tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20400639467387048932024-02-19T05:55:06.358-09:00space of my ownEveryone beneath the sun is dreaming dreams,scheming schemes, wanting what they haven't got, chasing golden beams...I'm like the rest its quite truebhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.comBlogger109125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-78412778827736661612016-10-13T05:12:00.000-08:002016-10-13T05:12:44.772-08:00Barsaat ki woh shaam<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ek thandi purwai<br />
Tumhein mere aur kareeb le aayi<br />
Gale se sirakte hue<br />
Tumne meri kamar tak apni banh lehrayi<br />
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Ghabra gayi main<br />
Phir sharmaate hue thoda muskurayi<br />
Mausam ne samjha ishara<br />
Aur bijli ki gargarahat sunai<br />
<br />
Lipat gayi main tumse<br />
Raat bhar tumhein chhod na paayi<br />
Subah hui to tumne neend se jagaya<br />
Kaha dekho....dhoop nikal aayi<br />
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bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-58510536453260421112014-06-18T04:29:00.000-08:002014-06-18T04:29:05.087-08:00Foreign Flashback <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The nineties were a time when products from a ‘phoren’
country were seen as your ticket to fame. You would eagerly wait for a distant
relative to arrive from an even more distant land and gift you something –
chocolates with fancy wrappers, pencils with cartoons that weren’t familiar to
you, an unusual toothbrush with a transparent handle. Soaps, keychains, talcum
powder, socks, handkerchief, hairband - anything would work as long as it came
from a foreign land. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As a kid, I couldn’t wait to show-off my prized possessions to
cousins and class-mates. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The latter was
trickier. Ma would insist I keep these things for special occasions only, not
take them to school; there was always a fear of misplacing them. So they sat,
beautifully arranged in a little drawer, one that I kept locked all the time. Every
once in a while, I would open the drawer to absorb the sights and smells of a
country I had never visited, but wished to someday. It would brighten up any
dreary day, romancing the mind with the promise of an unknown adventure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Two decades later, I see every international label in my
city. Every fancy store round the corner has something ‘imported’ to offer. Still,
it’s that little drawer that holds a very special place for me. It is the
number of ‘likes’ I collected over years. It is the innocence of a time I ache
to go back to. It is the romance of firsts, the alchemy of which can never be
recreated. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-14325729222328781622014-05-20T23:41:00.002-08:002014-05-20T23:41:30.146-08:00It's time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As a kid, she loved to play house. Wearing a dupatta, she
would take on the role of the housewife. Never the husband, never the kid; she
would always want to be the wife. The term ‘home maker’ was still alien. The
wife could say goodbye to the husband and kids, finish the household chores and
cook for the family all day. It was, indeed, the most important role. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After the fake dusting with a handkerchief, and the cleaning
of the same handkerchief to suggest washing of clothes, she would begin
cooking. The gleaming kitchen set was all hers to create magic with. She would
take the little kadhai, put is on the wobbly stove and begin to make paneer. It
was always paneer – it sounded fancy enough, she thought. Like in a cookery
show, she would say it loud, “…in goes the paneer, the tomato and salt”. After
a minute of stirring with the barely-able-to-hold spatula, she would taste and
say how delicious the sabji was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then it would be time for the husband to come home. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ting-tong</i>. She would open the door and welcome
him with a glass of water. He would be tired, too many meetings at work. She
would listen to his office talk, and talk about her day too. Dinner would be
served lovingly. She would wait for him to take the first bite and appreciate
the food. He would, and also be impressed by how clean she has kept the house. A
few laughs and it would be all nice and happy always. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Always.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Baby, let’s play house. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div>
bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-74638656120636388262014-01-15T21:58:00.002-09:002014-01-15T21:58:43.603-09:00On Winters<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Might be a li'l late for this post, but nonetheless...</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Winter is beginning to catch up. You can feel the slight
sting of chill. The skies are throwing new patterns and the sunlight is getting
more balmy than prickly. There’s a certain ‘thehraav’ about winter mornings
that makes me fall in love with it. Everything is the same, yet not. The pace
of things begins to slow down as we carry the weight of more layers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s the season of slowing down. Of taking more time in
sipping the morning tea. Of putting the paper aside and watching the silence of
the city from the balcony instead. Of tracking the sunlight as it moves slowly
from one building to another, until it kisses you.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I like this calmness of the season. There’s no restlessness to
turn up the fan speed, no rush to reach the bus stop before the downpour.
