“O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”

∼ Robin Williams, quoting Walt Whitman, from the movie Dead Poets Society.

How many of you believe in living every day to the fullest? What do you do towards it?

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There’s something pristine about how the sun adds color to the sky at dawn, and how the sky lights up during dusk. To poets, the sea and the sun and the sky tell many tales; I see strength in the permanency of their actions. How they are on repeat, day after day, night after night, sprinkling hope and whispering promises. Let us then, take a moment out, to watch. To watch the azure, red, yellow and violet shades of the sky. Let’s call it a closure in a grand way. Let’s wake up to beautiful mornings. Let’s chase sunsets.

#BengaluruDiaries

The summer of 2015, I’d been on a visit to Bengaluru, and I’ve to say that the city is, in many ways just the same as Mumbai is.
On a busy Monday evening, when you would expect the streets and markets to be relatively empty, and the city peaceful – it’s just about the opposite! Streets filled neck-to-neck with people that come in all kinds of shapes, sizes, colours and ethnicities – all of them ‘Bangaloreans’, Kannadigas or otherwise. Temples stand shoulder to shoulder with hardware stores, stationery stores wrestle for visibility with those selling adornments – accessories like trinkets, bangles, necklaces, earrings. Lingerie stalls jut shamelessly out of the footpaths onto the roads, and the Gods are well taken care of and appeased in many a roadside shrine.

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The people here are largely just as filthy as those in Mumbai, with plastic litter jostling for walking space with the pedestrians.
At Chickpet, the wholesale silk haven of Bengaluru, dresses and drapes in all shapes and sizes are variously displayed. Ganigarpet is the place for all kinds of gift-items and other nitty-gritty. Avenue Road is just off Ganigarpet – all by-lanes here appear to be similar – it’s like a maze with crisscrossing roads everywhere with excessive wares on display!

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There are sellers of all kinds of things here – jackfruit, bhel, mangoes, more mangoes, paan, sweetmeats and savouries, guava, and other fruits, (stalls selling) sugarcane juice, and the apparent South Indian favourite – sweet corn!
Excessive vehicles were a sight in this marketplace too, continuing the impression of Bengaluru as a city with too many vehicles. I say excessive not because of the lack of people to own/drive them, but because they are all out in a grandiose display everywhere you look. The result is a watery-eyes, stifled-breath, kerchief-on-face kind of pollution. The residents don’t seem to mind, though! The climate is pleasant here – how, marred by all this pollution remains a mystery to me! (Hint: maybe because there are more number of trees here.)
All in all, the city is an ordered chaos, and totally lives up to its reputation of being a metropolis, replete with wide roads, a booming real estate, and blotches of greenery right in the middle of it….you just get swept into the way things are!

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My Blog Thirsts For A New Post!

Hi 🙂
It is already established that I’m a lazy blogger (Hey! Why does it sound so much like the new name for the blog?)
The problem faced by most of us writers, you’ll agree is that the ideas and inspiration for writing hit us at the perfectly wrong time! *excuse detected* Right in the middle of some absolutely unimportant chore that just needs to be finished, bang comes a wave and hits you.
Ideas get formed, words arrange themselves one after another, in perfect sync, as if they mean to say ‘oh-we-are-ever-at-your-service’. You feel a mad rush, you are on a high….
And then you realize you can’t write now!
Crash!! There goes the ecstatic feel…
Here, at this stage, I also experience a desperate urge to stop the words, to stop the precious, perfectly intelligent, from-the-heart prose from slipping away. I then promise myself that the first thing I’ll do on landing a paper and a pen is write. (I prefer paper & pen to typing on a computer) *excuse detected*
But what happens later is anybody’s guess. >_<
I like to take solace in the fact that there must be more people out there like me (of course, there have to be!), and I move on, turning a blind eye to the article that could have been.
To all those like me there, well, there’s nothing I’ve to say.
Unknown many is a term I absolutely adore, and love to use. So those of use, whose brilliance remains, um, sheathed, thanks to our own laziness, the Unknown Many we are!

And hey, my blog got its post! ^_^

That Innocent Morning…

It was a cheerful day that dawned. The chirpy, windy morning did not betray the events that were to unfold later that day. Children walked to school grumbling about the heavy homework, office goers cursed the crowds in the local trains, a few bitched about their bosses, happy to be away from prying ears, grannies discussed the latest twist in the daily soap, grandpas remembered the generation that once was…. All in all, it was an uneventful morning, or at least, as uneventful as mornings can be.

Evening. A whoosh of relief wiped across the mass of humanity as it worked towards winding up the day, as it made its way back home. Soon a son would meet his mother, lover counted minutes before he would be joined by his girl, a husband would meet his better half, a child awaited the warm, love-filled embrace of his mother.  Everyone worked towards reaching one common goal. The day was in perfect synchrony with plans.

And then the night unleashed terror. Bullets flew. Heartbeats quickened. More bullets flew, a grenade or two ripped. Ripped lives apart, dashed hopes, caused many a tear to be shed.

Lives were lost, it matters not how many. Some quick thinking, a lot of action, invaluable sacrifices. Still, the drama continued for about 60 hours.

Mumbai is a city that has a reputation of never slowing down. But that fateful day, heads drooped, and the mind, not fully registering the impact of what had happened, gave no more directions. Time stood still, as the city united to weep and pray for the ones lost.

The son never returned home, the husband lost his wife, and the child would never get the much needed embrace now. The lovers watched in horror and shock, and desperation made them walk on a path to a better tomorrow. It was on this day, five years ago, that it all started