tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88285952920410258362024-03-06T02:54:44.314-08:00ProcrastinatorAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-61035835506907101172016-04-25T03:41:00.001-07:002016-04-25T04:56:19.659-07:00FAT<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A couple of years ago, I wrote a post on
what it’s like growing up dark-skinned in a nation obsessed with fairness—not justice,
cos let’s face it, that we are not, but milky white skin. I got a lot of
feedback on it, because many related to the real struggle that comes with it. </div>
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Here’s
the post for those who missed it:</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><a href="http://squirrelsteak.blogspot.ae/2013/06/complexion-dark-tale.html">http://squirrelsteak.blogspot.ae/2013/06/complexion-dark-tale.html</a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">There is one more thing, similar to this,
that gets talked and written about a lot, that I want to add my two cents to. Weight.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Since I was a teenager, I have battled with
weight problems. After being a really skinny kid, I suddenly gained a ton of
weight after being diagnosed with PCOD, one of the most common issues faced by
women today. I literally bloated overnight.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Since then, it has been a constant
struggle. Today, when I look at my college photos, I realise how thin I was!
But back then, I thought I was a cow. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKHDswfjW0q5ErQ3FkGXq16Py3CnPSo4OcjskxISr22PKioF9LwWety9etA70DvAEEHBzeIZ9vWSHa3nY3nAwBAz38g0qYU9RAKxGqa7Kzw76kyc2RM0thpy4pMkW_W8BK6j8s4Pil4TY/s1600/IMG-20160425-WA0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKHDswfjW0q5ErQ3FkGXq16Py3CnPSo4OcjskxISr22PKioF9LwWety9etA70DvAEEHBzeIZ9vWSHa3nY3nAwBAz38g0qYU9RAKxGqa7Kzw76kyc2RM0thpy4pMkW_W8BK6j8s4Pil4TY/s320/IMG-20160425-WA0002.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2010 (don't miss the stunning style statement)</td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Late in 2014, coincidentally, soon after my
wedding, I ballooned again, the PCOD back with a vengeance. I was bloated,
missing my periods and generally in a fair bit of pain. My clothes weren’t fitting
anymore and I felt disgusted every time I looked in the mirror.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjlUs7RiPWofuWvWNevb8FSj0fLesbtH5hyphenhyphenI0NiYDTxfZ0wXnyJpzrK2F9IvKD38JxBHD7YiBSCOAYFbS1d3PjWm5Yycr74Ia_7-ALhbCUpZhep63WgFIrP1GpwwNe_rzDJhNv7PYZY3w/s1600/Wedding+Boi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjlUs7RiPWofuWvWNevb8FSj0fLesbtH5hyphenhyphenI0NiYDTxfZ0wXnyJpzrK2F9IvKD38JxBHD7YiBSCOAYFbS1d3PjWm5Yycr74Ia_7-ALhbCUpZhep63WgFIrP1GpwwNe_rzDJhNv7PYZY3w/s320/Wedding+Boi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">August 2014</td></tr>
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But worse than that were people’s reactions
to this. Every other day, and I am *not* exaggerating, I would get text messages
solely to tell me I’ve put on weight. Like someone on WhatsApp would open the conversation
with, “You’ve gained weight’—not even ‘hi’. Or someone I would call to wish on
his/her birthday, and would be talking to after months, would be like ‘I saw
your pics, how did you put on so much weight?’ Or better yet, closer friends,
who didn’t care to sugar coat, would be like ‘You’re so fat.’ ‘Lose some
weight.’ ‘Why have you ballooned like this, Aunty?’</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKO8CEBj30Kveb79yjOjoBUrYYcHx55YD5PZshTEuPqrusObB2ausqIVJ3xryDB0fPIXNXW-ImPhRg0ZEZ8Eo8QNhY_oiKyO4lSypyIZ9O9kRTQQw2v7GeOZeMZ_RKMIa0E8nxqnkbPe0/s1600/Oct+2014+Boi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKO8CEBj30Kveb79yjOjoBUrYYcHx55YD5PZshTEuPqrusObB2ausqIVJ3xryDB0fPIXNXW-ImPhRg0ZEZ8Eo8QNhY_oiKyO4lSypyIZ9O9kRTQQw2v7GeOZeMZ_RKMIa0E8nxqnkbPe0/s320/Oct+2014+Boi.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">October 2014</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi9QPqfSgGf_r-F5_1u4fMJtX1twmfYNjDzIEY45dpU98xjQnR6fuOJxcp-1vYDsb_jDmKF56n5fSnEbbj7Fwz7d2lSvcTVK0bYd-91Xc8WSK3QAFAgOR4W8EogtlLnLvcN7SpGFjJOlo/s1600/March+2015+Boi+-+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi9QPqfSgGf_r-F5_1u4fMJtX1twmfYNjDzIEY45dpU98xjQnR6fuOJxcp-1vYDsb_jDmKF56n5fSnEbbj7Fwz7d2lSvcTVK0bYd-91Xc8WSK3QAFAgOR4W8EogtlLnLvcN7SpGFjJOlo/s320/March+2015+Boi+-+crop.jpg" width="106" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March 2015</td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB">And every time this happened, my self-confidence
would crumble just a little more. I often wondered, what made people say those
things? Was it a sense of voyeurism, in thinking that someone looks worse
because she’s fat? Is it supposed to be funny that this person has packed on
some extra kilos, no doubt cos she’s eating everything in sight? Or is it just
cos we, as humans, love putting others down?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Once I got over myself, I started working
out, trying to eat right and taking care of my body. I became unhealthily
obsessed with my weight. I stopped wearing sleeveless clothes or anything
fitted in fear of being further shamed. My close friends started pointing out
that what I was doing and how I was thinking was not productive, but I couldn’t
stop myself.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Once I lost *some* of the weight, I started
to regain my confidence, perhaps not so much because I looked different, but because
I started feeling better in my own body. After moving here, because of a
drastic change in my lifestyle (I went from being Boi to the bai), I lost more
weight without even realising it. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Immediately I started getting, “Oh, you’ve
lost a ton of weight’ or ‘you look so much hotter in Dubai than you did in
Bombay’. Now, I won’t lie, like most women, I love hearing the three words, ‘you’ve
lost weight’. Even now, for every three people who say I've lost weight, one person will say I've put some on, and it will hurt. But every time I get the compliment, I can’t help but wonder, ‘so, I wasn’t hot
or pretty or attractive or basically good enough cos I was chubby?’ So now, if
I put on any weight back on, I’ll go back to being not-hot?’</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TrwYkcbrWrHdjCFrlMgnOYdQ4488rrz7IEwnumlJ6Jzba_txNXyec4XhFVloQ9BXyUfnjkzVcWd_1-qXC9MzReBRxo56qiSUwpYw2BUsAbRvuTT70TKctufpVwvWz8qWwgG-pjjK5o0/s1600/April+24+2016+Boi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TrwYkcbrWrHdjCFrlMgnOYdQ4488rrz7IEwnumlJ6Jzba_txNXyec4XhFVloQ9BXyUfnjkzVcWd_1-qXC9MzReBRxo56qiSUwpYw2BUsAbRvuTT70TKctufpVwvWz8qWwgG-pjjK5o0/s320/April+24+2016+Boi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">April 2016</td></tr>
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It’s pretty terrifying, to be perfectly
honest, and more importantly, it will be impossible for me to ever get that
bikini body I want (I’ve never worn a bikini in my life). You know why? Cos I
LOVE FOOD! I try eating healthy for two days and by the third, I’m craving
biriyani, pizza and cookies. Every time I decided to try eating clean, I tell
myself by the end of the day, ‘what if you die tomorrow? Is that salad the last
meal you would want?’</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">So yes, I may have lost some weight and
regained some of my confidence (thanks mostly to my love for clothes and lack of
self-control when it comes to shopping), but I still have a tummy, one which I
keep telling myself is actually just bloated and not like that for real, a
double chin, flabby arms that will.just.not.tone, and a few dimples on my
thighs that aren’t as attractive as those on one’s cheeks. I don’t work out as
often as I should, I eat way more unhealthy junk than I should and I do feel
jealous when I see friends in bikinis or with flat tummies or pronounced
jawlines, especially if they haven’t had to work for it. I am but human.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I guess the point of this post is nothing
but to urge people to be kinder. Yes, you should look after your body—lose the
weight for your health, not because of what others think of you (note to self
and my sister, just fyi), take pride in your curves (the one thing on my body I
love) and remember that when someone calls you fat, they may mean it with malice,
but more often, they don’t, and while you will obsess over it for the next few
weeks or lifetimes, they have already forgotten about it.</span></div>
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And the rest of you, be nice. You never
know what kind of struggle a person is going through and frankly, it’s none of
your business. Like our mammas taught us ‘if you don’t have anything nice to
say, don’t say anything at all.’</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-67081921813103362182016-04-21T08:00:00.000-07:002016-04-21T11:09:45.301-07:00Fashion fix<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As I have oh-so-vociferously reiterated, I am unemployed. Among many other things of crap that this brings with it, one is that I don't get to dress up on a daily basis. While I do take great care in picking out outfits, complete with accessories and the right shoes, for the weekend, on any given weekday, I'm in my home clothes (read: baggy t-shirts, tattered shorts, ill-fitted dress nighties, no bra) all day long. At best, I'll slip into my workout clothes (which are not nearly as attractive as the ones you see on Instagram) for a couple of hours and then I'm back to being a bum.<br />
<br />
My interest in fashion, buying new clothes and putting together outfits came back only in the last six or eight months. Before that, I had put on so much weight, thanks to my PCOD, that I was physically uncomfortable in my body. I would only dress in dull, baggy clothes to cover up the bulges.<br />
<br />
I had to work tres hard to lose *some* of the weight, but my confidence slowly started coming back as did my desire to dress well. This further piqued when I moved here (thank you, H&M), so I thought I'd share some of my weekend looks here. Now, unfortunately I don't have a photographer tailing me, so I have to make do with mirror selfies :-/ Not a pro fashion blogger, you see. But here they are anyway.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMfqHD9wxkV70EzxFPszlnkMmssuzI5W8kovvlMaGxxLvAATP6x5wmaKA9M2hN8uEYp2WhNXBMHW-EqXlkZsUx-Sy7_VV98SS6DC0H-qUdHfvnTPQh5gMJ7oo7JkccUQ-Jzh6k8xcR3C8/s1600/IMG_20160205_042620.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMfqHD9wxkV70EzxFPszlnkMmssuzI5W8kovvlMaGxxLvAATP6x5wmaKA9M2hN8uEYp2WhNXBMHW-EqXlkZsUx-Sy7_VV98SS6DC0H-qUdHfvnTPQh5gMJ7oo7JkccUQ-Jzh6k8xcR3C8/s320/IMG_20160205_042620.jpg" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The first weekend after I moved here, we went to Abu Dhabi. This is what I wore for the night out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Dress: <a href="http://www.forever21.com/IN/Product/Main.aspx?br=f21">Forever 21</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Shoes: <a href="http://www.charleskeith.com/ae">Charles & Keith</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Shrug: Hill Road, Bombay (single tear rolls down, sniff)</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiDIaylr6ttA_C2s6fWJs12sLHCFc5RyrcNecU1lMeoc2cakVBb2K5djHcTytW6vlT9Iq6dR1wKzDx0qjZeFHQODNOeKHAx-7UcgIeBzCqW7kybjtl5vEUOKaYHQd-SFJafWHdOPo59gY/s1600/IMG_20160302_011850.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiDIaylr6ttA_C2s6fWJs12sLHCFc5RyrcNecU1lMeoc2cakVBb2K5djHcTytW6vlT9Iq6dR1wKzDx0qjZeFHQODNOeKHAx-7UcgIeBzCqW7kybjtl5vEUOKaYHQd-SFJafWHdOPo59gY/s320/IMG_20160302_011850.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I turned 30 in this country so we went out and partied! I had bought this dress months ago and figured this was occasion-appropriate.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Dress: <a href="http://www.faballey.com/">Fab Alley</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Shoes: <a href="http://www.aldoshoes.com/international">Aldo</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Lips: <a href="http://www.maccosmetics.com/">M.A.C.</a></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5-C2NPjymGDyAPl7CYD9PvFF60P9kNDlp7SbWvSaqNDFxcOyPZTmlcb5BGkXesJx6kVViRtKOoJgla2zXCaI4SZ5akOcqf-Ny5HxXrkYk7yl46-u7nGbDMfmByzscqCMhFgXAAwjFqLA/s1600/IMG_20160304_191142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5-C2NPjymGDyAPl7CYD9PvFF60P9kNDlp7SbWvSaqNDFxcOyPZTmlcb5BGkXesJx6kVViRtKOoJgla2zXCaI4SZ5akOcqf-Ny5HxXrkYk7yl46-u7nGbDMfmByzscqCMhFgXAAwjFqLA/s320/IMG_20160304_191142.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I went to meet a friend from Bombay and then went shopping with the husband in this one.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Top: <a href="http://www.bershka.com/ae/">Bershka</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Palazzos: <a href="https://www.mywestside.com/Home.aspx">Westside Stores</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Bag: <a href="http://www.zara.com/ae/">Zara</a></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9wR9VyTAwdSTK_mt52IaaOLDekRYhDm0nOKaBBobp19qLlsunjRuWpH9VlwcOBbaTg2XgOnBWgcGyuFMIYmIwYafOzxIS3-PJibVyjOsR7pIM_Tdbpx-pdGDPkUa0wm1o5QKJQZ5o2DQ/s1600/IMG_20160311_143101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9wR9VyTAwdSTK_mt52IaaOLDekRYhDm0nOKaBBobp19qLlsunjRuWpH9VlwcOBbaTg2XgOnBWgcGyuFMIYmIwYafOzxIS3-PJibVyjOsR7pIM_Tdbpx-pdGDPkUa0wm1o5QKJQZ5o2DQ/s320/IMG_20160311_143101.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Taste of Dubai was such a fun experience! I channeled *festival feels* in this outfit.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Top: <a href="http://lifestylestores.com/mobile/list_product.php?brand=26">Ginger @ Lifestyle Stores</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Skirt: <a href="http://www.forever21.com/IN/Product/Main.aspx?br=f21">Forever 21</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sneakers;<a href="http://cottonon.com/AU/shop-by-brand/rubi-shoes/?region=AU"> Rubi Shoes</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Neckpiece: Thrifted from New Market, Calcutta</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Lips: <a href="https://colourpop.com/">Colourpop Cosmetics</a></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihAi5WQPL1zEE1XUintUszr3mhrnYVUEeQZeWeG-8JBhMrltc-ZoOvY2f1rYzut7fstmSjbQZw6RYF7FNiwfPaFRJBERjPWsSuwhiXyZAm5rOJnK1qIqrGFMiNwy0HB46TaNx1xtGVeEs/s1600/IMG_20160317_195635.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihAi5WQPL1zEE1XUintUszr3mhrnYVUEeQZeWeG-8JBhMrltc-ZoOvY2f1rYzut7fstmSjbQZw6RYF7FNiwfPaFRJBERjPWsSuwhiXyZAm5rOJnK1qIqrGFMiNwy0HB46TaNx1xtGVeEs/s320/IMG_20160317_195635.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Bestie was in town from Bombay so, of course, we went out. It happened to be St Paddy's day so this was my attempt at <br />a touch of green.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Top: Veronica, Hill Road, Bombay</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Skirt: <a href="http://www.forever21.com/IN/Product/Main.aspx?br=f21">Forever 21</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Bag: <a href="http://www.zara.com/ae/">Zara</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Shoes (unseen): <a href="http://www.charleskeith.com/ae">Charles & Keith</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Lips: <a href="http://www.maccosmetics.com/">M.A.C.</a></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCiAsEWzzYqXts05uk87wK9QwIezINV10i8XTJv_zzI6QTVoCyelnHYOQVel4Ol5PTWoSUW2OsvmMC5xPqQkVvAYCdnAEq4rC6XeCQrTxK7PXo-WiZkn0XdZj5CIWTWWgLWEJe8Crg06M/s1600/IMG_20160318_150827.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCiAsEWzzYqXts05uk87wK9QwIezINV10i8XTJv_zzI6QTVoCyelnHYOQVel4Ol5PTWoSUW2OsvmMC5xPqQkVvAYCdnAEq4rC6XeCQrTxK7PXo-WiZkn0XdZj5CIWTWWgLWEJe8Crg06M/s320/IMG_20160318_150827.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">We went to Umm-Al-Quwain one weekend for a birthday party. I'm just too cool for school.