever happened to living?<br />
<br />
Are we sold a rosier picture of life just to ensure that we dont give up on it? Or is it something that we need to be doing, that we have forgotten now?<br />
<br />
This drab grey thing, this unmoving, unemotional and unexciting thing with us, cannot be life. Or Is It?</div>
JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-29058639138912782482012-09-01T23:39:00.003+05:302012-09-01T23:51:33.232+05:30randombored. word-blocked.<div><br /><div>someone from google california (well, atleast that's the place the statcounter points to) reads my blog every single effing day. all my past posts. meticulously!. Wow.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dude you deserve like a major cash prize or something (and I dont give out cash easy. ask the hubby:P) . do leave a comment, so I can identify my fanboy :P</div><div><br /></div><div>Exams near. book hasnt been opened since the courier guy delivered it to the doorstep. Notes taken down in the weekend long class have long been used by the daughter to satisfy her growing curiosity.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>ennui sets in. forces me to listen to random songs <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7tNBSBJ2vZk&feature=related">such as these.</a> Force colleague to listen to songs <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yNUHfRXjLbA">such as these</a>. Laugh at colleagues' disgust. thus has degraded my sense of humor owing to ennui.</div><div><br /></div><div>Vacation is much needed. keep planning various getaways with several people. as usual, none materialize.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sigh.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Big Bang Theory S5 looks damper than the older ones. no relief there either. I want to watch Akki's Joker. Hopefully, that should put some life into me. what say?</div><div><br /></div><div>In Other TV Soap news - </div><div><br /></div><div>A child-bride remarries.</div><div>A remarriage shatters. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you, (god forbid) understand what the above statements mean - you MUST tag along when I visit my shrink - you and I, both, my friend are in dire need of his services.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-36726406712708587222012-08-17T16:45:00.002+05:302012-08-17T16:47:44.855+05:30footprintsshe looked back. her footprints were washed away by the crashing waves. like almost she hadnt been there at all.<div><br /><div>That, there is life. she thought. no one will know for more than a fleeting moment, that you existed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Whats journey, and what is destination then?</div></div><div><br /></div><div>She kept walking along the beach, because - she had nothing else left to do. she lived life, because there was no alternative.</div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-85158800738896019422012-08-04T19:11:00.001+05:302012-08-04T19:19:21.682+05:30Dante<b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; text-align: -webkit-center; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><i><span style="font-size:+1;color:#333333;"><span style="font-size: 18px; ">Perhaps the greatest sorrow is to look back upon happiness from misery.</span></span></i></b> <div><b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; text-align: -webkit-center; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><i><span style="font-size:+1;color:#333333;"><span style="font-size: 18px; "><br /></span></span></i></b></div><div><br /></div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-29651302613603613162012-08-01T20:42:00.004+05:302012-08-01T21:02:17.839+05:30infatuated<span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">totally infatuated with the sound track of the Dark Knight Rises. In a loop. All day long. </span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Fitting trilogy. wasnt a fan of the mexican mask wearing over bulky bane of the comic books, but love love love the Bane in the movie. Wow Wow Wow!</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">The favorite in the trilogy though has to be the Joker. Fine </span>Villain<span style="font-size: 100%;"> him! Luurrvve him!</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Bane is good. but is nowhere near the Joker. The earlier Batman Jokers were exactly that - stupid jokers. Including that stupid movie with Jim Carrey as the joker. Duh-uh.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Miranda Tate was a giveaway. or maybe because I was such a dork that I had already read Knightfall when I was a kid. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; ">Also, maybe because I'm such a dork that I notice details such as when the "kid" escaped the inescapable pit-prison, she had no mask on.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; ">Anyhoo. Would have loved more batman onscreen. more of his bat-mobile, bat-flying-thingamajig and more hand to hand combat. I wanted less of Christian Bale and more of Batman. Duh. Nolan. Take note.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; ">anyhoo. gotta run. Gravy on one burner, roti on the other, and someone from office is pinging me about some random issue!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; ">cya!</span></div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-47628688272880290172012-07-25T19:54:00.002+05:302012-07-25T20:07:38.461+05:30forgive and forget?She was terrified about the thought that crossed her mind.<div><br /></div><div>What if she could never forget? what if she could never forgive? How long would she have to bear the cross of humiliation, and the burden of rage within her?</div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">How long would she have to act as if she had indeed moved on? That was more agonizing that actually admitting that the betrayal still hurt, that the wound was yet raw and the anger still simmered inside.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>She wondered how would it be to free of all these emotions for once, to invest herself completely in the life that she had now. To be free of the nagging voice in the head, that as long as she held on to the past, she was cheating the present and the future.</div><div><br /></div><div>She looked at herself in the mirror, and a tired woman, with dark shadows and bags under her eyes stared back. She looked at the eyes - they held no interest in them. They were just tired with the insomnia. Not a face someone would want to turn around and look at again. </div><div><br /></div><div>What would it be to have eyes that sparkled with interest again? What would it be to think of a tomorrow and hope and guess what it would have in store?</div><div><br /></div><div>What if she could never move on? What if the scar was seared into her soul; the betrayal was etched into her psyche so deep that all she could feel now, was rage disgust and a lingering of what once was love?</div><div><br /></div><div>She sunk into the bed terrified of this thought. And she hated herself for this. All over again.</div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-15893728162074505462012-07-06T22:23:00.002+05:302012-07-06T22:27:04.545+05:30you<div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">"It was you. only you"</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">It was the answer she expected to her question.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">She had loved the demons he harboured, she loved his faults. she had loved him despite the fact that he couldnt love her back. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">she knew him. intimately. physically. spiritually. emotionally. she knew his fears, she knew his little conquests, his quirks and his eccentricities. his pride, his ego and his vanity. she knew them all.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">and yet, the answer never came.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">It was time. To forget her past. to forget her dream.</span></div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-61218815194411544042012-06-16T22:06:00.002+05:302012-06-16T22:21:24.915+05:30what goes arounddoes come around.<div><br /></div><div>In other news; </div><div><br /></div><div>how ugly does Priyanka Chopra look in those yellow thingies jumping like a 5 year old Britney? Argh!</div><div><br /></div><div>Another random Dance With The Stars rip off has Madhuri dancing to those eternal hits. While one agrees she is a diva, no amount of botox can cover up age. Comon!</div><div><br /></div><div>Everyone is discussing Aishwarya's post pregnancy weight. What about poor everyday fat mothers? For one, I have a repartee every time people comment on my weight. Finally Aishwarya makes herself useful. Huh.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have an overdose of Anushka Sharma. Comon lady. Leave something to imagination about your acting skills. I'm getting saturated of watching your face.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pirates' new movie on June 24th. While yours truly has already seen it on the big screen, yet, cant wait for Johnny Depp to hit my big screen at home :D</div><div><br /></div><div>and the enfant terrible beckons!</div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-49038557934138035822012-05-11T09:44:00.004+05:302012-05-11T09:56:30.532+05:30double entredre<span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">she called it hormones. she said it was "the time" of the month, when she usually was depressed.</span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">The women around her, agreed. </span>After all<span style="font-size: 100%;">, hormones are a crazy bunch they leave you confused when they show themselves, and then they leave you confused when they decide to go hiding again- the chatter lulled to a silence. Each one thinking about her "hormones". </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Their "hormones" at home, existed. they could not wish them away. Physical or Emotional, the abuse at home was always given a metaphor. the unshed tears, and the unsaid silences spoke volumes. The implicit understanding of swollen eyes and the broken bangles needed no acknowledgement.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">While the men sat complaining about how they weren't treated well at home by the womenfolk, the women sat silent. The silence, the acknowledgement that no matter rich or poor, ugly or beautiful, barren or fertile, illiterate or Doctors, some stories never change; some silences can never be spoken out.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-838351317404958562012-05-09T18:21:00.004+05:302012-05-09T18:45:26.391+05:30Television Rants<span ><span style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; ">So, my definition of "craziness" involves watching hindi serials - ones that encourage gaudy makeup, hilarious dialogues and houses that look like they are renovated "</span><i style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">shaadi ke mantap</i><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">"</span></span></span><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >So, I took a break from all the Dexters and Morgans on Starworld and moved to watching <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Punar_Vivah">punar vivah</a> on Zee TV. While I shall watch endless re-runs of Scrubs and The Big Bang Theory and laugh at their piss poor jokes (JD dreams of a chocolate Turk, and Sheldon calls Sex coitus - ha ha. very funny. ha ha. yeah right!) there are only so many episodes of a Hindi serial I can tolerate. (BTW Im a closet chuck lorre vanity card admirer. I use the freeze button in my remote just so that I can read his sarcastic, and at times insightful vanity cards ... but I digress)</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >Punar Vivah it is...