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Dress: <a href="https://www.hm.com/ae/">H&M</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Shoes: Hill Road, Bombay</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Shades: <a href="http://jackjones.com/?forcecountry=GB&redirected=1">Jack & Jones</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Neckpiece: gifted</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHjFcUhClHYJkQMnNrILAEu371RABNiEgGWIIO453bxxkY0LsSIhyphenhyphenHy5R7x5UEDCGAuUlqFSqahbWro9dWTcAo4k9dAMIMCjCxurC-k2iqfYUcSYvqEtVj3V5-FRfofLBHBTTJpxf29Wk/s1600/IMG_20160327_170544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHjFcUhClHYJkQMnNrILAEu371RABNiEgGWIIO453bxxkY0LsSIhyphenhyphenHy5R7x5UEDCGAuUlqFSqahbWro9dWTcAo4k9dAMIMCjCxurC-k2iqfYUcSYvqEtVj3V5-FRfofLBHBTTJpxf29Wk/s320/IMG_20160327_170544.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Easter means Mass followed by yummy food. Do I look like a good lil Church-going girl?</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Dress: Bangkok</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Shrug: Thrifted from Hill Road, Bombay</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Shoes: <a href="http://www.landmarkshops.com/shoemart?utm_source=Facebook&utm_medium=Post%2C%20womens%2C%2010%2F1%2F16&utm_campaign=Womens&utm_term=Sunday&utm_content=Womensshoes">Shoemart Middle East</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Earrings: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AquamarineJewels/">Aquamarine</a></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKspXFgDNiA6lWPLGZhHuE-ptgrvBbBkSQJ8lo8Kskb-oCmkMefOddAqyHPr0uAfwZl60Jp3zWfqJfDaRrr51cZ5udSTBCXIM8aB4OQqVydGX17IbDk7VTP6NVoXIYzQNoKe9N7BFzxCk/s1600/IMG_20160331_181554.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKspXFgDNiA6lWPLGZhHuE-ptgrvBbBkSQJ8lo8Kskb-oCmkMefOddAqyHPr0uAfwZl60Jp3zWfqJfDaRrr51cZ5udSTBCXIM8aB4OQqVydGX17IbDk7VTP6NVoXIYzQNoKe9N7BFzxCk/s320/IMG_20160331_181554.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The first and only match we went to watch during the T20 World Cup, India lost. Sigh.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Top: <a href="http://lifestylestores.com/mobile/list_product.php?brand=26">Ginger @ Lifestyle Stores</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Pants: Thrifted from Hill Road, Bombay</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Chappals: Thrifted from Hill Road, Bombay</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Earrings: <a href="http://www.siennastore.com/">Sienna Store</a>, Calcutta</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUlDeImw9d9V6e3MbZy9fA98loCyMnObnm1mMdnJ4XpRIVQNH9WxFSTb3nZg9oApbyeyRZ0rU7O81rffoezMgWjNrZm5phNbZCdI5uCghAcyeB3QCAN8ju4OgyzW9DCpcWMzHtsYmLNDg/s1600/IMG_20160402_144532.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUlDeImw9d9V6e3MbZy9fA98loCyMnObnm1mMdnJ4XpRIVQNH9WxFSTb3nZg9oApbyeyRZ0rU7O81rffoezMgWjNrZm5phNbZCdI5uCghAcyeB3QCAN8ju4OgyzW9DCpcWMzHtsYmLNDg/s320/IMG_20160402_144532.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">We went to watch a super-fun play called 'Radio Dekkh'. Fun and casual!</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Top and skirt: <a href="http://www.bershka.com/ae/">Bershka</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Shoes: <a href="http://cottonon.com/AU/">Cotton On</a>, Singapore</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXLas_k8QlhxiWItTl6oPeFYST2w9pw_WYiKntBKCEzN4SO9HfeZRpr8wT6Ke8AVqPkvVsXIbI2t_nZqD1NBPEYSxyGGMY31Cnw6bl2HKw1S6w-9ar67qzmNPHgQ8aXOgH23nVkfcy_hA/s1600/IMG_20160404_233716.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXLas_k8QlhxiWItTl6oPeFYST2w9pw_WYiKntBKCEzN4SO9HfeZRpr8wT6Ke8AVqPkvVsXIbI2t_nZqD1NBPEYSxyGGMY31Cnw6bl2HKw1S6w-9ar67qzmNPHgQ8aXOgH23nVkfcy_hA/s320/IMG_20160404_233716.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The husband and I celebrate our anniversary on the day we got married in court. You know, to appease both our religions. This was for the big anniversary date night.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Dress: <a href="https://shop.anitadongre.com/">Anita Dongre</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Shoes: <a href="http://www.aldoshoes.com/international">Aldo</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Neckpiece: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/accessorize.india/">Accessorize India</a></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAC3wA9xqGuPbYHQcBguIbQ7EIJ20vzsVq8mIxngbKjZeS89ObgGbNcvuO7mv8OKIt57pZTeeOO8zrxHyNcamO8whaBP0mXyqIaozf4XiWm8HWLiZaZCgvnOJKx2CXONc5Thch_1rQj3M/s1600/IMG_20160406_182833.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAC3wA9xqGuPbYHQcBguIbQ7EIJ20vzsVq8mIxngbKjZeS89ObgGbNcvuO7mv8OKIt57pZTeeOO8zrxHyNcamO8whaBP0mXyqIaozf4XiWm8HWLiZaZCgvnOJKx2CXONc5Thch_1rQj3M/s320/IMG_20160406_182833.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My friend's parents invited us for dinner and took us for yummy Lebanese food. Slurp. </span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Top: <a href="http://lifestylestores.com/mobile/list_product.php?brand=26">Ginger @ Lifestyle Stores</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Skirt: <a href="http://www.bershka.com/ae/">Bershka</a></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-46338517345320443422016-04-21T00:52:00.000-07:002016-04-22T05:06:10.565-07:00Emirates through a Bong's eyes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm a Bong girl from Bombay (for the last 10 years) who has moved to the Middle East. How's that for glocal? When we moved here, I was very clear that I wanted to visit all seven Emirates before heading out to the countries surrounding us, such as Oman. In almost three months, I'm pleased to report, we've covered five out of the seven. All we have left now are Fujairah and Ras Al Khaimah--I'm most excited about the latter... beach holiday!<br />
<br />
Here are a few snapshots of the United Arab Emirates through my eyes... well, through my phone. Let me know what you think!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3VLAdmYNU0bDM3aqZGfRsXY5cWPMKMgE6NtwkiyingQJ8CleAscQba2XHfI_g3dnFEQMT8nWrRR2Rpr925vkVYEJb5WWW5dnQtU83ywUhFje3Xp0Qarvw_uv8g-ZzSdOZAk3I7m8k5s/s1600/Abu+Dhabi+Corniche+2+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3VLAdmYNU0bDM3aqZGfRsXY5cWPMKMgE6NtwkiyingQJ8CleAscQba2XHfI_g3dnFEQMT8nWrRR2Rpr925vkVYEJb5WWW5dnQtU83ywUhFje3Xp0Qarvw_uv8g-ZzSdOZAk3I7m8k5s/s320/Abu+Dhabi+Corniche+2+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://visitabudhabi.ae/en/see.and.do/attractions.and.landmarks/family.attractions/abu.dhabi.corniche.aspx">Abu Dhabi Corniche</a></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjziSaNe_ghWEh7WpiMW5QvAqzk-EQfw2K-1s4eVuZo_qbLjS2UBDpm3iuOQz36U6sVVp82he0pTN4NwmYyOzBMFcfobYjzXP2uGIhpSJrhh_mNuCpL1fIQkVhIgvDvhIMpqWHD9Se3ttc/s1600/Abu+Dhabi+corniche+watermarked.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjziSaNe_ghWEh7WpiMW5QvAqzk-EQfw2K-1s4eVuZo_qbLjS2UBDpm3iuOQz36U6sVVp82he0pTN4NwmYyOzBMFcfobYjzXP2uGIhpSJrhh_mNuCpL1fIQkVhIgvDvhIMpqWHD9Se3ttc/s320/Abu+Dhabi+corniche+watermarked.png" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interesting cat interaction at the <a href="http://visitabudhabi.ae/en/see.and.do/attractions.and.landmarks/family.attractions/abu.dhabi.corniche.aspx">Abu Dhabi Corniche</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiv5l4TnSwrXj6vWxNYN-XHdD9EJR_7sR5jgQ32VT6ysoLfGaHuBlz9Lt0a1HiR0cIlCVfI8YQYbDnuqJnBv7EO0ncKGXUOYsMSqQPSsxSZW7-Y1xqX5mWm9rTQwUjLUeNG6PQRSVwya4/s1600/Ajman+sunset+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiv5l4TnSwrXj6vWxNYN-XHdD9EJR_7sR5jgQ32VT6ysoLfGaHuBlz9Lt0a1HiR0cIlCVfI8YQYbDnuqJnBv7EO0ncKGXUOYsMSqQPSsxSZW7-Y1xqX5mWm9rTQwUjLUeNG6PQRSVwya4/s320/Ajman+sunset+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset in Ajman</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBoiXpk6ypPOJ0j0pkb0-gzO8WvFD68R2JV5Tsjj_QcWsRbsJCQkk5K5f2oAb6eyxeg99AoBis8qORijt17lRpLzbU2MJk8lqs-BCwsM9T_MgfILCqvlQP3sDr8U3Lo-F7SeeWFPbRjO8/s1600/Bab+al+shams+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBoiXpk6ypPOJ0j0pkb0-gzO8WvFD68R2JV5Tsjj_QcWsRbsJCQkk5K5f2oAb6eyxeg99AoBis8qORijt17lRpLzbU2MJk8lqs-BCwsM9T_MgfILCqvlQP3sDr8U3Lo-F7SeeWFPbRjO8/s320/Bab+al+shams+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset at the <a href="http://www.meydanhotels.com/babalshams/">Bab Al Shams Desert Resort & Spa</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhBGxJCne_xyKpD_8PTJtRdPQ5_4fv5uT_-1-1j0Y0tmxCDkXhARXq03RTy6KNhf1k6z69ZwWOOfyMzSXpsnoOkASA0yC-y3u83SAzdheDap56qG3vehHl87XzIgaXK-LgQveTFIDoRDM/s1600/Birthday+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhBGxJCne_xyKpD_8PTJtRdPQ5_4fv5uT_-1-1j0Y0tmxCDkXhARXq03RTy6KNhf1k6z69ZwWOOfyMzSXpsnoOkASA0yC-y3u83SAzdheDap56qG3vehHl87XzIgaXK-LgQveTFIDoRDM/s320/Birthday+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthday shenanigans at <a href="https://www.jumeirah.com/en/hotels-resorts/dubai/jumeirah-beach-hotel/restaurants/360/">360 Degrees, Jumeirah Beach Hotel</a>, Dubai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_0E81Xre74Jhj6m-aXCbIYGbR0ZpFSji4BU_j8cgY3LIOpGDnlWxh5tO5IOSBimlQaNVp-rbj0v3l6kdZOcwFEWAMoFkFTSLo_l4O4s73twlZbLEXCDYmHaPKmleXX0S8ZffQc9tifDg/s1600/Desert+camp+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_0E81Xre74Jhj6m-aXCbIYGbR0ZpFSji4BU_j8cgY3LIOpGDnlWxh5tO5IOSBimlQaNVp-rbj0v3l6kdZOcwFEWAMoFkFTSLo_l4O4s73twlZbLEXCDYmHaPKmleXX0S8ZffQc9tifDg/s320/Desert+camp+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dawn at the desert campsite</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZuiQKLDuhWrlB2EkwHQVU0bh0PHlf9qDo_PCQhsHOeciNVMG9EK3l9_PQl4J2LIaP5xETkYZJC3Yu7C3eeaywVXrTwn-4rnal-vToh1N95-sDefHbPpYsDH-WRMGmYQwMqj8CIylEKqg/s1600/Desert+sunrise+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZuiQKLDuhWrlB2EkwHQVU0bh0PHlf9qDo_PCQhsHOeciNVMG9EK3l9_PQl4J2LIaP5xETkYZJC3Yu7C3eeaywVXrTwn-4rnal-vToh1N95-sDefHbPpYsDH-WRMGmYQwMqj8CIylEKqg/s320/Desert+sunrise+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise in the desert</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje8T31OVlTtPyPxu3rUZ3GxNF13mDbcmf0d5JE4_a79jCYeKxaaEpC9udtgOsh2B8kgD0DNg4nOo1M1MJMAZRzRXkAwUeTe5QGG7tHUvX2YAJOmLNe16fFRHpd83rdyWurckrua18JCaY/s1600/Desert+winds+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje8T31OVlTtPyPxu3rUZ3GxNF13mDbcmf0d5JE4_a79jCYeKxaaEpC9udtgOsh2B8kgD0DNg4nOo1M1MJMAZRzRXkAwUeTe5QGG7tHUvX2YAJOmLNe16fFRHpd83rdyWurckrua18JCaY/s320/Desert+winds+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Desert winds</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4EthX8fv1hDOU6HEMQwwRHKXNEJXEReJymmFYlFcogFkMAJvxBQLrZJo1RgJbbehjMlPRNv1y3ZJ6UlowMeptU_P0NzPasDniyuJty_6_kg28bszhB0l3UGZdl8EGSBFwbkkokldGw2I/s1600/Dubai+sunset+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4EthX8fv1hDOU6HEMQwwRHKXNEJXEReJymmFYlFcogFkMAJvxBQLrZJo1RgJbbehjMlPRNv1y3ZJ6UlowMeptU_P0NzPasDniyuJty_6_kg28bszhB0l3UGZdl8EGSBFwbkkokldGw2I/s320/Dubai+sunset+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset in Dubai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz3cWWe2nQWUJ45LU7aB_llpZDwlgT56OFh39HSeSUh8VLCH8cdu9iR1I7SYFZ8udt8oYl9GIbl-zmVExn2rgP9MOhjbI2ZLdjuld3RFFiB0YWqrDJcFwpKs8tdFcOux8NoR84xT_CdjM/s1600/Dubai+undercontruction+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz3cWWe2nQWUJ45LU7aB_llpZDwlgT56OFh39HSeSUh8VLCH8cdu9iR1I7SYFZ8udt8oYl9GIbl-zmVExn2rgP9MOhjbI2ZLdjuld3RFFiB0YWqrDJcFwpKs8tdFcOux8NoR84xT_CdjM/s320/Dubai+undercontruction+watermarked.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dubai under construction as seen from <a href="http://www.jwmarriottmarquisdubailife.com/">J W Marriot Marquis</a>, Dubai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_V-KaRwNEG4upyBmOzf6JKhi79YYmL4cwPWc2J9Xo7FfkJmXPr1kx1wQlsxh5fE7siJ174SvaMNeQ9-MBauKz23w4K_sPfy4PsPRD1Z5EdexEOCXD7k_mxcyYj0dnaTUeavF8UTUUR5w/s1600/Grand+mosque+2+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_V-KaRwNEG4upyBmOzf6JKhi79YYmL4cwPWc2J9Xo7FfkJmXPr1kx1wQlsxh5fE7siJ174SvaMNeQ9-MBauKz23w4K_sPfy4PsPRD1Z5EdexEOCXD7k_mxcyYj0dnaTUeavF8UTUUR5w/s320/Grand+mosque+2+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stunning exteriors of the <a href="http://www.szgmc.ae/en/">Grand Sheikh Zayed Mosque, Abu Dhabi</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYVxZ16fcl87rorBYh4lNl0wSQ2E34jdGCjjQL6I1HbY0zfzxV__yo0CGFmV2TJb7b_L6ZOLi8uKTE-n8Jr8eCqkstM-OBxKg3QfSwjrw3nStSiMU7bVhQuWTEC41QXVatXhUAOSZ5Zw/s1600/Grand+mosque+3+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYVxZ16fcl87rorBYh4lNl0wSQ2E34jdGCjjQL6I1HbY0zfzxV__yo0CGFmV2TJb7b_L6ZOLi8uKTE-n8Jr8eCqkstM-OBxKg3QfSwjrw3nStSiMU7bVhQuWTEC41QXVatXhUAOSZ5Zw/s320/Grand+mosque+3+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Grand Mosque's opulent interiors, Abu Dhabi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV_G48iz9S8AYzdI433Gx5o6s0Q9uko1obgc-La3gdRi_84pVUqLuvNdLAp154vdNgpl7lmV8zBcVxe55tdADI9Ccdae-JzKlWWbQKDFuy7nyHNIGO2jO1CD1WdzwrAdSeGGblBXLM31g/s1600/Grand+mosque+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV_G48iz9S8AYzdI433Gx5o6s0Q9uko1obgc-La3gdRi_84pVUqLuvNdLAp154vdNgpl7lmV8zBcVxe55tdADI9Ccdae-JzKlWWbQKDFuy7nyHNIGO2jO1CD1WdzwrAdSeGGblBXLM31g/s320/Grand+mosque+watermarked.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dusk at the beautiful Mosque, Abu Dhabi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXX1SKwQPRynVyVEj_JfSDqLQtjAPL4QIT0hyWVpOvX1JQWCzwSe0VvwIMjmvv2rGSAyYk67hpvy-PdH-lee0iSHI45jaCg4ORoAjBgb9k6x8c88Qzm9EbC-l5YeGtGGnfgtpyIVY8esk/s1600/Holi+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXX1SKwQPRynVyVEj_JfSDqLQtjAPL4QIT0hyWVpOvX1JQWCzwSe0VvwIMjmvv2rGSAyYk67hpvy-PdH-lee0iSHI45jaCg4ORoAjBgb9k6x8c88Qzm9EbC-l5YeGtGGnfgtpyIVY8esk/s320/Holi+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holi Celebrations at the <a href="http://www.meydanhotels.com/babalshams/">Bab Al Shams Desert Resort & Spa</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRRg-rnlEjkFtj01__n8ecYaBFuVODo5XHGzNg9fJrOlrsMqohA5BYH3onmV46m23LCdqBJ4uKlb4wqXT-8v1lye-cQo4X94vN9q40hveykA8HZ2G75TW0WeSZ8tvPoWj5G9sAeiRgFs/s1600/Kebabs+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRRg-rnlEjkFtj01__n8ecYaBFuVODo5XHGzNg9fJrOlrsMqohA5BYH3onmV46m23LCdqBJ4uKlb4wqXT-8v1lye-cQo4X94vN9q40hveykA8HZ2G75TW0WeSZ8tvPoWj5G9sAeiRgFs/s320/Kebabs+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grilling kebabs at the desert camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSytOre3HwRZkEeWj3vSd2iCTjCCf7XiQdmxIjoEWvKgCMstG5guC7l5jZkpoefy_K4mb_Z4t_R6PCwD-0kcB2jFNuOgQdTq0kWMKl51JQdV3L7DGyS3D030FbCZn_by7k4HqRq2INSxI/s1600/Nalukettu+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSytOre3HwRZkEeWj3vSd2iCTjCCf7XiQdmxIjoEWvKgCMstG5guC7l5jZkpoefy_K4mb_Z4t_R6PCwD-0kcB2jFNuOgQdTq0kWMKl51JQdV3L7DGyS3D030FbCZn_by7k4HqRq2INSxI/s320/Nalukettu+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.zomato.com/ajman/nalukettu-ajman-corniche">Nalukettu Restaurant</a>, Ajman</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zPtBjtqL1-6OlbSiuR1pkqSKjIC4mSAT9Eyqi8Jj_gGoQd3CT8GsrH0nthDcYhWQicQ1yZxwhYgk4ngG7SFWpTGa10cqLevd_adNaCbE47ZPS7T8ks-3jeBHyaeqv8ltmT0NsZ9Tv4g/s1600/Santana+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zPtBjtqL1-6OlbSiuR1pkqSKjIC4mSAT9Eyqi8Jj_gGoQd3CT8GsrH0nthDcYhWQicQ1yZxwhYgk4ngG7SFWpTGa10cqLevd_adNaCbE47ZPS7T8ks-3jeBHyaeqv8ltmT0NsZ9Tv4g/s320/Santana+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santana, live in concert, <a href="http://www.visitdubai.com/en/pois/dubai-media-city-amphitheatre">Dubai Media City Amphitheatre</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0KYfkMekBPdR2MD7NvOKnO1QKUqTPTcmCnMo0WI6JYWvcfqevdahTyfL986BXCMN9PRBqOp02nMXQvS5eD0YsrWC8gnNjsPeYM6oGLLUDK-pSq1gp1AIyo-DJ5vVh1TBMS5PqabRF9E/s1600/St+Paddys+Day+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0KYfkMekBPdR2MD7NvOKnO1QKUqTPTcmCnMo0WI6JYWvcfqevdahTyfL986BXCMN9PRBqOp02nMXQvS5eD0YsrWC8gnNjsPeYM6oGLLUDK-pSq1gp1AIyo-DJ5vVh1TBMS5PqabRF9E/s320/St+Paddys+Day+watermarked.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St Patrick's Day celebrations, <a href="http://www.mcgettigans.com/jlt/">McGettigans, Jumeirah Lake Towers</a>, Dubai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglrMhkHuKRUSDCppt-kQ2B-jyDqgZLcbpmVdxrVUFsw6s4HsMwxvOqXIcj-bthx84CODs7Au324iAGEgB8UtNogQhVMJRJMf_PaS3M41z0xCmN56wcEBIthdxIxyfkkJ0ZbQUtSvcuVrU/s1600/Taste+of+Dubai+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglrMhkHuKRUSDCppt-kQ2B-jyDqgZLcbpmVdxrVUFsw6s4HsMwxvOqXIcj-bthx84CODs7Au324iAGEgB8UtNogQhVMJRJMf_PaS3M41z0xCmN56wcEBIthdxIxyfkkJ0ZbQUtSvcuVrU/s320/Taste+of+Dubai+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://tasteofdubaifestival.com/">Taste of Dubai</a>, Dubai Media City Amphitheatre</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT0DK4f0S4cnP6h8hMvpv9rt7dBlB8jPZ4vZWApbh37T5V6lI1VfJ9114LipceVXhG_YZvwWEJV22OKGpqnPnrtu-2PO8IKNJ6t6pzCgLJkWnlgym8GduTFeYSBceUkiZbuuA4ao_w3bg/s1600/The+island+watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT0DK4f0S4cnP6h8hMvpv9rt7dBlB8jPZ4vZWApbh37T5V6lI1VfJ9114LipceVXhG_YZvwWEJV22OKGpqnPnrtu-2PO8IKNJ6t6pzCgLJkWnlgym8GduTFeYSBceUkiZbuuA4ao_w3bg/s320/The+island+watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://theisland.ae/couchcms-1.4/theIslandCMS/index.php">The Lebabon Island</a>, The World (group of islands, Dubai) on Valentine's Day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7aFyXh8vjN2kwbnlGUmZyd45iFDgfv0QgNwFlQlatyNxwyA7rMfB79_c6tQQmMoRLD0LbAUbPfryUkb6_Z8g8Q9OJhU6D9j20B706CHbCcztoGw76AksWyCc4HCmJRiZqAi8VuBYfAs/s1600/Yas+Marina+-+Watermarked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7aFyXh8vjN2kwbnlGUmZyd45iFDgfv0QgNwFlQlatyNxwyA7rMfB79_c6tQQmMoRLD0LbAUbPfryUkb6_Z8g8Q9OJhU6D9j20B706CHbCcztoGw76AksWyCc4HCmJRiZqAi8VuBYfAs/s320/Yas+Marina+-+Watermarked.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.yasmarina.ae/">Yas Marina</a>, Abu Dhabi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-47260098093197595742016-04-20T03:06:00.000-07:002016-04-20T12:11:15.111-07:00Infidel <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>This is a short story I had written over a year ago, hoping that I would include it in my book of short stories. I think I've changed my mind on the ever-elusive book (that's what I'm going to permanently refer to it as) so here it is, making its debut on my blog. Do let me know what you think (and apologies if there are any errors).</i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She lay on her side, with her back facing