</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >There are just so many things wrong with what is being aired on TV - while being touted as a progressive sitcom</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >1. Remarriage is only an option because kids want both parents in their lives. </span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >2. Remarriage is okay for a widow, but not a divorcee, hence, if you are the in-laws of a divorcee DIL, keep it secret and get her married.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >3. Women should remarry, because they cant win all the games that the school conducts on its annual day. Women wear a dupatta that just makes it impossible to win; men on the other hand, with their trousers and moustaches, win random games in a breeze.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >4. Men should remarry because their children are late to school everyday. Any other reason to get married again would be blasphemy.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >Dos and Donts of remarriage</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >1. DO keep all the random cliqued snaps that you and your dead wife took just about everywhere, actually, that isnt enough - blow them up life size and put them up just as a political party would adorn its office with images of Gandhi and Nehru</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >2. DO keep all your dead wife's clothes etc, and keep looking at them once a day. You must remind yourself not to have sex with your new wife. What better way to do so, than to jerk off using your dead wife's clothes?</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">3. DO NOT hold any communication, either before or after marriage, but let your family (read parents) do the talking. Allow the new member of the family to be implicitly insulted - and you act like you </span>aren't<span style="font-size: 100%;"> even present.</span></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >4. If you are the female - DO NOT communicate with your husband, instead - make your son your "surrogate husband" and smother him with your love. </span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">5. DO get married at the first drop of tears that your son sheds. After all, you </span>don't<span style="font-size: 100%;"> have a </span>mustache<span style="font-size: 100%;">, you are but a woman who cannot win your son's affection.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;" ><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;" >6. If you are the MIL - worry that your DIL is going to "take away" your son from you, and implicitly insult her when possible.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;" ><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">7. Last but not the least and the most important of all - walk around like a </span>Christmas<span style="font-size: 100%;"> tree with heavily embroidered sarees and outlandish </span>jewelry; wear gaudy makeup to bed, and leave your hair fluttering in the air, even when you are cooking out-of-this-world dishes.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >Once you have all these down pat - you are ready to re-marry. (ensure that your spouse is dead though - you cannot practice polygamy or polyandry - it is still against the law)</span></div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-27477315478070144462012-04-11T11:09:00.003+05:302012-04-11T11:10:12.241+05:30Marriagey-Rant<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Long time, since anything has been written on this blog. So, we decided it is time for a rant. Yes. Yet again.<br />
<br />
Was reading through IHM's blog posts. <a href="http://indianhomemaker.wordpress.com/2011/03/23/marriages-are-sold-to-women-in-a-glossy-cover/">Came across this post of hers.</a><br />
She says marriages are "sold" in a "glossy cover" to women, and I could not but disagree. Vehemently disagree.<br />
<br />
Marriages arent "sold" to Indian women. Marriages are FORCED upon Indian women. Whether the woman is happy or not post marriage, whether she thinks her life took a turn for the better or not, is a completely different issue.<br />
<br />
The statement that if you are a woman, you MUST get married is what irks me the most.<br />
<br />
I don't really care for jewelry or sex. Both are over-rated. I have always hated kids, and now, after being a mother of one and having had 2 miscarriages, I still hate kids. I tolerate mine, for the only reason that she is my daughter. I hated my brother when he was a kid.<br />
<br />
I am not your perfect candidate for marriage. Yet, here I am, married for the last 3 years. There are times when I think of maybe 30-40 more years of marriage, and all I can do is sigh. It is going to be an effing nightmare.<br />
And, no. My husband isnt your typical MCP (though, he does get MCPish at times), he is a loving caring individual and a even more loving and caring father. Yet, I think of my alternate universe, where I am single, and am free to pursue the career I want, in the city I want to live in, can sleep on any side of the bed, and set the AC at whatever freezing temperature I want to, bathe as long as I want to, and not have to cook everyday. Not have to be a wife everyday, and sigh at the life I have in my present universe.<br />
<br />
My mom and grandmom gasp when I say this to them. "How long will an empty house hold allure?" they ask. Maybe it did not, for them. Maybe it does for me. Maybe it does for millions like me. Has anyone given a thought to that?<br />
<br />
Every stereotype, every activity that the female child gets involved in, every choice that is made for her, or she is asked to make, leads upto only ONE thing. Marriage.<br />
<br />
The girl must earn. Enough to attract suitors, but not as much as to narrow down the universe of suitors who would earn more than her.<br />
<br />
The job that the girl holds must have "reasonable" timings - she should be home in time to be able to make coffee for her husband when he comes back from work.<br />
<br />
The girl must learn to tolerate - afterall, she has to tolerate the biggest pain of all - labour - doesnt she?<br />
<br />
The girl must be educated - she has to teach her husbands SONs tomorrow, but she should keep her mouth shut - because "when elders (read husband and in-laws) say anything, she should know better than to speak"<br />
<br />
Damn her independence. Damn her likes and dislikes, Damn her tastes, Damn the way she wants to live in her house. She should learn to adjust. Afterall, isnt it for a "happy married life" that she is adjusting?<br />
<br />
IHM says marriage is Sold to women. That statement makes it seem like women have a choice whether to take it or leave it. I think women are sold to marriage. The only choice they have, is hobsons choice.<br />
<br /></div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-47497139958265090402012-03-14T16:54:00.003+05:302012-10-08T15:54:16.728+05:30Colors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
random words that hardly make sense are knocking around in my mind.<br />
<br />
"ek tumhaari jo nazar jo padi,<br />
mere ye udhaar ke rang bhi khil ute hain dekho"<br />
<br />
and some other random words. nothing makes sense.<br />
<br />
something like -<br />
<br />
beneath these pristine white robes of mine<br />
to protect which, I refuse to make merry with you<br />
refuse to color my hands & refuse to fall in love<br />
<br />
I still carry the stains of betrayal;<br />
of pain and hurt. colors that were once of love<br />
and are now tear stains of gangrenous sorrow<br />
<br />
Nothing makes sense. really.</div>
JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-69517780802153392932012-03-12T10:18:00.001+05:302012-03-12T10:18:50.466+05:30Let things be<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
sometimes it is best to let things be. Especially if they are memories that make you wear rose colored glasses when you look back at them.<br />
<br />
So, when someone from the past wants to catch up. you are excited.<br />
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</div>
After all, it is a slice of life that you have left behind, it will remind you of when you were younger, had more hair on the head, lesser hair on the face, when your 'skinny jeans' still fit you, and when you could hear whistles as you walked by a group of boys.<br />
Who wouldn't want to remind self of such a beautiful time?<br />
<br />
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</div>
And, then.<br />
<br />
While you get all readied up to meet and greet this person and your past. You realize. It is best to let things be.<br />
<br />
You dont want to see your Ex now bald or pot bellied, or having turned out completely different from how the younger you would imagine he would look like 10 years from hence.<br />
<br />
Or Worse. You wont want to know that your Ex turned out exactly how you imagined he would be 10 years from thence, and feel bad about yourself with your receding hairline and your love handles which could seat two, and your disillusioned eyes.<br />
<br />
you have what you want on an online photo gallery. you have what you want in the now-manipulated-and-distorted-with-nostalgia hallways of your memory palace.<br />
<br /></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uV8EUn3SHoY/T11--K7N1rI/AAAAAAAAB5U/92iFxwPbCC4/s1600/Desktop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uV8EUn3SHoY/T11--K7N1rI/AAAAAAAAB5U/92iFxwPbCC4/s320/Desktop.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-38096348099329429992012-02-06T20:53:00.001+05:302012-02-06T20:54:46.244+05:30teri ummeed pe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Love does not require reciprocation, she reasoned. For after all, no other emotion does need to be reciprocated - anger, jealousy or hatred. Why then does love demand the ultimate sacrifice of having to be able to be loved back?<br />
<br />
the questions in her bosom, though, did not listen to reason. they were deaf. they listened to none. they only were.<br />
<br />
She pondered over the rights and wrongs of her love. The world would call it wrong. <i>She </i> would have called it wrong, if anyone was telling her the story, in which she was now entangled.<br />
<br />
the quickening of the pulse at the memory, the tenderness & the affection she felt. All wrong. Immoral. Illicit.<br />
<br />
Who would though explain the right and wrong to her heart, in which love had taken seed and grown into a beautiful flowering gulmohar?<br />
<br />
It was there. indeed. love was. a glimmer, just a spark. but love was there.<br />
<br />