him. She had been lying still for almost an hour, waiting for his breath to
normalise. When she finally heard his soft snores, she shifted her weight to
get a little comfortable. Aria always needed her space in bed. She was a
sprawler. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Just as she was dozing off, she felt his
hand on her waist. Jolted out of her slumber, she lay still again, hoping he
would back off, thinking she was asleep. A few moments passed and his hand slid
around her waist to her stomach, slowly caressing it. He slipped his hand under
her t-shirt and worked his way up to her breast. Aria lay deathly still, hoping
he would stop. But tonight it seemed like he was determined to wake her up to
fulfil his needs. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He slowly started kissing her back and
pushing her hair away to get to her neck. Aria opened her eyes to look at the
clock. 3:35am. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Slowly Anand turned Aria towards him. He
started kissing her neck, while his hands explored the rest of her body. Though
Aria could feel herself getting aroused and his hardness against her thigh, she
remained frigid. Just as he was about to kiss her lips, Anand lifted his head
to look at Aria’s face. Aria averted her eyes, turned her head away, as if to
say, “Have your way and let’s get this over with.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Anand looked at her for a moment, his
expression darkening. Swiftly, he rolled off of her and threw off the covers. He
looked at her one last time before getting out of bed with a huff, walking
towards the bathroom and slamming the door shut. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aria turned back on her side and lay still.
A lone tear escaped her eyes, running down her nose and wetting her pillow. It
had been three months of this misery and she had a lifetime of it ahead of her.
This is not how Aria had envisioned her life. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Anand and Aria had an arranged marriage
three months ago. They were of the same religion and the same caste—everyone
who looked at her said she was lucky to have found Anand. He was an Ivy-educated
corporate lawyer settled in Delhi, who was always on the move, globetrotting. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">While finalising the wedding, Aria mom had
told her, “Beta, you should be thrilled at this proposal. You’ve always wanted
to travel. Now you can travel with him all over the world!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“And what about my job, my career, my
friends, my life?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Oh ho, baby. Priorities change once you
get married. Everyone will understand.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Well I don’t want to get married. At least
not to him.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“The one you wanted to marry wasn’t good
enough for you and wasn’t willing to prove himself either. So what’s the
point?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">That hit home. Aria and Dev had been seeing
each other for almost four years. She had always imagined that they would get
married someday and live happily ever after. But Dev’s un-ambitious nature had
put an end to all her dreams. At 28, Dev was a nobody. He would call himself a
creative professional, and yet could not stick to a single job for more than
three months. He lived off his parents and Aria. Sometimes, he would even take
money from their friends. His father, who ran a successful bottling plant
business, was keen on his only son taking over, but Dev wasn’t interested. Frustrated
and constantly worried, but unable to give up on Dev, his father had developed
a weak heart. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Three years into their relationship, Aria’s
folks started pressuring her to get married. Though she had never overtly
admitted to seeing Dev, they were fully aware of their relationship. Unable to
wait and ward off the incoming proposals any longer, Aria’s father one day had
a chat with her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Tell the boy to either buck up, get a job
and stick with it, or else take over his father’s business. As long as he is
wasting his life, he’s marrying no daughter of mine.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The finality of her father’s words had
struck her. Although she loved Dev, she knew he was right. As opposed to Aria’s
ambitious, career-oriented and vibrant personality, Dev was irresponsible,
flippant and frankly, selfish. He did love Aria, but when she told him of her
father’s warning, Dev had barely protested. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I’m not taking over Dad’s business just to
please your father. And if I get a job I enjoy enough, I’ll stick with it. But
there are no guarantees.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“So you’re fine with me marrying someone
else?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I want you to be happy. Maybe being with
me isn’t a good idea after all.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aria had exploded. After years of trying to
get through to Dev and steer him towards the right path, discovering that he
didn’t care much about losing her, broke her heart. In anger, she told her
parents to go ahead and look for someone for her. And promptly, within three
months she was married off to Anand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7MS6d99umIti7egHtUDZfr4fVsAvfEwR9vtJHWmqKrGbZjgpmJyr_ADcQpwNP-e3JRx-JPsVOyfWdWIbVuysc73Gezp7IPxtoQuAybh6tAZfYezIuKFY-dsvu6AOoJ0JzUZzpJrc6JI/s1600/Indian_wedding_Delhi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7MS6d99umIti7egHtUDZfr4fVsAvfEwR9vtJHWmqKrGbZjgpmJyr_ADcQpwNP-e3JRx-JPsVOyfWdWIbVuysc73Gezp7IPxtoQuAybh6tAZfYezIuKFY-dsvu6AOoJ0JzUZzpJrc6JI/s320/Indian_wedding_Delhi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<h4 style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Source: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/bd/Indian_wedding_Delhi.jpg</i></span></h4>
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s not that Aria didn’t like Anand. He
was smart, sensitive, funny and seemed to really care about her. But she just
didn’t feel a connection with him. She had literally married him on the rebound
and now regretted it every moment of every day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It was as early as their honeymoon that
Anand noticed Aria’s disinterest in the marriage. Every time he had tried to
touch, even just to hold her hand or put his arm around his wife’s shoulder,
she had stiffened, as if repulsed. The night before they were to fly back to
Delhi, he finally got the nerve to ask her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Aria, were you forced into this marriage?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“No.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Do you not like me?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Silence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Look, if you’re not happy then talk to me
about it. Maybe we can work a way around it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Silence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Anand had sighed deeply and gone to bed.
Aria’s cold behaviour confused him, because she had seemed normal, almost
pleased during their courtship period. This drastic change in her personality,
confused, frightened and angered him, all at the same time. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Soon after returning to Delhi, Anand was
scheduled to head to Singapore for a six-month project, with Aria in tow.
Before their departure, there were many relatives to meet and they both put on
a show of being happy and in love. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One night, just days before they were to
leave, Anand had gone out drinking with his buddies. He staggered home drunk,
well after 2am. He came into their bedroom and saw Aria asleep on her side, her
back facing his side of the bed and her arms covering her eyes. Seething with
frustration and anger, yet uncontrollably attracted to her, Anand strode across
the room and climbed onto Aria. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Surprised by his sudden move, Aria tried to sit
up, but Anand pinned her arms down. He savagely started rubbing his face on her
face, her neck, her breast, biting and kissing his way down. Aria tried to push
him off, but he was far heavier and stronger than she was. Anand tore off his
shirt and undid his pants. He pushed up Aria’s nighty and pulled down her
panties to her ankle. Before she realised what was going on, he pushed his
hardness into her and started thrusting. With the combined effect of Aria’s
frigidness and Anand inebriated state, the deed was done in less than two
minutes. Satiated and tired, Anand had rolled off Aria and dozed off.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Feeling violated and humiliated, Aria had
gathered herself and rushed into the bathroom. She stripped naked and turned on
the shower, allowing the cold Delhi winter water run over her body, her tears
mixing with the jet sprays. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The next morning, Anand had a blurry memory
of the night before. The terrible hangover he had did not help things. But he
was ashamed of himself. He went to Aria and touched her gently on the shoulder,
while she was sitting blankly in front of the mirror. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I’m sorry, Aria. I don’t know what came
over me yesterday. Please forgive me. I’ll never touch you again without your
permission.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aria sat still and then slowly looked at
his hand on her shoulder. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Surprised at her coldness, Anand jerked it off, and stood
for a few minutes waiting for a response. Getting none, he exhaled deeply and
walked into the bathroom.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Three months later, things were just the
same. They had moved to Singapore, were living like strangers and spoke only
when necessary. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGTUm6SxamQcxow4Siqs3Ae1nPaIvD1MtrcKjhIxURFoAMTgSYNCgtXqgaI5tw1QkyvjQRqvJAKQpY659bWMG7ZrbNjJ4DeY0z0tjGd31vrzhE3aPkv69PL2ChxOGl9aczTbIIM3ggdEk/s1600/estranged-couple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGTUm6SxamQcxow4Siqs3Ae1nPaIvD1MtrcKjhIxURFoAMTgSYNCgtXqgaI5tw1QkyvjQRqvJAKQpY659bWMG7ZrbNjJ4DeY0z0tjGd31vrzhE3aPkv69PL2ChxOGl9aczTbIIM3ggdEk/s320/estranged-couple.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<h4 style="text-align: left;">
<i>Source: http://morselsandjuices.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/estranged-couple.jpg</i></h4>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
For all practical purposes, Aria was a good
wife. She cooked for Anand, kept the house clean, washed his clothes,
entertained his guests and pretended to the outside world that they were
perfectly happy. However, this seemed to frustrate Anand even more. He was an honest
man, if not anything else, and putting up this farce, especially to his family
and Aria’s, made him physically uncomfortable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The following week, Anand had to go on a
month-long project to Malaysia. Though initially Aria was meant to travel with
him, Anand decided that some time apart would help him clear his head. When he
told Aria this, she didn’t protest. The concept of being in Singapore on her
own for a month was rather appealing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the three months since their move, Aria
had already made a set of friends. She had a friend from school, Roshni, who
was living and working in Singapore, so after she went out with her a few
times, she became a part of the gang. Having worked pretty hard on her career
as a sales professional in Delhi for years, Aria was in no rush to look for a
job in Singapore. She wanted to kick back and relax for a while. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aria’s new friends loved to party and
undoubtedly, Singapore had a super nightlife. She went to a new club every
weekend while Anand was in town, so after he left, she had no reason to stay
home every night. She would go shopping, go out for lunches and coffee with
friends and they would hit the nightspots till the wee hours every morning. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuOicywFx1gZGIKy9igV61gJ60kW2IMiOJnHRUyijNtO1OQllKVfSZhpzla0KI3ArsUOOJjznqwD87Pdrj6lLPx-MUGzfpVML8qCR1KRVGsUUvDvasOX8wlK101j9ZI6XlDT7SzaIa0l0/s1600/item_3.thumbnail.image-path.350.197.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuOicywFx1gZGIKy9igV61gJ60kW2IMiOJnHRUyijNtO1OQllKVfSZhpzla0KI3ArsUOOJjznqwD87Pdrj6lLPx-MUGzfpVML8qCR1KRVGsUUvDvasOX8wlK101j9ZI6XlDT7SzaIa0l0/s320/item_3.thumbnail.image-path.350.197.jpg" width="320" /></a><i style="text-align: left;"><b>Source: http://www.yoursingapore.com/festivals-events-singapore/annual-highlights/zoukout/_jcr_content/par/column_control/ccpar1/content_img_insta/content/item_3.thumbnail.image-path.350.197.jpg</b></i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One night, about 10 days after Anand had
left for Malaysia, she went out as usual. Except that on this day, she was
feeling particularly bad about the way her life had shaped up. She missed Dev,
she felt guilty for the way she treated Anand and she regretted not looking for
a job. So like most others, she turned to alcohol. Starting to drink at lunch, by the time they entered the club for the night, she was already
pretty hammered. Robert, one of the boys in the gang, stayed close to her all
night. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Since the day they had met, Robert was
intensely attracted to Aria. He knew she was married, but he wasn’t sure how
happy she was, considering she kept going out with them sans her husband. But
he didn’t really care. He was in Singapore just for a few weeks and then would
head back to the US. But Aria was really something. Those eyes, the full lips,
the firm breasts, and the long, smooth legs... he knew he had to have her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">By about 2am that night, Aria could no
longer stand on her feet. Her head was buzzing and her legs were giving way.
Roshni wanted to take her home, but Robert insisted that she continue her night
and allow him to drop her back. Though Roshni wasn’t too comfortable with this
idea, she didn’t protest much—after all, Aria was a big girl and Robert seemed
nice. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Half an hour later, Robert and Aria were
back at her apartment. Without wasting any time, Robert grabbed her by the
waist and planted a kiss on her mouth. A little surprised at first, Aria moved
away to look at Robert. But the alcohol soon took over any semblance of logic
and before she knew it, they were tearing each other’s clothes off. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqdKD0drxUidovqMR2AnFSfhtaurGuN3Z-t85LBiOBWmJaMR1bB-GOGRkjI1momCTixhy0Taj2E65KL1628LRkiuF3c3S1hUnilcPBYAru0Xylt-geNmrBr40sur9fcldXjKU0iYhoRzM/s1600/Young-couple-making-love-in-bed.-Focus-on-hand-via-Shutterstock-615x345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqdKD0drxUidovqMR2AnFSfhtaurGuN3Z-t85LBiOBWmJaMR1bB-GOGRkjI1momCTixhy0Taj2E65KL1628LRkiuF3c3S1hUnilcPBYAru0Xylt-geNmrBr40sur9fcldXjKU0iYhoRzM/s320/Young-couple-making-love-in-bed.-Focus-on-hand-via-Shutterstock-615x345.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<h4 style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Source: http://positivelifechanges.ca/tap/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/Young-couple-making-love-in-bed.-Focus-on-hand-via-Shutterstock-615x345.jpg</i></span></h4>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Robert carried Aria’s inebriated naked body
into the bedroom. He lay her down gently on the bed and started working his way
down Aria’s body. Aria’s senses had dulled and she was a little confused—was
this Dev or Anand? But she didn’t care; all she knew was that it felt good. For
the next hour, Robert and Aria ravaged each other’s bodies—Aria satiating
months of deprivation. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Ten days later...<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aria was sitting in front of the mirror
combing her hair. She had put on a sari, a first since the move to Singapore.
She had put on some make-up and sprayed on the perfume Anand had given her. After
a little over a month, Anand was set to return home. And for the first time
since she met him, she couldn’t wait to see him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aria’s memory of her night with Robert was
blurry, but what she could clearly recall was the feeling of repulsion she felt
the next morning. Seeing Robert lying next to her, with his arm around her
waist, Aria had felt nauseated. She had shaken him awake, quickly got dressed
and bid him a quick, unceremonious goodbye. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She cut Robert out of her life completely
and had stopped going out with the gang, too. Roshni would come over once in a
while to ask her what was wrong, but Aria had sworn herself to secrecy. She
felt dirty and could never forgive herself for this indiscretion. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">That’s when she had decided that she would
do everything in her power to make things work with Anand. She was, after all,
married to him. She spent the next 10 days cleaning the house, downloading recipes
to cook him his favourite food, and pulling out her saris and salwar suits. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sitting in front of the mirror the day
Anand was to arrive—moments before he would be there—Aria could not get images
of her lustful night with Robert out of her mind. Every time she’d blink, she
could see them—bodies, sweaty and entwined. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1B4_WPFQrICnV1lhZ7fvZGsAnBXne7sRgr8soBgooKxMgCC977qsvbqhmQWB4UOqAbjcPQbMxCXi2Jt5X6VkseK3pBCyPrD-781CoL9y6N7hvJPNClEmniVkZJ_NsPAHvOt97wiutcMA/s1600/Priya-Bhagra-mirror-reflection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1B4_WPFQrICnV1lhZ7fvZGsAnBXne7sRgr8soBgooKxMgCC977qsvbqhmQWB4UOqAbjcPQbMxCXi2Jt5X6VkseK3pBCyPrD-781CoL9y6N7hvJPNClEmniVkZJ_NsPAHvOt97wiutcMA/s320/Priya-Bhagra-mirror-reflection.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<h4 style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Source: http://www.footwa.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/Priya-Bhagra-mirror-reflection.jpg</i></span></h4>
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aria snapped herself back to the present.
No, she was determined to win Anand over. She knew he liked, maybe even loved, her—he
would forgive her for sure. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Unfortunately, Anand was tougher to break
than Aria expected. For days after he returned from Malaysia, he barely spoke
to her. In fact, he stayed out of the house for as long as he could, only
coming home to crash. Sometimes, not even that. Aria cooked for him, but he
wouldn’t eat; she dressed up for him, but he wouldn’t even look at her; she
tried talking to him, but he was always too tired or not interested. She even
tried making a move in bed, but he simply stiffened and moved further away. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Two weeks later...<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aria was at her wits’ end; she didn’t know
how to make the situation better. Just when she was about to lose all hope in
her marriage, she received a text from Anand one day after he had left for
work. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Need to talk. Will be home by 7.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Sure. What would you like for dinner?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">No reply. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aria decided to cook up a storm anyway. She
called her mother in India and got the recipes for spicy vegetable pulao, kali
daal and chicken curry, just the way Anand liked it. She wasn’t feeling too
well that day but she still pushed herself to lay out an impressive spread for
her husband. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the middle of her cooking though, Aria
felt nauseas more than once and had to rush to the bathroom to throw up. Attributing
it to stress, she kept going back to the kitchen to finish cooking. However, an
hour and a half later, when she felt dizzy and faint, she turned off the stove
and went to lie down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Suddenly, out of nowhere, a fear gripped
her stomach and shook her whole being. She checked the date on her phone. She
had missed her period. Her date had passed two weeks ago and she hadn’t even
realised it. Her little ‘mistake’ with Robert had happened about a month ago.
No, this could not be happening.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Still feeling faint, Aria gathered herself
and rushed to the medical store below her building. She quickly bought three
pregnancy kits, just to be on the safe side. She knew that she was supposed to
take the test only in the morning, but she couldn’t wait that long. No matter
what the test said now, she would take it again the next day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Half an hour later...<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aria sat on her bathroom floor, head in her
hands. Her worst fear had come true. The little strip had turned pink. She
tried to recollect the sequence of events of that night. Did Robert use a
condom? Was he even carrying one? Try as she might, she couldn’t remember
anything about that night coherently. And no matter how much she hoped, she
knew it couldn’t be Anand’s; their last time was when he was drunk and that was
over three months ago. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This couldn’t be happening. She was trying
to repair her marriage—she was falling in love with Anand. And after days, he
said he wanted to talk. Not today, not now. This problem would have to wait.
She would deal with it tomorrow. For today, she was going to be the perfect
wife. She got up to wear the sari he had given her on their wedding day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Three hours later...<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aria was back on the bathroom floor—this
time with the positive pregnancy test in one hand and divorce papers in the
other. Anand wanted a divorce. He had already signed the papers and just needed
her to sign them. She was then free to go back to India to her parents’. Aria
had tried to beg and plead with him to give her one more chance, but he had
remained stoic. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“My ex had cheated on me. That’s why I
didn’t marry her. You’re no different.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“But I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be a good
wife, I promise.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Good luck being a good wife to someone
else. Please sign the papers and give them to me as soon as possible.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And with that, he had walked out of the
house. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfunPHk_UuRdN87KlWj7oMtJLhmfyBlTvHzSGRUiq_prSnNPpsGKh9Ga-tzI-RD9nT8nI7f04RaVaAhsTqHXfddw0-DHD7s4I7lAdA0-KHuvYWH3NQ4LgTtrTGfvhjn_SPlrCPzc4kp6w/s1600/7c7058657a6a8c2455a10a9c138b5a1c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfunPHk_UuRdN87KlWj7oMtJLhmfyBlTvHzSGRUiq_prSnNPpsGKh9Ga-tzI-RD9nT8nI7f04RaVaAhsTqHXfddw0-DHD7s4I7lAdA0-KHuvYWH3NQ4LgTtrTGfvhjn_SPlrCPzc4kp6w/s320/7c7058657a6a8c2455a10a9c138b5a1c.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<h4 style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Source: http://img.enkivillage.com/s/upload/images/2015/07/7c7058657a6a8c2455a10a9c138b5a1c.jpg</i></span></h4>
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aria lost track of how long she had been
sitting on that bathroom floor, sometimes clutching her stomach and at others
retching her guts out. She stared at the divorce papers for a long time. It was
just as well. She hadn’t even had to tell Anand about her infidelity. According
to him, she was guilty either way. She was a cheat; yes she was. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the matter of a year, Aria had loved,
lost, loved again and lost again. And now she was pregnant. Aria smiled and
signed the papers, before retching into the toilet bowl one more time. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-61092542001472003522016-04-19T08:13:00.000-07:002016-04-19T13:57:07.393-07:00Brand new life = Brand new insecurities<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So, it's been about two and a half months since I moved, bag and baggage, to the United Arab Emirates. Now, when most people move to this country, they say "We are moving to Dubai." If you're wondering why I'm not saying the same thing, well, it's because we have <i>*not*</i> moved to Dubai. We have moved to a northern emirate called Ajman. Yeah, I had to look it up when my husband first got the offer, too.<br />
<br />
Many pros and cons were discussed and debated, friends were consulted and goals were shared... after which we finally made the decision: if not now, then when. There's no better time to move to a new country than when you're a DINK (double income, no kids). So husband moved and I started wrapping up our lives in Bombay--a joint life very carefully and lovingly built, one I wanted to get away from for a while now, and yet when it became a reality, everything was going dark. Anyway, maybe I should save the perils of packing for another post.<br />
<br />
Finally, after what seemed like forever, two months after husband moved, I followed him--no job in hand, just dreams of chilling for a while, becoming a domestic goddess and finding a fancy-pants job within two months. I imagined myself cooking fancy meals, working out like a beast and soon, within two months tops, landing an awesome job to which I would be wearing sexy pencil skirts, sky-high heels and, soon, driving confidently in a cool new ride. I mean, I'm qualified, good at what I do and even came bearing recommendations, meetings already scheduled. What could possibly come in my way? Life, apparently. How soon all my dreams came crashing down.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, so far, it's been a great ride--we're lucky we (read: I) have a bunch of friends here, so every weekend has been a party. If you're moving to a new country, I highly recommend choosing one where you know people... but that's pretty obvious.<br />
<br />
While I did initially enjoy the chilling, the cooking, the setting up of the new home, the not having to be responsible etc., after about all of two weeks, I slowly but surely started losing my mind. Yes, patience is indeed my middle name. Baishali Patience Chatterjee.<br />
<br />
I remember when I went to say goodbye to my editor at Femina, Tanya, and joked about wanting to become a housewife... sorry, homemaker... she rapped me on the knuckles and told me I was made for bigger things. I just threw my head back and laughed, telling her, "But I love to cook!" Little did I know that she clearly knew me better than I knew myself.<br />
<br />
It has, as mentioned earlier, been over two months since I started job hunting in this foreign country, and it has been frustratingly slow, to put it mildly. Yes, I've met a bunch of people, sent out more emails that I have in my entire life, collectively, and generally lost my mind. No biggie.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh__Qk_bQib1Kj6KbpVRbPQO4efQmpHJbaFKaBaW8eYEDXGT54NcMGm_IWtNkoXFN4F3Zl7lSG5nv_8Y089O7I3qy4phRRn-SKS7P9y6IxAIkWnrUYyIrBh4zkDvnJOZWn5EDCCYEgiTOs/s1600/IMG_20160324_172630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh__Qk_bQib1Kj6KbpVRbPQO4efQmpHJbaFKaBaW8eYEDXGT54NcMGm_IWtNkoXFN4F3Zl7lSG5nv_8Y089O7I3qy4phRRn-SKS7P9y6IxAIkWnrUYyIrBh4zkDvnJOZWn5EDCCYEgiTOs/s320/IMG_20160324_172630.jpg" width="120" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPe1RRY58Oqju0RAqOYrOfR_wo_rRpjHILQtMrtLQNj4yAtKaXJHermrcYGS220qlFgODYPi5UuEvHf79ig7DGVluT2HjSzInvcoPoADC5_cRUQks8BijBYbKQOJUpBJxHgbPO6EQbGXw/s1600/IMG_20160308_151655.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPe1RRY58Oqju0RAqOYrOfR_wo_rRpjHILQtMrtLQNj4yAtKaXJHermrcYGS220qlFgODYPi5UuEvHf79ig7DGVluT2HjSzInvcoPoADC5_cRUQks8BijBYbKQOJUpBJxHgbPO6EQbGXw/s320/IMG_20160308_151655.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<i>(Above: What I wore to two meetings/interviews)</i><br />
<b>Pic one:</b><br />
Top: <a href="https://www.hm.com/ae/">H&M</a>; Skirt: <a href="http://www.moaus.com/">MOA collection</a>; Shoes: <a href="http://www.charleskeith.com/ae">Charles & Keith</a><br />
<b>Pic two:</b><br />
Top: <a href="https://www.hm.com/ae/">H&M</a>; Skirt: Hong Kong; Shoes: <a href="http://www.charleskeith.com/ae">Charles & Keith</a><br />
<br />
If anyone ever tells you that moving to a new country is all fun, games and glamour, do not buy it. It <i>*is*</i> great, don't get me wrong. But there is a legit struggle that comes with it. A daily one.<br />
<br />
After spending days hiding in bed, wallowing in self-pity, watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S. over and over and over (yeah. I'm one of those) again, I finally decided to do something with my time. So, at the insistence of many friends, I've restarted this blog, decided to up my social media game (whatever that means), work on that ever-elusive book I've been trying to write for like a gajillion years and <b>*dum dum dum*</b> signed up at a health club here and started swimming lessons!<br />
<br />
It's the last thing that I'm most excited about. I've always loved and feared the water in equal parts, and have always wanted to learn how to swim. One class down, I can already float and glide across the width of the pool <b>*pat pat*</b>. I also attended one of the aerobics classes hosted by the club and basically died. Smoker's stamina and all.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, like I promised, I will continue to share experience from this life-altering move, as well as other things I observe and discover. Expect to see food posts, fashion posts, fitness maybe, weekend scenes, more job-hunt frustration and, hopefully, a lot more.<br />
<br />
To see how I'm upping my social media game, follow me on Instagram (<a href="https://www.instagram.com/baishalic/">baishalic</a>) and Twitter (<a href="https://twitter.com/Chat_Boi">Chat_Boi</a>) <b>*insert self-promotion*</b><br />
<br />
Till next time, toodles! <b>*air kisses*</b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-20673702131966673902016-04-14T14:11:00.001-07:002016-04-14T14:11:39.248-07:00Back from a hiatus?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Two years and eight months. Yeeshk! Been that long since I last posted. Well, at least I lived up to my blog's name *hyuk hyuk*<br />
<br />
Most of you know (cos, let's face it, all my readers are my friends and family), my life has changed drastically since I last posted. Isn't ironic that my last post here was titled "My break from people"? Anyway, I am now married, yes to the man I used to whine most about on the blog, have moved out of the country and am currently (*dum dum dum*) unemployed. So many things I wasn't back then.<br />
<br />
Many, many people have been telling me to get back to my blog, so this is my attempt at just that... at 1am. Very productive.<br />
<br />
I hereby vow to (try to) share my new experiences, deets about the new people I meet, the places I go, the new insecurities that encompass me now, and find new things to whine about :D I've also simplified the template cos I feel more grown-up now, I think.<br />
<br />
Till I write again, here's a photo of the sun rising in the desert... apt, no?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHA29_Yvx5orAQNTGom_f9O04GXOQSS9QUwOlR2sRmd2uuslr7c1lgBdW9MXwIgACIEIg-PUAD5k4IG8N89f2b2Xnj7Ogl_z4nqpWRezHrnUaTueluYk-0i9XoUUg4rZOI1dUITOQ9fK8/s1600/IMG_20160408_060956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHA29_Yvx5orAQNTGom_f9O04GXOQSS9QUwOlR2sRmd2uuslr7c1lgBdW9MXwIgACIEIg-PUAD5k4IG8N89f2b2Xnj7Ogl_z4nqpWRezHrnUaTueluYk-0i9XoUUg4rZOI1dUITOQ9fK8/s320/IMG_20160408_060956.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-29412803735171446982013-08-16T07:48:00.000-07:002013-08-16T07:48:09.067-07:00My break from people<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB">I noticed that my previous post did not
garner nearly as many views or comments as my otherwise personal, venting,
bare-it-all, vulnerable ones do. So does that mean that those are the only
kinds people like reading about? Because they relate to them or because it’s a
voyeuristic universe? I can’t tell. All I know is that I avoided the blog for a
while for precisely this reason—I didn’t want to write vulnerable, whiny posts.