When she did what she did, people did go ahead and call her wrong. They did discuss her over dinner, whispered to each other about how wrong she was at the local supermarket aisles. They went to the temple and spoke about it in hushed tones while the priest prayed the deity.<br />
<br />
Men loathed her. Women had nothing to do with her. She was a disgrace to their gender. A few of them, though. secretly felt jealous of her, and their anger stemmed out of that jealousy.<br />
<br />
She did what she wanted to though. And what was once something struggling to exist, now bloomed into life. The smile on her lips, now touched her eyes. The joy that was once kicked out of her ribcage, returned to where it belonged.<br />
<br />
She walked out in the sunshine, and she no longer shaded her eyes to the sun. She looked at him, glare and all, and smiled.<br />
<br />
Love. needs reciprocation. to exist, love and grow. and she had reciprocated that love.<br />
<br /></div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com2Bangalore, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.594562712.724026199999999 77.2787057 13.2191712 77.910419699999991tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-42228823619939759292012-01-23T19:49:00.000+05:302012-01-23T19:49:15.111+05:30The impossible<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In an ideal world, my house would be filled to brim with artifacts I did not need or understand. It would be filled with random works of art, piles and more piles of bags, shoes and more useless stuff.<br />
<br />
In utopia, all channels would air interesting stuff everyday, and not harp on reruns or movies aired previously a thousand times already. Bloggers would write, and they would write interesting stuff, not mundane or abstract or poetry that would make Lord Byron turn in his grave.<br />
<br />
In my dream, I would thin yet shapely, sharp cheekboned, yet full-lipped, possessor of straight yet voluminous hair which never ever got entangled. I would pick designer clothes off the rack, and would search for the smallest possible size, instead of the extra large that I in reality hunt for.<br />
<br />
If possible, my life would be all that is the improbable, the impossible and the fantastic.<br />
<br />
If only.<br />
<br />
</div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com0Bengaluru, Karnataka, India12.9715987 77.594562712.724026199999999 77.2787057 13.2191712 77.910419699999991tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-25786692448266870682011-12-06T16:18:00.002+05:302011-12-06T16:27:41.207+05:30MemoriesPhir teri kahaani yaad aayi<div>Phir tera Fasaana yaad aaya.</div><div><br /></div><div>Phir aaj hamari aankhon ko</div><div>ek khwaab puraana yaad aaya.</div><div><br /></div><div>tune to kanara paa hi liya</div><div>uljhe hain toofano main hum</div><div><br /></div><div>Aye jaan-e-wafa aaj hume</div><div>pichla woh zamaana yaad aaya.</div>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-90771864980710183202011-11-03T21:41:00.002+05:302011-11-03T22:00:28.156+05:30Ananda Bhairavishe could'nt really put a finger on it.<br /><br />The sense of helplessness. hopelessness.<br /><br />The strains of the ananda bhairavi filtered up to where she was sitting.<br /><br />It was a lovely sight, from where she was. she could see the city sprawling underneath her, in the night, the beautifully lit vehicles zipping by, the lights shimmering on the vast lake making it feel like there was nothing wrong in the world. the world looked serene, it looked beautiful, it looked almost blissful. From where she was, the cacophony of the traffic sounded like a murmur of a lullaby.<br />the strains of the music, were more pronounced, maybe because she wanted it to be so. Her ears strained to hear the music. sitting on her window sill, she hummed along to the tune.<br /><br />It was a long time ago when she had learnt this raaga. she had loved this raaga as soon as she heard it. In all her years of music, this raaga was her personal signature, a perfect blend of happiness and sorrow - just like life.<br /><br />She hummed along, missing a beat here and there - for it was a lifetime ago that she had learnt this tune... somewhere along, the dam that was carefully constructed began to reveal its cracks.<br /><br />Jealousy? Anger? Repulsion? Revolt? Ennui? she knew not.<br /><br />She opened the window to allow the music to enter fully. the chilly evening air rushed in along.. bringing with it the harsher sounds of the traffic, the sweet scent of the gulmohar.<br /><br />The music was her love. This tune - her companion. her hair played with the wind, like an elegant swan in flight, her jump was almost perfect.<br /><br />There would be no more helplessness now. No hopelessness either. No anger or digust or repulsion or hate, or even love.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KZ8mMOF6PMI">Ananda Bhairavi</a>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5704703821406253686.post-29880913679718932912011-10-30T08:55:00.004+05:302011-10-30T15:51:47.448+05:30Ear worm of the daybadi wafa se nibhayi tune,<br />hamari thodi si bewafaayi<br /><br />kahin kisi roz yun bhi hota<br />hamari haalat tumhari hoti<br /><br />Jo raat humne guzaari marke<br />woh raat tumne guzari hoti<br /><br />hazar rahein mud ke dekhi<br />kahin se koi sada na aayi<br /><br />tumhe ye zid thi ke hum bulaate<br />hume ye ummeed ki woh pukarein<br /><br />hain naam abhi hoton pe lekin<br />awaaz main pad gayi daraarein<br /><br />badi wafa se nibhayi tumne<br />hamari thodi si bewafayi<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqbC-KZNfRg">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqbC-KZNfRg</a>JustSohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17514124371426633877noreply@blogger.com0