I don’t like whiny people, so why would people tolerate my whiny-ness? Clearly,
I was wrong. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ve been on a break from people lately.
Well, to be fair, I’m slowly slipping back into the game, but for at least for
two weeks back there, I stayed away from most people. Apart from of course my
colleagues, who I see at work. Can’t give up my job—would never do it; it’s
what keeps me going. For those 10-12 hours a day, I forget it all. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The reason I decided to take a break from
people is simply because all of a sudden, for the last few months, my life had
become shrouded with negativity. Nothing in my personal life was going right. I
know I sound dramatic. But when you’re as tiny as I am, all of it can be
overwhelming. My biggest strengths, my friends, were falling apart all around
me. We call each other family, and suddenly all I could see was that this
family was disintegrating before my eyes. The matters of the heart were not
getting better. I was losing people closest to me—either temporarily or
permanently, I couldn’t tell. After a point, I stopped blaming the universe and
world for all that was going wrong, and decided to look inward. It had to be
something to do with me, right? I mean, I could no longer connect with people I
had known for 20 years, some for eight years, and some I had been intimately
connected with for four years. What the hell was going on? My solution—work
till I drop, go straight home and numb my senses (insert what you like here). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, this
seemed to work. For those two weeks that I decided not to see people, not only
did I feel lighter, as I had no expectations, and hence could not feel
disappointed, but certain people who had dropped out of my life, miraculously
reappeared—some for a moment, some maybe for good. Although I said I didn’t
want to see people, I ended up spending time with those I really cared about,
and some time spent on my own in introspection or with my favourite—a ton of
books. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">During this time, the only kind of articles
that kept popping up on my newsfeed, etc., were on love, friendship, the
importance of forgiveness, etc. Very unsettling. Of course, I read them all.
They didn’t help much because the oscillation only continued stronger—one of
those giant pirate ship rides that give you butterflies in your tummy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I am slowly getting back ‘into it’ so as to
speak, but I’m not there yet. And I don’t know whether and when I want to be
‘there’. Doesn’t it just sound cooler that I have no time from my hectic job to
socialise or to think about my broken heart, etc? I think so. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-82905992983032768362013-08-12T08:33:00.002-07:002013-08-12T08:33:37.694-07:00Medicine - a money making machine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I’m
literally sick of doctors. Not just in that I hate visiting doctors, hospitals,
clinics and popping pills. But I am truly sick and tired of the kind of doctors
I’ve met lately—and all of them seem to be the same. Unfortunately, I’ve had a
host of problems lately which has led me into the cabins of a gynaecologist, an
ENT specialist, a dentist and an orthopaedic. And every single experience has
been horrific and blood-boiling, to put it mildly. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Gynaecologists
are supposed to be gentle, understanding and patient. The one I met, supposedly
a famous one, was anything but these. On first glance, she is a sweet old lady
who treats you like a grandchild. But during the course of my two very short
visits I discovered that she was impatient, snappy and rough—too busy to spend
time on one patient; she had money to make! This woman was so terrible that she
literally drove me to tears and I vowed never to return to her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">My ENT
doctor has been one I’ve been going to for the last three years or so. He’s
told me the same thing every time—I have a recurring infection. But I was never
thinking clearly; to me, he eased my excruciating pain and that made me want to
go back to him every time. He also instructed me to visit only one particular
pharmacy for the medicines he prescribed, every single time. I never quite saw
through this till my friends pointed it out. The last time I went to him, I was
adamant not to go to the particular chemist so that he doesn’t get his cut.
Thereafter, I visited at least 8-10 chemists across the city and none of them
had all the medicines. Apart from this, he has always been full of personal
questions (he remarkably remembers every single detail of my personal life,
that I foolishly shared before) and does not get the hint when I don’t want to
discuss it with him. I’m simply going to find a new ENT the next time my
problem resurfaces. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Finally, I
went to an orthopaedic a few days ago. He checked me out (after which my pain
was only exacerbated) and after making some small talk, I exited his cabin to
pay the OPD fee. It’s only then that I discovered that the fee for his moving
around my wrist for less than 10 minutes was a whopping 1,000 bucks. I sighed
but relented. Since I wasn’t carrying that much cash I asked whether I could
either go to an ATM to withdraw the money or could pay by card. The lady at the
desk said I would have to pay by card but would have to pay 200 bucks extra
(this was after she had a quick conversation with the blessed doctor). Again, I
sighed and relented. It was my fault that I hadn’t asked how much the fee was
before I came and that I didn’t carry enough cash. I specifically asked her for
a bill, which she said she would furnish once the payment was done. I was taken
downstairs where I made the card payment and then returned to the very polite
lady’s desk to ask for my bill. I was then rudely told that the doctor had left
and I would have to come back for the receipt. I was fuming, especially since I
had already made it clear that I need the bill—1200 bucks isn’t a small amount.
She put her hands up and asked me to speak directly to the doctor.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I did send
the good doctor a message who categorically told me that he cannot give me a
receipt till he receives the cash in hand, which could take up to seven to ten
days. In the interim, he told me, the hospital would give me a bill. Utter
bullshit, either way. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">What has
happened to the honour associated with the medical profession? Yes, money is important
for all of us, I don’t deny that. But for a doctor, is that all it’s about?
Wasn’t the profession supposed to be about helping and healing people? When did
it become about fastest money first, at the expense (literally) of their poor
suffering patients?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I have
truly had it with these miserable creatures. I’m so tempted to name each one of
these doctors, but I’m using every last ounce of willpower to refrain from
doing so. Henceforth, I’d prefer to either let my problems solve themselves, or
take bloody good care of myself so that I don’t have to keep going back to
them—alone, that too. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-34640788276793630122013-07-22T04:12:00.000-07:002013-07-22T04:12:28.504-07:00Feminaaaaa :)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Read my stories on femina.in! And read my friends stories on femina.in. They're all fun!<br />
<br />
Here's my latest one:<br />
<br />
http://femina.in/editors-blog/in-search-of-home-1553.html<br />
<br />
I'm a serial mover, so this is something about them. And please, tell me what you think about the stuff I write too; and what you would like us to write about. Talk to me, peeps! Lots of love xx</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-28298707188560550082013-07-18T07:39:00.004-07:002013-07-19T00:19:29.834-07:00Memoirs at a vineyard<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The word
‘lush’ is truly justified by the green terrain offered by Maharashtra
and its countryside. Drive to anywhere in the state, outside the main cities,
and the colour you will encounter will blow you away. Luckily for me, I’ve
enjoyed this lush greenery, time and time again, in the last eight years. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For me, the
Sula vineyard in Nashik is steeped in memories. Memories of a long drive
through the countryside; of endless vines inviting love and lust into the
horizon; of twirling delicious wine in glasses, gingerly sipping it at leisure;
of fingers entwined with a light, loving caress here and there; of a head on a
shoulder, staring out into the vision that is the vineyard, together; of that
look when that song is played for the first time; of endless photos taken,
capturing moments never to return…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For the
first time since I first visited Sula in 2009/10, I was given an opportunity to
make new memories, while reliving the old ones through the mist of rain. I just
spent three days at the Sula vineyard with the entire team of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/feminawoman?fref=ts">Femina</a>, and what
an experience was had! Do you blame me for being a blissfully happy workaholic
who is head over heels in love with her job?</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJX7ZHzHgJ-c0Z_wuqVxbsxudsOf-y7ZfrUAIJmVYoBp9no07gBpLiM9onvJ5qewvI_-e3NDEOXLFPjEfIlHAg36vOI7PfHjKfTgkk17SogMQ6w9JfFo9nGTDKVfUiH_WadgycBRg79M/s1600/team.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJX7ZHzHgJ-c0Z_wuqVxbsxudsOf-y7ZfrUAIJmVYoBp9no07gBpLiM9onvJ5qewvI_-e3NDEOXLFPjEfIlHAg36vOI7PfHjKfTgkk17SogMQ6w9JfFo9nGTDKVfUiH_WadgycBRg79M/s320/team.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I think
beauty and nature inspire every artist—be it a painter, writer or a poet. So
why should I be left behind? Since I arrived late on a Monday morning, this
blog post has been cooking in my mind. I’m sure the one in my mind read better,
but this had to be put down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW-wtwrsn9bJZoBJjdFzsSV3p2zPYosC1j6Iu_X7EmpS48hYATykKdBfSwJ-MVR_KqMbkS2VIqQvKdgXMMXRNROJmOqLF4ZYt0JFNOi25s11oFrGONby1CTtBhaarTST8npJkcjUjCpvg/s1600/sula+vineyard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW-wtwrsn9bJZoBJjdFzsSV3p2zPYosC1j6Iu_X7EmpS48hYATykKdBfSwJ-MVR_KqMbkS2VIqQvKdgXMMXRNROJmOqLF4ZYt0JFNOi25s11oFrGONby1CTtBhaarTST8npJkcjUjCpvg/s320/sula+vineyard.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The thing
with memories is that it can make you happy and sad in equal proportion.
Reliving good times will bring a smile to your face, yet the knowledge that
those times will never return make your heart sink to your feet. And then you
realise that you’re lonely. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Loneliness
is a damned thing. It’s extremely difficult for most of us to admit that we’re
lonely, even to ourselves; and yet, it’s one of the most common things felt
among people of all ages, especially ones living away from home in big, bad
cities. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">When you
have to go from enjoying someone’s company to suddenly not having that company
every single day, you will get lonely. You may have friends and colleagues
around; your job will distract you; and substances like alcohol and drugs will
blur your memory into oblivion. But try as you might, admit it or not, that
loneliness creeps in. It’s sad, depressing, heartwrenching and frustrating—more
so because you’re feeling sorry for the one person who matters the most to you;
you. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I suppose
realising that you’re not alone in your loneliness, and that different people
have different manifestations of it, helps somewhat. Once you realise and admit
that you’re lonely, the process to get over the self-pity and self-deprecating stance
can begin. Sula refreshed me this time, especially since I had a particularly
lonely weekend in a house I don’t like. So I intend to change that. If I’m
going to stay here for a while (and I must!) and I’m going to spend plenty of
time there, I might as well get over my “I don’t give a shit about this place”
attitude and get down to start prettying the place up. So that’s the agenda of
this weekend. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">If you read
this blog regularly enough, you’ll know how often I oscillate between
positivity and mindnumbing pessimism and depression. So I don’t promise that
this streak will continue, but fingers crossed. I hope my next post can be of
how I made my new apartment and room into home. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Till then,
visit Sula vineyard, and have a glass of the Sula Late Harvest Dessert Wine on
me. Cheers!</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-86673781520005477532013-07-10T09:07:00.000-07:002013-07-10T09:07:17.889-07:00Learning it all the hard way<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So I’ve
been chastised lately by several peeps for my lack of regularity in updating
this blog. Truth is, I’ve been avoiding it. There, I said it. For the first
time since I started writing here, I don’t want a bare-it-all kinda post, and
yet I fear, that as soon as I start typing, my mind will automatically go into
vulnerable and open-to-all mode. And right now, for a reason I can’t quite
fathom, I don’t want to do that. But let’s see how this goes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">There’s
been an overhaul of sorts in my life in the last month or so. An overhaul I’ve
been through a few times in the past, so I guess it makes me stronger every
time, yet something that gnaws and chews at me every time, nonetheless. This
overhaul has led to a new abode which I’m still trying to get used to, with
very little luck. People have been giving me all sorts of ideas to spruce
things up in my home but I just don’t feel like it. Maybe in time…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I’ve learnt
some hard lessons lately, questioned a number of decisions I’ve made, and
wondered where my life is taking me. Wondered about the things that I’ve been
so clear and confident about till now. I’ve learnt that no matter what and who,
everyone has their own lives and priorities and the sooner you accept this, the
easier things will get—so don’t expect others to pick you up. I’ve now realised
why people stay in bad marriages and relationships, or forgive their partners
for cheating and murder, or search high and low for a new partner, or settle
for much less than they want or deserve—for the companionship and security they
otherwise provide. I’m not condoning it, nor am I dismissing it. I just
understand it now. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I’ve learnt
that you feel differently about different people, and the degrees vary as
well—how you feel for someone and how they feel for you. I’ve learnt that
sometimes your strongest convictions are shattered, but having them shattered
just once usually isn’t enough. You’re not going to learn to give up or let go
unless you’ve been trampled on several times over. Yet, somehow, you emerge
strong—out of no choice. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But I
suppose the toughest lesson I’ve learnt is that planning and giving your all to
anything at all usually goes unrewarded. Because at the end of the day, it’s
all about your destiny, which you can’t fight—try. I’ve learnt that you can get
your heart broken by the same person over and over again, and it hurts the same,
every time. I’ve learnt that expectations are worth nothing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Today’s an
especially emo day for me cos it’s the happy buddays of two very special men in
my life. Two people who I’ve turned to, leant on and given my all to, in
varying degrees, over the years. Two people I love deeply, in different ways,
but who matter to me greatly, whether they are in my life or not. Sadly, I saw
neither today, for completely different reasons. And I guess that just makes me
sadder. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The big fat
silver lining to this phase though, is that I’m completely and totally in love
with my job. I’m being branded a whacko workaholic, but I don’t mind. This job
distracts me, lets me do what I love doing, what I’m passionate about, pays me
and gives me credit for it, and lets me be me. Femina, the magazine, the
website, the people—all of it makes me inexplicably happy. I hope I never lose
this spark, because after almost two years, I feel ambitious and focused again;
and I suppose I wouldn’t trade this feeling for the world. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-45971900508199232662013-06-14T08:05:00.002-07:002013-06-14T08:05:29.274-07:00Complexion - a dark tale<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Two of the
worst things you can be born as in this country are being born a girl and being
born dark-skinned. I inadvertently committed the crime of being born as both. One
of my parents was devastated when said parent was told I was a girl, while the
other was in tears when said other saw my skin tone—not the blushing cherubic
little flower the parent was promised. I choose to not disclose which parent
felt which emotion—one said parent reads this blog regularly, and the other one
seemingly gets regular updates from it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">That India is
obsessed with fair skin is a widely known, almost accepted fact. While
advertising for alcohol and cigarettes is illegal, and the manufacturers of
Rooh Afza are suing the makers of Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani because their
sentiments were hurt with some dialogue in the film, propagating fairness and
suggesting that dark women have no confidence, cannot get ahead in their
careers or will not get married, is perfectly acceptable and legal. Indians are
known as brown-skinned all over the world and very fair skin is less common
than dusky skin in the country, and yet, we all want to be fair. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I just read
somewhere how even the words attached to each are so loaded with prejudice—fair
(justice and equal) as opposed to dark (evil and twisty). I couldn’t agree
more. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I grew up
genuinely feeling bad about the skin colour I was born with—my mother and
sister are both far fairer than I am. My mother, apparently, was as dark as I
am, but once she moved to the US,
the air and fruits of a foreign country turned her into the Cinderella version
of fair. This was supposed to console me; that some day I, too, would be fair. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Relatives
would always tell me, “Oh my God, why are you / have you become so dark?” Umm,
you’ve seen me for years, when was the last time I was, err, fair? I still get
it. Every time I go back home, some relative or neighbour will tell me how I’ve
become darker. I’ve also been told how a photo of me with my very fair best
friend looks like a black and white one. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">My mother
would return from weddings and give me a lowdown—what food was served, how the
groom looked and most importantly, how pretty (or not) the bride was. And so
very often I would get this: She was very pretty, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rongta ektu chanpa</i> (literally translated to her colour was a little
covered / suppressed, ie. she was dark), but still, pretty. As if it’s a holy
miracle that this girl with dark skin is pretty. How in God’s name did that
happen? Must’ve been a fluke. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I don’t
blame my mother. This is the country she grew up in, how progressive can she
be? As I grew up, I developed and kind of, well, blossomed into my own, and
started first accepting and then enjoying my ‘dusky’ skintone. People started
complimenting me on my complexion, and first boys, and then men, started to get
attracted to me largely because of the colour of my skin. I was initially
surprised but once that faded, I revelled in it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Today, I
love my complexion. Often, I’ve tried to close my eyes and imagine what I’d
look like fair, and frankly I cannot picture it. It just seems far too alien. My
complexion, my hair and my eyes kinda grew on me, and everyone else. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Recently, I
was on a weekend trip with my bunch, and the conversation veered to this very topic.
My very opinionated friend seemed to take offence to the word ‘dusky’ as
opposed to ‘dark’. She believes that by using dusky as a euphemism for dark,
we’re further propagating this bias against the dark-skinned. Needless to say,
she is not dark-skinned. While I wholeheartedly agree with her principle, I
chose to sit this one out. Simply because she has not grown up with the kind of
jibes and insults you have to hear when you’re of a certain colour. For those
who have, and if they prefer to be dusky over dark, then so be it—whatever it takes
to not hurt your feelings or pick at a raw wound. So I understand the
preference of dusky over dark. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Frankly, I
no longer give a shit about how my complexion is termed. That’s not to say that
I didn’t grow up with a major complex, serious self-esteem issues (which,
honestly, are not all gone), and just very hurt at the fact that my close ones
thought me to be less beautiful than others because of something I was born
with and that was completely out of my control. Which is also a reason I never
use the word ugly, on principle. Or fat, for that matter, but these are for
another post. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The
entertainment industry the world-over today is flooded with ‘dusky’ women, and
more are still sought out. I am dark, dusky, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chanpa</i>, whatever you’d like to call it—but yes, I don’t cringe when
I look into a mirror, and that’s more than enough for my self-confidence. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-90426300517615639602013-06-11T07:17:00.001-07:002013-06-11T07:17:03.694-07:00Title-less<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I’ve been
meaning to write for a while now but have been at a loss for words. I know,
that’s a first. ‘Lots’ has been going on and yet nothing. My mind is a mess and
yet a blank slate. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I’m packing
again. I’m packing up my entire life in Bombay
in boxes and suitcases, just like I did three months ago and three months
before that. It’s funny how your entire being comes down to just a few boxes
and assets. Some you take with you and some you leave behind. Well, I suppose
you leave behind far more. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I met a
very special man last year who told me I’ll never settle in one place, and that
I’ll probably be touring the whole world and be happy. I’m beginning to
wonder—maybe he got this one wrong. Maybe he meant to say that I’ll never
settle in one home; that the vagabond life, much as I hate it (since it’s
within the same city) is the one for me; no choice there. Damn, that’s
depressing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Yes, I was
in search of my happiness and for a while there, I found it. Rediscovered
myself and all that. But once the rose-tinted glasses come off, you realise
that the smile you’ve found is just temporary and perhaps just a way to put off
dealing with real life, the way you’re whole life is about to change, as you
know it. We all crave change and yet it’s scary to actually face it, isn’t it?
When you, till a point in your life, were so convinced that it’s headed in a
certain and then poof—in just a moment, it’s all gone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">On top of
all this, you have worry—not for yourself, because you know that no matter
what, you’ll survive just about anything. Yes, it’s strength of sorts, but not
out of strength of character so much as it is from lack of choice. Life doesn’t
throw me lemons; it chucks melons at me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But you’re
worrying about those in your life, those close to you, or at least, those who
were close to you at some point. What do you do when you can see someone you
care about deeply heading down a dangerous path? You know it, the world can see
it, hell, s/he knows it too—but will just not do anything about it. Paying heed
to your worries is obviously not an option; you’d not be here if it was, to
begin with. How do you tackle something that you can see slipping out of the
person’s control, with helplessness setting in? Do you sit back and let that
person destroy himself? Do you walk away because you can’t watch him doing so,
well aware that he will, indeed, destroy himself? Or do you fight to save him,
at the risk of your feelings, self-respect and perhaps any possibility of a
relationship with the person, being destroyed along with him? These aren’t
rhetorical questions; I’m genuinely throwing this out there, cos I’m helpless
and clueless. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In the
midst of all this, I think the universe is trying to send out a message. People
have been dropping like flies—excuse the crudeness. This is odd, because people
die everyday, but the nation and the world only cares when it’s someone famous,
or even remotely famous. Did Jiah Khan make the right decision to end her life?
Maybe not; but unless you’re in her shoes, maybe that comment should not be
made. Committing suicide takes a whole load of guts (no, it’s not cowardly).
Many of us have had the thought cross our minds as some point, but have
subsequently chickened out. It’s only when life gets unbearable and that pain
in your gut is so excruciating that you can’t breathe, that you take such an
extreme step. I’m not condoning it nor am I condemning it. My only point in
this would be—no matter how crappy your life is, there are still enough people
who love you to bits; think about what would happen to them if you were
suddenly gone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I suddenly
find myself a little dazed, a little confused and quite scared. I thought I was
ready for something, but I find myself suddenly recoiling. I thought I was
ready to take a certain step, but when I see it becoming even a little bit of a
reality, I just want to find a rock and crawl under it. Damn, this rock has
been mentioned too often—really is time to find it. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-36273914433893890952013-05-28T05:47:00.004-07:002013-05-28T05:47:48.282-07:00Hakuna Matata<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The word ‘priorities’ has been thrown around a lot in my
life lately—by me, to me, etc. So, it seems only natural that I write something
about it. I’m not sure what it will be but I’m hoping that it comes to me as I
type. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lots and lots of stuff have been happening in my life, I
won’t deny it. My friends (and I, too) get surprised at the number of updates I
have for them every time I see them (which is sometimes every day). But I’m not
getting into all of that now. The point is that the last month or so has taught
me about the importance of priorities. Apparently it decides a lot about your
life, what you should do, who you should keep, where you should go and
generally where your life is headed. And I don’t just mean what your priorities
are, but where you figure in other people’s priorities too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s pretty simple, isn’t it? For most of us, our jobs and
careers are our first priorities. And this doesn’t just mean how much money
you’re earning, or how awesome your company is, but also how happy you are at your
job. Job satisfaction usually is the priority, or at least should be, because
if you ain’t happy at the place you spend ten hours a day, five to six days a
week, you’re a lil screwed, buddy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s after the job bit that the confusion and trouble
starts. If you tell your girlfriend/boyfriend that your job is your first
priority, they can’t really complain (or at least shouldn’t). The trouble is
with the lack of honesty in figuring your priorities. You can’t tell someone
that s/he is your first and foremost priority but in reality, treat him/her
like the garbage you forget to throw out. Job first, friends second, family
third, fun, games and alcohol, fourth… and buried under many more such
priorities is you—at number 137. Nice. No thanks, I’ll take my priorities
elsewhere, please. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lately, a number of people have told me that I’m looking
happier than ever before (or at least in a long time). I did not see that
coming. Some people attribute it to a certain major (once again) change that’s
happened in my life, which technically should leave me unhappy, but isn’t—if
that makes sense. Others attribute it to my new job (I am inclined to go with
this one). There are a couple of other guesses which I’d rather keep off the
blog for now. But the long and short of it is that apparently, I am finally
prioritising myself—first. What I want to do, how I want to do it, and who I
want to do it with—this comes before anything and anyone else. Lucky for me and
them, my family and friends are extensions of my being—so my happiness comes
only from having them around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know what it is, but I have been feeling lighter
lately—working hard and partying just as hard. I’ve been waiting around for
some people to make me a priority for so long, that I guess I finally
snapped—and it just doesn’t matter anymore. Will it ever matter again? Your
guess is as good as mine. Till then, I intend to use this apparent happiness on
my face to the benefit of my skin—you know what they say, right, if you’re
happy from inside, your skin glows and all that. Let’s see if it works. Oh, and
I watched Lion King recently and Hakuna Matata is stuck in my head. I’ll take
that as a good sign <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Means no worries… for the rest of our days…</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-59448098235379064112013-05-07T06:21:00.002-07:002013-05-08T23:59:57.647-07:00Mission happiness, apparently. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<![endif]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I should
not call myself a blogger. Shame on me. In my defence, I literally have no
time, and weekends are not for laptops and typing. Weak defence, I know. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So here we
are again. Relationships all around me are crumbling—and by crumbling, I’m
being polite. Misery indeed does love company, karma seems to agree with that. Why
is it so difficult to maintain a relationship, especially when two people
*claim* to be in love? Clearly, you’re not in love enough. People say, we’re in
love, but love isn’t enough. In fact, I say that all the time. Well the truth,
I think, is not that love isn’t enough; it’s just that your love isn’t enough
to make it work. Because, call me idealistic, but if you really love someone in
the *unconditional-swept-off-your-feet-inconvenient-delirious* sort of way,
then won’t you move heaven and hell to make it work? To be with that person
till your last breath? I realise that I sound dramatic and filmy, but that’s
the kind of love I’d like to believe in. Not that it happens, least of all to
me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I recently read
a meme that said “Unless it’s mad, passionate, extraordinary love, it’s a waste
of time. There are too many mediocre things in life. Love should not be one of
them.” I could not agree more. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">When you’re
with someone, that someone should make you feel like you’re “the only girl (or
guy) in the world” (courtesy, Rihanna)—that you’re beautiful, caring,
passionate, fun and just the best thing that ever happened to that person.
Unfortunately, much of our self-worth is dependent on the *certain someone* in
our lives. Unfair and terrible I know, but true (deny it all you want). But the
truth also is that if the person you’re with makes you feel any less, then
perhaps this is not the person meant for you. Or perhaps you are not the person
meant for him/her. And if the feelings you are feeling about yourself, being
with this person, is negative or veering in that direction, walk away. Take
that walk of reason and walk away—you’ll do both a favour and give yourself and
your *certain someone* a chance at happiness with someone else. To feel good
about yourself with someone who will make you feel like that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">When s/he
looks at you, you should feel the connection, the tingle running through your
body like electricity—no matter how long you’ve been together. If you’re in
public and s/he touches you lightly, you should want to leave and rush home to
tear each other’s clothes off. S/he should be the first and last person you
want to see every day, and also the first person you want to talk to if
anything major or not-so-major happens. Doesn’t sound that difficult, right?
Wrong. Apparently, asking for love, intimacy, loyalty, compromise and other
such things in a relationship is like asking someone to squeeze water out of a
diamond ring. Random analogy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And then
there are the distractions—a sureshot sign that it’s time to move on. These
distractions can be anything from your friends, some unhealthy substances or a
new person. This is tricky, because whatever you do is, at the end of the long-ass
day, your decision and your consequences. Good luck with that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Unfortunately,
the decision to pick up the pieces of your broken heart and move on with your
life, possibly with someone new, is not an easy game. In the real world,
especially when you’re an outsider fending for yourself, many other practical
factors come into play. So do you concentrate on mending your broken heart,
moving on, or fixing the logistics of your life? All of them together, it
seems. Joy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So here’s
how I cope, or should cope, or plan to cope. I will do what makes me happy,
comfortable and makes me smile. That may mean being with my friends till the
point that they want to kick me out of their homes; eating lots of chocolate,
red velvet cupcakes and chai, following it up with a strenuous hour at the gym
(cos, you know, you’re back in the market and you gotta look good too, right?
The parents are going to start asking you for your ‘nice’ photos, whatever that
means); or flirting with that new person who sends shivers down to your… err…
spine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So often
I’ve been told, “Happiness is intrinsic; unless you’re happy, you can’t make
anyone else happy. That’s what I do, and so should you.” Point taken, me lord!
Hunting now for the happiness within, no matter what and how that may be done. Awrighty
then. Mission happiness is underway. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-75019136125951855132013-04-23T01:03:00.002-07:002013-04-23T02:45:01.948-07:00Two to everything<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<![endif]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So I
suppose I can finally share my awesomely good news. I have a pretty cool new
job. I am happy and most are very proud of me, most being the operative word.
People who read this blog and know me, know what this job is. I’ll probably
talk more about it in subsequent posts, but for now—baby steps. All I can say
though, is that this could well become my dream job. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Unfortunately,
the euphoria of this great life event has been significantly dulled, as I
mentioned in my previous post, due to the behaviour of certain others. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">God has a
twisted, strange and evil sense of humour, I’ve come to the conclusion. Long
ago, he brought a man into my life and made me entirely and completely
dependent on him, without letting me realise this. And then suddenly, right
when I was at the cusp of making some life-shaping decisions, for which I
definitely needed him, he took him away—literally, one fine morning. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He gave me
a sister who I am extremely close to but made a life for her that is thousands of
miles away, so that I get to see her only about one every five years. How nice.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Then, after
many bumps and falls, he gave me the almost-perfect love story. For the longest
time, no fights, no ego, no communication problems—only love, laughter and lots
of fun. People would look at us and say we’re perfect for each other, the
cutest couple they’ve ever seen, etc etc. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Now, I was
prepared for the honeymoon period ending. Nothing is ever that good for too
long. But come on! How can you go from being crazy in love and having eyes for
only one another, to constantly bickering, ignoring each other, understanding
and accepting the differences between each other and yet, steadfastly not doing
anything about it, regularly humiliating one or the other, and thinking only of
yourself? How?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A
relationship, any relationship, but more so a romantic one, is co-dependent. No
one is asking you to give up your own identity, or your own life for that
matter—but there is a certain amount of cause-and-effect that happens, a
dependency on each other, and most importantly, a need and desire to make each
other your top priorities, that is, if you’re looking at a potential future
together. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">You need
two to tango; to clap, you need two hands; to kiss, you need two pairs of lips;
to fight, you need two lungs and two sets of ego; to work out an issue, you
need two compromising souls; and to make a relationship successful, it takes
two. Take away your partner and you’ll look like a fool on the tango dance-floor
(if there is such a thing); take away one hand, and you’ll look really stupid
holding up the other in anticipation of a clap; take away a pair of lips and
all you have is a pout—doesn’t come close to a kiss… you get my drift.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Just one
person cannot invest time, energy and love into a relationship. You can judge
whether or not the person you’re with respects you by observing how s/he treats
the people around you, and how s/he treats you around people. If your partner
does not respect you, or the people in your life, or if you feel a lack of
respect for him/her and those in his/her life, the relationship is unlikely to
work. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The most
ironic thing is that my certain someone sent me a mail recently about how
falling in love is easy, but sustaining that love is that much harder—it’s not
about whether you’re with the right person, but about learning to love the
person you’re with, and no matter what, sticking it out and making it work. But
both need to work at it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The article
also talks about how many search and find solace from the demanding relationship
outside of it—most commonly by cheating, but sometimes also by turning to
alcohol, friends, or anything that keeps you away from the better or <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">bitter</b> half (latter adjective courtesy
of a friend). Do you really expect your problems to disappear by staying away
from each other and piling on the nastiness? Or is this the easy escape route? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I find God
even more bizarre for having made human relationships and emotions so bloody
complicated. Do you think the animal kingdom is wrought with such issues? I
mean, Olive Ridley turtles mate and then the male turtle swims away God-alone
knows where, while the female turtle returns to the mating spot to nest (as
usual, the man gets off easy. I know, at this point, some people are going to
bring up the Sea Horse, but really, let’s look at the ratio, shall we, people?)
The point is, I doubt either the male or female turtle gives a shit about the
fact that they may never see each other again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We’re still
not sure about life outside Earth, but I’m confident, and hopeful, that these
un-earthly beings are free from the kind of emotional baggage we humans carry. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It’s easy
to lose each other, break the trust your partner has in you and take each other
for granted, and it’s that much harder to maintain and work at a relationship
to make you happy, in the long and short term. It’s up to you to decide what
you’d rather do. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I know,
this is another one of em bare-all posts for which I’ll receive both flak and
encouragement. But like I’ve said before, I’m a writer, this is how I do it,
this is my blog and I’ll do as I please. If you are a part of my life in any
capacity, it’s likely that you will be written about. No offence intended, if
you don’t like it, you’re welcome to stop clicking. For the others, share share
and share some more, the crap you have to deal with in your twosomes as well. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-49211498354598016062013-04-09T06:43:00.001-07:002013-04-09T23:24:46.718-07:00Leap of faith or walk of reason?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Something amazing has happened. Like really
amazing. I can’t tell you what it is yet, but shortly, very shortly. And this
is an amazing thing that I’ve been waiting for, for a long time. And it’s
happened, but I’m waiting for it to really actually truly happen before
rejoicing. You know? No, how will you, what with me being this vague. Soonly, I
promise. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The point is, despite this awesome thing
happening to me, it was immediately, if not even before, negated, or rather annihilated,
by something not-so-nice that happened (read: positively awful). Of course,
right? How can life, even for a day, be perfectly good and in sync? Nah, too
much to ask for. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ve got this sinking feeling. It’s one of
those feelings that is sadness mixed with anxiety and some dread thrown in,
stirred up with a trickle of joy. Bizarre. Will it or will it not? Should I or
should I not? What I’m asking right now is, should I take a leap of faith or
take a walk or reason?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The leap of faith means that despite
knowing that the odds are stacked against me, I follow my heart and go with
what I want. The walk of reason would mean that judging by the height of the
odds piled up against tiny, l’il ol’ me, I do what I should do, and not
necessarily what I want to do, and walk away. Of course, it’s never that easy,
is it? Too much at stake, too much to lose. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If I take the leap of faith, no doubt I’ll
*probably* be happier in the short term—probably being the operative word. I
might even be happier in the long run, too. But will I always wonder... what
if? Is it...? Should we have...? Can you truly be happy with these many
questions looming in your mind for.the.rest.of.your.life?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If I take the walk of reason, for a very
long short term, I will be miserable—tried and tested. But in the longer long
run, does it make more sense, a better call of judgement? No easy answer is
there? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And of course, while my mind and heart play
this tug of war of decision, I am just confused. How do I behave? Do I pull
back or give in? Love or let go?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">During this entire internal turmoil that's searing
through me, I did a weekend away with my family away from home—well at least
some of them. One of my closest friends is leaving the city for a year to study
and all that – bleh – so we decided to spend our last weekend together at a
beach far away (more like in the back of beyond’s bum). But the further the
better, and a blast was had (not the kind of blast I had on my birthday, but
you know, metaphorically). This included tossing about a football (yea,
apparently I can do that), playing taboo, and making the YMCA of our
silhouettes against the setting sun. Maybe it didn’t quite turn out to be the
YMCA, but ah well. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So often, when I’m with these guys, I
wonder, what would I do without them? I mean, there are only so many people in
the world in front of whom you can look like a mess and not give a shit, have
no shame or any such thing with, and discuss absolutely anything, including
detailed conversations on bowel movement. Apart from of course, knowing each
other better than we know ourselves. I think everyone deserves to have friends
like this—if you don’t, you have no clue the kind of madness you’re missing out
on. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One of the things we also spoke about is
friends. How most of us have a different person to go to with different
problems, but some of us have that one go-to person for just about everything,
who will not judge and yet will be brutally honest with you (I do have one, and
she does both, which is why I can’t do without her –she’s grinning ear-to-ear
reading this, I’m sure). Over the years, those friends and your go-to people
also change; they’re bound to—distance, growing up, jobs, partners and all come
in the way. Does that mean you should no longer be friends with or close to the
person who was once your go-to person? Certainly not. That person may have
taken a different space in your life but if s/he mattered to you at some point,
s/he will matter always. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I randomly think of people I called friends
once upon a time. I think of her giggle while we slept over at her place, I
think of his laughter at the bad jokes we cracked at the many house parties, I
think of his hug at the end of a long day, I think of her tears when we were
saying goodbye and the letter she wrote to me, calling me her sister, I think
of the three-way phone calls with both of them late into the night. They all mattered so much back then and
today, when we are no longer in each others’ lives, I still think of them—even though
I may have been friends with them many, many years, almost a lifetime, ago. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I suppose you have to cut some people out
to make way for the new—friends, lovers, relatives, etc. But it’s tough, and
frankly, a little depressing. Sometimes, I wish, I could have em all back, just
as always, and just keep adding more, till my life is exploding with love and
laughter, and I still greedily ask for more. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’m aware I’ve made little sense today,
pardon me. But sometimes, you just gotta let it out. And guess what, I can—cos that’s
what writers do. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-56608077733121012772013-03-18T02:47:00.002-07:002013-03-19T00:07:17.324-07:00Happy birthday, Procrastinator! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So March 21 is my first blog’s first happy
budday! Wow, a year passed by fast, and I’ve been a *fairly* regular blogger. I
said fairly! But there are tons of things I learnt in this last year, via this
blog and otherwise. Here are some. Oh! And my blog has crossed 5000 hits! I know that might be a piddly number for some other famous, cool, writer kind of bloggers, but for me, this is big! Back to the list. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">People actually read what I
write. And even wait for my posts. :-o</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">I truly am a procrastinator. I
procrastinate on everything. Sigh. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">I throw some kickass parties. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">No matter what, your girls are
always there for you. A hearty laugh with them can cure many a heartache. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Change is the only constant in
life. Relationships change, feelings change, equations change, you change. Not
all change is bad. Sometimes, embracing change is good. It opens up new
metaphorical doors and all that. Sometimes it’ll open up a new physical door
too, like the one to a new apartment or a new job.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">When a man starts chatting you
up five minutes into meeting you, in person or via some sort of technological
communication device, chances are that he’s trying to get into your pants. On
learning that you are not interested / available, chances are that he will
disappear. If he doesn’t, then he’s a good man and you should stay friends with
him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Even the tightest, most intimate
friendships can develop cracks in them. These are the ones you have to fight
for the most, try the hardest with, and will be the most awkward with. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Never take anyone in your life
for granted—not your partner, friend or family. It’s important to keep making the
people in your life feel special. It doesn’t cost anything. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Family is extremely important,
no matter how dysfunctional yours may be. They will stand by
you through it all. The moments you spend with them are priceless. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">As important, if not more, is
the family you choose outside your blood relations. They don’t have to, but
they still do. That speaks volumes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">The one thing that binds people
together, across religion, sex, cast, creed and other such stereotypical
demographics is love, and generally, matters of the heart—relationships,
break-ups, sex, etc. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Marriages and relationships
will shatter all over the place, all the time. Do not judge your own
relationship on the basis of that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">No matter how long ago you’ve
lost a loved one, the pain never reduces, the wound never heals. You will still
find yourself tearing up randomly on a regular basis. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">There will be some people
(read: friends) who will surprise you with their selfishness and insensitivity.
Sometimes, it’s all about them or nothing at all. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">There will also be a whole lot
of people who will surprise you with their loyalty and love, over years and
decades. Hold on to these people for dear life. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Love is not what they show in Hindi
movies. Neither are break-ups or make-ups. There are no Hindi sad songs playing
in the background. Everyone’s story is different and yet we all connect. Don’t
expect the romance to be alive, day in, day out, year in, year out. But if,
even after being together for two years or more, you can look at the person googly-eyed
and wonder how you love this person so, consider yourself lucky. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Online shopping is evil. It’s
so wonderful that it’s awful. Don’t succumb; it’s too late for me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">If reading is not one of your
habits, you’re seriously losing out—books, online, anything. In the past year I’ve
discovered that I can read anything—anything. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Having siblings is THE best.
Nothing beats that bond. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">A mother’s intuition is never
wrong. Beware. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Symbol;">·</span><span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span>My father reads my blog,
pretty regularly. My chats with him are always entertaining, in person or
online. It’s a quirky relationship.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Being a woman in this country
sucks. And it’s unlikely to ever get better. Excuse the pessimism. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">No matter how forward and
open-minded you are / want to be, you find yourself succumbing to peer /
societal pressures. It just makes life easier sometimes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">I am not as ambitious,
passionate or driven as I used to be. And that depresses the life out of me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Whatsapp is awesome. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; text-indent: -0.25in;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Holidays, weekend getaways,
days off, are all underrated. Not that I’m getting or have gotten in the last
year, much of any.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol;">· </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Life is never as awful or dramatic as it is in your head. Live a little; fun will become :) </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span>So there. I’m pretty sure I’ve learnt a lot
more, but my memory fails me with my age. Feel free to add more to the list!
Waiting to learn some more nuggets. (Oh yea, chicken nuggets rock.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-91894194421136638992013-03-13T00:20:00.001-07:002013-03-13T22:24:21.591-07:00The ones who make me proud!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As I sit here, passion- and drive-less,
stressing every other day about setting up new home, and falling violently sick on the days in between, my friends are out there reaching dizzying heights of
success. So this post is about and for those in my life who make me proud. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Disclaimer: Not that the others in my life *don’t* make me proud, but these are big
and I want to write about them now. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ll start with my oldest friend on this
list. I met her when I was all of six years old and my earliest memory of her
is the gesture of friendship—sticking her thumb out at me while sucking the
middle and ring fingers of the other hand (a peculiar habit she had that took
forever to get rid of). My childhood bestie, with whom I’ve been friends with
for over 20 years now, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/shuli.ghosh?fref=ts">Sulagna Ghosh</a> aka Suli, is an entrepreneur and upcoming designer.
Her store, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/153146791372164/?fref=ts">Sienna</a>, is one of the prettiest ones around, where you will find
clothes, pottery, decorative items and myriad other kitschy things which reflect the kind of
person Suli is. She’s recently also designed her first collection of fusion
wear, which is to-die-for (There’s a romper somewhere in that store with my
name on it). Go to her store in Kolkata and buy stuff – NOW!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Next up is my college bestie, who I also
happened to be married to—<a href="https://www.facebook.com/rochelle.pinto.9?fref=ts">Rochelle Pinto</a>. Madam (who is the husband in this equation)
is now famous. Being a fashion journalist and a brilliant writer for years now,
she recently launched her very-own, first-ever book! She co-authored a book
with Kareena Kapoor Khan called the Style Diary of a Bollywood Diva, which I
have completed. Rochelle has a signature style which is, however, never repetitive—a
unique talent. And the best part of the book is that even though you can
recognise her style, reading it feels like Kareena is talking to you. It’s a
pretty book too—it’s pink! My favourite part—asking Roch for her autograph on
the day of the launch in front of KKK :D Read the book, ladies; you’re bound to
find some interesting tips in there for the long haul. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If you’re a meat-loving foodie, look no
further and head straight to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/betweenbreads?fref=ts">Between Breads</a> in Bandra. This new fun, quirky and
yummilicious burger and sandwich joint has been started by my enterprising
college friend <a href="https://www.facebook.com/reuben.borah?fref=ts">Reuben Borah</a> and his equally enterprising partners, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/paresh.chhabria?ref=ts&fref=ts">Paresh Chhabria</a>
and Ayank Verma. I promise you, you will be not be disappointed. The lucky
friends aka us, had the good fortune of going for a tasting. We quickly
returned and gladly paid for our spoils and have been in a food coma ever
since. Beef, ham, bacon, chicken; even the veggie burgers taste good. The
lemonades have an interesting twist; there are Archies comics strewn around the
place (:-o), the decor is happy and bright, and the two good-looking owners
will serve you themselves, taking great pains to make sure you’re happy with
your meal. Chef Ravi is definitely getting this right. Between Breads is
directly opposite Hawain Shack off Pali Naka—you canNOT miss this!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And last but not the least, my <i>marad</i> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><span lang="EN-GB"> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/llewelynd?fref=ts">Llewelyn Dmello</a> aka Lee is now the Programming Head of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Oye-1048-FM-Mumbai/396417553729479">104.8 Oye FM</a>, the radio station
by the India Today group. If you’re a Bollywood junkie, or love Hindi music
from any era, tune in. I’ve been bowled over by their collection of music way
before he joined (I promise!), because out of the blue, they will play some song
from your childhood or adolescence that will throw you into nostalgia mode. It
may take you an extra minute to tune your car radio to this frequency, but it’s
worth it. And when you hear a fun, sexy voice on the spots or ads, you’ll know
who eet ees!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You guys make me proud, make me teary with
joy and inspire me, all at the same time. How lucky am I!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">PS: First time I'm linking pages to my blog - hope it works. Yes, technotards are me. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-71288840641323950602013-03-12T23:38:00.002-07:002013-03-13T22:48:39.094-07:00Blast-ed Budday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One month and no post—chee chee chee. And I
call myself a blogger. But then again, my life has been excessively dramatic
lately. In fact I’m thinking of chucking the book I’m contemplating thinking
about working on (yes that’s how much I’ve been procrastinating on it) and
write a book on my dramatic life. There will be only one book published and I’ll
be the only reader, but still. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Anyhoo, the birthday just went by. And my,
whatte budday it was. Since I’m ignoring the fact that I’m getting older, and am
nowhere near what I imagined what my fabulous life would be like, I decided to party my *bums*
off this year. Last year was an utterly crappy birthday, so I more than made up
for it this year. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Although I’m currently observing (I
actually changed that from doing to observing) Lent—yes, that means no alcohol for almost
50 days; no, I’m not Catlick but I’m doing it out of love and support, sigh—it
was decided earlier that I get to take a break from the abstinence on my budday
eve and on my budday, of course. (Only much later did it occur to <i>marad </i>that I
had managed two days out of this *hyuk hyuk*). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So there we were, a whole bunch of my
friends and I, at one of our favourite bars, drinking, singing, dancing and generally
making merry. I cut a cake at 12 (I still adore this ritual), got calls from
friends and family, and generally was very *happy*. Now obviously, since almost
everyone was as *happy* as I was, no one wanted the party to end, even though
it was a weekday. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So we headed to a friend’s place, all the
girls piling into the car, while the boys chivalrously took autos. On the way,
two my *happy* friends wanted balloons, so we stopped and bought a bunch of
colourful balloons. We reached said friend’s building and continued taking photographs
(of course, over 200 from the night) in the compound. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Suddenly, somehow, no one is quite sure how—a
number of unverified reports—a lighter found its way under the balloons and
all the balloons exploded simultaneously. Onto three of my girls’ faces and one boy’s
arm. Whaa?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Apparently, these were not regular
balloons. These weren’t even helium balloons because those don’t explode (some fancy scientific explanation). These
balloons were filled with some form of flammable gas, which burnt like a bitch.
We rushed the victims to the hospital at 2am and many tears, some
ointment and a questionable night doctor later, we wrapped up the night around 4am. “Blast-ed
birthday” indeed!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There was little respite afterward because
we had to wake up in two hours and go sort out some new house thingy at the
ungodly hour of 7am. Made it to work on time, worked all day, got said new home
cleaned and then went out again to make more merriment. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Needless to say, it was an eventful and
exhausting birthday. Can you blame me for not blogging? Oh and btw, I just
turned 21. Okthanksbye. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-88772466563118547672013-02-12T03:58:00.002-08:002013-02-12T03:58:29.048-08:00Fidelity a scarce commodity?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When I was a little girl, I had a recurring
daydream. I’d meet my soulmate when I turn 16. He becomes my best friend, we go
to the same college together, move to the same city, fall in love and get
married, have kids and live happily ever after. There was no space for dating
other guys, having my heart broken or breaking other hearts, people hitting on
me only for a particular reason—none of that. It was the perfect love story;
one that couldn’t be made into a movie since there were no twists or turns. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I grew up and expectedly, my daydream was
shattered into a millions shards. Many came and went; I broke some hearts and
my heart was broken a few times. But nonetheless, I still believe in love,
commitment, marriage, fidelity and the likes. Which is odd, because the concept
of marriage scared the bejesus out of me for the longest time—not because I wanted
to sound cool and say that I don’t want to be tied down or whatever excuse
people use, but because my first-hand experience of marriage in my formative
years was less than perfect.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Today I see fidelity has become a scarce
commodity, a point of discussion with people actually debating whether or not
it is possible. People I know fall in love, spend heaps of time together,
fight, share, laugh, and then get married. I’m presuming that when they are
getting married it’s not just for the party (as fun as that idea may be). You
are taking a vow to love, cherish and respect each other, no matter what. Yes,
there will be ups and downs, sometimes the road will look barren for long
periods of time, sometimes you will want to either kill yourself or your spouse,
or both. But in the end, you promise at that altar, in front of a fire or a
cross or a courthouse, that you will stick it out. So why the question of
whether or not fidelity is possible? Isn’t that the premise of most
relationships, especially that of marriage?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When people tell me they think fidelity is
overrated and not a practical expectation, I look at it this way—I love my mom.
Now if I meet my friend’s mom who may be prettier, or more fun, or just cooks
better, does that mean I...switch or move on to the other mother? Not really. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So why is it so difficult for people to
stay committed in a marriage and uphold those vows? I’ve heard people say that
yes, I’ve cheated, but I love her/him, so I shouldn’t lose her/him. Huh? If you
do love the person, how could you allow your body to make love to anyone else?
Isn’t it repulsive? I know love and lust are two different things, but isn’t
lust a part of love? If you are truly in love with someone, aren’t you also
attracted to that person, and hence won’t feel the need to satiate any physical
needs elsewhere? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ve heard people say, “I love XX, but
so-and-so is so cute, I just can’t resist!” I could understand that if you’re
in a relationship where you’re not entirely happy or sure about the person. But
if you’re married (and I don’t mean those weddings where you are forced down
the aisle)... how?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I may sound old-fashioned, close-minded or
just plain stupid. But it makes me thinks, in this day and age, when we have so
many options for just about everything, from detergent to investment plans and
cars, are we also beginning to look at options for our love and commitment? Is
it really becoming that difficult in today’s urbanscape to stay loyal to one
person, where you can have up to five people at a time?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I try not to judge but sometimes I can’t
help it. Forgive the righteousness of this post, it’s not the intention. I’m just
old-school. Despite seeing lots of infidelity all my life, I am a complete
champion for faithfulness, loyalty, chivalry and old-fashioned, one-person,
head-over-heels, going-down-on-one-knee, sweeping-you-off-your-feet kinda love.
Is that too much to ask for?</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-92086543541699937992013-02-05T05:13:00.001-08:002013-02-15T23:03:35.937-08:00Happy birthday Dadu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One of the earliest memories I have of him
is of the night we returned from the US. I remember he bought Thums Up for us
and though it was three in the morning, the entire family was chugging the
drink on the first floor of the beautiful house he had built years ago. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">After this, every memory of my growing
years has him in it. He would be the guardian coming for our parent-teacher
meetings, sit in the room while my sister and I studied in the <i>porar ghor</i> (which is my room today),
often falling asleep and leaving us giggling with his thunderous snores. We’d
take the opportunity to then pass chits and snacks to each other, while he
slept blissfully on the floor of the room, comfortable in just his <i>lungi</i> and <i>poite</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">His would buy us whatever we needed—clothes,
books, stationary, even underwear and other womanly items. He would cover our
books before every school year started while we held the tape for him. Every
other weekend, he and I would sit on the floor of our dining room and segregate
all the biscuits he had bought in separate jars and tins. We would then eat
those biscuits with tea on the floor of his room or the balcony; I would pour
my tea into the saucer just like he would. Yes, we spent many an hour on the
floor of our beautiful house. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Lunches at the Calcutta Club were always a
grand affair, especially the Christmas lunches. A stop at the bakery before
leaving was always a must. The discussion at the lunch table however, always embarrassingly
revolved around my bathroom ordeals—so much so that today, I have no qualms in
discussing the same with just about anyone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I remember seeing him cry, for the first
time ever, and my heart broke. I literally heard the snap and thinking of the
image, I cried for hours afterwards. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He would drop me to the bus stop every
single day till I was in my A-Levels and stopped going to school by bus. He
would carry my bag, hold my hand and we’d cross the road till I was 16 years
old. Once when my bag fell over into the fenced garden against which we’d lean
and wait, he tried climbing over the fence to retrieve it—he was around 70
then. When it was time to start using the metro, he went on a few trial runs
with me so that I would get the hang of it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The amount of time I spent on the phone was
always a bone of contention between us—why wouldn’t I just use that time
studying instead? He often lectured my friends and me—he used to say, I don’t
have two granddaughters, I have so many, because my sister’s and my childhood
friends, especially my three chuddy buddies, were like his own. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The first time we had to rush him to the
hospital, I was scared. I was petrified, but for some reason, I did not fear
losing him. That thought had just not occurred to me. I mean, he had, after
all, said that he wanted to settle our accounts over all the years with his <i>nath-jamais</i> (grandsons-in-law). So where
would he go? He was going to give us away. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">My AS Level results came a month before he
actually left. I was thrilled and so was he—I got all A’s. He showed me off at
his office (yes, the man worked till his last day) and brought home <i>mishti</i>. We then ordered pizza and I
remember planting a kiss on the forehead of the man who was responsible for my “flying
colours”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">About a month later, I had to fill out some
forms and submit them to the British Council for a paper I was giving early,
for my A-Levels. I took them on Friday but one signature or some such thing was
missing, so the submission was incomplete. The perfectionist OCD kind of person
that he was, he wanted at least five different copies of these to be kept with
different people at different locations, just in case. I brought back the
incomplete forms which he then completed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Monday morning, as I was leaving the house,
I looked up to wave him goodbye; he was hanging off the balcony yelling “BC BC!”,
reminding me to go to British Council, submit the forms and bring home the
photocopies. Anyone hearing this out of context would think he was yelling out a
very dirty swear word. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB">I dutifully did all that I was told and brought
the copies for him. He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that now I would be
able to give my exam.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Later that night, I was studying for an
accounts test, my least favourite subject. He knew I preferred to study at
night. But this night, for some reason, he called me up to sleep by 11:30pm. I
would sleep in his room—him of the floor and me on the bed. He used to say that
the AC’s direct vent bothered him, but I suspect that was not true. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Surprisingly, without arguing, I too shut my
books and went up. He told me he was feeling well now (he had had a cold and
fever the past few days) and that I should sleep since I had to wake up early.
That was the last conversation I ever had with him. The next two weeks or so
are a blur and yet I remember every single moment of it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Birthdays have always been a big deal for
us—a cake is a must. Today he would have turned 85. How I wish he was here so
that I could turn to him for advice, and so that he could meet my special
someone (I think he’d like him) and so that he could give me away. I try not to
shed tears on his birthday; I definitely eat cake. The tears bit is easier said
than done, but the cake is easy peasy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Happy Birthday Dadu. Everything I am today,
is because of you—my perseverance, my tenacity, the strength of my character,
my values and ideals—everything. I know you’re still around, looking out for Di
and me, proud of what we’ve accomplished today, waiting for it to get even
better, because as you would say, “Ashol’er theke shudh beshi.” (The interest
is always greater and more important than the principal amount). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-17153130464567788682013-02-04T03:08:00.003-08:002013-02-04T03:08:23.673-08:00Feeling the feeling<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s just one of those feelings. I don’t
know what the feeling is, but it ain’t great. The last few weeks have been
hectic, with almost equal parts of the good and the bad; possibly more of the
good than the bad, and yet I feel lost in transition. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Firstly let me tell you all about the
beautiful wedding I went for back home. Out of my close school gang, the first
one went down—pretty big deal. I was given almost a year’s notice so I had to
go and hold him steady in case he freaked out. Luckily nothing of the sort
happened and in fact, he is deliriously happy and in love. Yes, this is still
possible. It was your quintessential arranged-cum-love marriage—a rare
phenomenon in the generation before us that is making a quick and solid
comeback in ours. It was almost like these two were made for each—they even
look perfect together. And of course, the wedding gave me an excuse to go home,
laze around, have my mommy feed me, wear saris and jewellery, and just kick
back and relax. All purposes served!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Staying true to my new year promise (no,
not resolution, just a promise to myself) I made amends in a few relationships,
which mean the world to me, and let go (not without trying) of a few others—no hard
feelings. I still perhaps have some way to go, but hey, it’s a good start,
right? Sometimes you have to realise that as you grow up, you blossom into a
person of your own, as do others around you. That just means you have to try
harder to maintain certain relationships. I don’t mean that that effort is straining;
I just mean that you need to understand one another better so that your
different personalities don’t clash or push you apart—cos no matter some, some
ties really are for life. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was back from home in a week, thrown
headfirst into a deluge of work and dilemmas about my ‘home’ situation in this
city. Sigh. It just never ends, does it? But respite soon came in the form of a
beautiful music and wine fest at the Sula Vineyards, Nashik. I went with some
people whose company I love (including some whom I love) and under the open
skies and with the notes of the music, I soon forgot my real-life problems and
let the wine do its work. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The highlight of Sulafest 2013 was definitely Swarathma’s
performance. So much energy and interaction on stage—electric! Though their
music is undoubtedly similar to lead singer Vasudev Dixit’s brother’s band,
Raghu Dixit’s, the Radhu Dixit Project, there was something about Swarathma’s delivery
and stage presence that was unparalled! Besides, the backing vocalist and lead
guitarist is a Bong. ;)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And now I’m back, again, feeling the feeling,
that I can’t explain; feeling like no one loves me; like I have too many
battles to fight, too many obstacles to overcome. Sigh. Can anyone please find
me a rock I can hide under and never come out of? I can make it my home, you
know? Okthanksbye. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-33671544838877064232013-01-15T01:11:00.001-08:002013-01-16T00:25:56.301-08:00Tenant? No, you have no rights. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The good feeling about this year is quickly
fading. Remember the obstacles I mentioned in my last post? Yes, they are making
their presence felt. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ve said this before and I can’t say it
enough—being a single, professional girl living in Mumbai is anything but fun
and easy. I’m not discounting the fun bit, but it is hard. For some reason,
because you come from outside the city and you’re not married, people judge
you. People who you think are probably not so judgemental, judge you and how.
Of course, I am also blindly following stereotypes by believing that certain
communities are not judgemental, but now I know better. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If you are a single person from outside
Bombay, living on rent, beware—you must not have friends or a social life. You
must also have a job wherein you can be back home by 6pm (which means please
get out of office by 5-5:30pm, given the duration of travel in this city), and
once home, please stay put and do not exit the building. God forbid you have
friends over for dinner, it will be instantly assumed that you are drinking,
taking drugs, having loud, wild, trippy rave-like parties, even though,
miraculously, you cannot be heard. But considering that your neighbours have
their ears peeled to your wall, you are in trouble. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It doesn’t matter if you come from good,
decent, well-to-do, cultured families in a different part of the country. Once
you come to Bombay as a single person, you become a whore, someone brought up
in a jhopar-patti, someone with no values, and someone who leads a life of no
purpose or direction. You are a tenant and an outsider, so you are a nobody
with no rights. Make no mistake that just because you are paying rent and a
deposit, and not living in a hostel or paying guest accommodation, that you
have the same rights as your neighbours, who ‘own’ their apartments, and hence
the building, society and all moral judgment. You are not like any other
citizen in this democratic (this word is as always, used fast and loose)—you have
no rights. I have been told this point blank – no joke. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">People sometimes amaze me. I am blessed
with a family who has always *always* been supportive of all my decisions and
actions. As a result of which, I have *never* had to lie to my folks. When I
started dating, I would bring the boyfriends home; when I started smoking, I
would smoke in my own house and though it wasn’t discussed openly till
recently, I never had to lie. When I turned 18, my dad took me for a drink; any
other *personal* situations could always be discussed with my mom (and I mean,
anything). My sister of course, has always been and continues to be my best
friend, my rock-solid pillar of support and the one who will fight the world to
protect me. My family always told me, tell us the truth rather than lie and do
things behind our backs. And I did, to the point where today, I am the worst
liar on the surface of this planet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So understandably, if I am not lying to my
own family, I find it wrong and painful to have to lie to other people’s
families, to landlords and to neighbours. I’m not a drunk, I’m not a slut and I’m
not a bum. I’m an independent adult, earning my own living, leading my own
life. The values in me have been inculcated by my grandfather, so I know I
cannot be wrong on that front. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So how then, do people, on the pretence of
society, values and ethics, become better than me by poking their noses into
other people’s business; by making the lives of others hell; by bitching to
some people about certain others, etc.? How is it that just because they have monthly
EMIs on their heads, rather than a monthly rent, like me, they become more
cultured, valued and powerful? I have my own house in my home city too; that
doesn’t mean that I’m better than my neighbours who are tenants. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It is because of people like this that
rapes are condoned in this country. If a girl has boys over at her place, she
becomes a whore and then if she is raped, even if it’s outside her home, she
was asking for it. I won’t be unfair; it’s not like all the landlords I’ve
dealt with in my last eight years in this city has been so—but you’d be
surprised at what people can be like. At least I am. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The only good thing is that because I’m a
tenant, I’m not rooted to one place. I don’t have to deal with troublesome, small-minded
neighbours, and spineless, stereotypical landlords—I can walk away as I please.
So, I guess it’s time to walk. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8828595292041025836.post-33647252884145393012013-01-14T04:32:00.003-08:002013-01-14T04:32:38.168-08:00I met a man...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I met a man a few months ago. He saw me and
immediately knew what was wrong. I cried before him and was not embarrassed. He
suggested I wear a ring—a yellow sapphire. It’s pretty, though not as pretty as
I’d like, and my friends don’t think it’s pretty at all. But I don’t mind it.
He told me I am a creative person and I’ve made the right decision. He told me to
write my book and that someday he would read it. He told me my heart was broken
and would be so, but then he saw my tears, and knew they were true, so told me
not to give up hope. He told me that I would face many obstacles in life; that
my path was not easy—but that I had to fight it out. He told me to take a leaf
out of his book. He hasn’t walked in years, in decades. He told me that if he
could overcome the obstacles, there’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to. I
promised that I’d try. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Today, my tears have dried and my heart has
mended. I’m still wearing the ring, I’m still writing my book and I’m still in
love. But he is no longer here. The man I met a few months ago, who inspired me
more than anyone has in a while, is gone for good. Much before his time. He was
a special man, he should have stayed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I feel strange. I met this man only once. A
man who deeply cares about me took me to this man, to help me find direction.
And when I met this man, I wanted to believe everything he told me, even though
I normally don’t—believe or wear rings. But I believed and accepted the hope he
gave me. And yet, now he’s gone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’m telling my friends that this man is
gone, and they ask me, were you close? No, we weren’t. Did you spend a lot of
time with him? No, I didn’t. So why are you so upset? What are your tears for?
I don’t know. I feel sad; I feel a void I didn’t think I could. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Do you have to know a person for decades to
feel his/her loss? Do you have to spend a lot of time with him to miss his
presence in this world? I don’t know. Perhaps. Then why do I feel so? Why do I
feel uncomfortable in my gut? Why do I feel the bile of fear rising in my
throat? Why am I scared that what he said may come true, and my heart will
break again? That I’ll be unable to overcome the obstacles? Why can I not speak
my heart openly to the one person I can otherwise tell everything? Why do I
suddenly feel like I’m fighting a losing battle?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I met this man a few months ago, and today
the man is gone for good. I didn’t know him too well and yet I mourn. Why do I
feel so? I feel... I feel like running back home. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13322503361696642067noreply@blogger.com1