Winters let you take it easy. They make you feel like the first day of
vacation, after the final exams are over. So you can hit the snooze button and
cuddle under the blanket for five more minutes. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Make that ten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-37380531762427830212013-10-16T03:31:00.000-08:002013-10-16T03:31:09.258-08:00The irony<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I go about my day, travelling in the bus and walking long
distances, I see people glued to their mobiles. I hear daughter-in-laws
cribbing about their in-laws, employees cursing their bosses, people
complaining about their maids, boyfriends maddened at their girlfriends – I
rarely come across anything that is faintly positive. And whether I like it or
not, I enter the murky territory of their personal truths. Unhappy, unappreciative
and unapologetic – that’s the picture I get in my head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My visit to the grocery store reveals another facet. As I walk
past several rows to look for the humble Parle G biscuits, I see racks full of readymade
food. These aren’t your good ol’ 2-minuters; they are proper meals packed with preservatives.
Snip, simmer and serve – it doesn’t get more convenient than this. The packet
mocks at the current state of life when it says ‘packed with love’. Is how we
serve love these days – fast and fuss-free? No careful picking of the ingredients,
no painful hours spent in the kitchen, no watchful eyes over the simmering
gravy. No time to waste, just a tad compromise on taste – that’s how we do it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And as I walk back home, listening to more venting of
unhappy people and walking past many more packaged foods, I wonder – is this
the life we wanted? We are wriggled away by time, controlled by economics and
tied to our burdensome responsibilities. This is not how it was meant to be. This
is not what we wanted from our job – more blood pressure and less time. This is
not what we wanted from our social life – strained relationships and unhealthy
opinions. This is not what we have been working towards as a species. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And if <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> is
what we get in the name of progress, I’d rather be left behind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-60336321379232859972013-05-08T02:13:00.000-08:002013-05-08T02:13:07.592-08:00over. and over again.<br />
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“So how does the story end?” he asked <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I don’t know”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What do you mean ‘I don’t know’, you read the book, didn't you?<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I ripped off the last page”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Why did you do that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It was all so beautiful; I didn't want it to end.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-77441373496431990192012-12-12T04:05:00.002-09:002012-12-12T04:05:59.274-09:00Bangalore Flower Market<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Wholesale markets have always fascinated
me. The huge stocking, the clutter around, the availability of the
unimaginable, the rock bottom prices – it’s an ecosystem that has an uncommon
beauty to it. And no matter which part of India you are in, it doesn’t change
much.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US">As if I had not seen enough flowers, I was
itching to visit the Bangalore flower market, which would be my first wholesale
market visit in this city. We chose Ugadi, the Karnataka New Year, as the day.
This would either mean that we were in for a treat OR that we would be swarmed
by the crowd. Add to it the warnings we got from friends - don’t argue if don’t
know the local language, don’t wear any jewellery, beware of pick pocketers and
the likes. Nonetheless, we decided to go. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">We reached around 8 am and the market was
already bustling with activity. As soon as we entered, we could smell fresh
veggies. There were veggies everywhere – incredibly fresh and
oh-so-interestingly arranged. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Visiting local bazaars opens up a whole new
world for you. Not to forget, it’s a great study in buying patterns too.
Interestingly, India is known for micro-sales. So when I saw the mini packets
of garam masala, I wasn’t surprised. Fit for daily use, these packets are
especially for buyers who don’t like to stock too much. <i>Just enough</i> is just right. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">A little ahead we got to the heart of the
flower market. I felt like a kid in a candy store. Multi coloured vermillion, spices and
clothes– I loved every bit of it. </span><br />
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And then came the main attraction – the
flowers. Garlands, loose flowers, gajras – they were in numbers I had never
seen before. The sellers were attracting buyers with the best prices, rolling
out streams and streams of fragrant garlands and briskly weaving some new
without batting an eyelid.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivrcxsRdvx2lp0m0QTTOTRnVeltG1MVelOcxLeTrlm1UK_aLDzMuudVhH4zWLg_muNjlDLKhwWsLvVwfBdy_ihhWZ7Nd5quSii0-X20m8_fSRSmzfYB1oWqT485oRrU_cud5uYqwmlJ5r3/s1600/9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivrcxsRdvx2lp0m0QTTOTRnVeltG1MVelOcxLeTrlm1UK_aLDzMuudVhH4zWLg_muNjlDLKhwWsLvVwfBdy_ihhWZ7Nd5quSii0-X20m8_fSRSmzfYB1oWqT485oRrU_cud5uYqwmlJ5r3/s400/9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">But that wasn't all. Every corner was full
of surprises. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArOugvmjdFC_yEsUxnc_ztPlRUg4hjF0A9J3BlTyCUhpoqfdaq53emcyt3WZDXlVrZvhNJw8gQwu9fjDsGHQRYX0iqDWavR4ERvyeFRMMre3owKIzOVQGsVuNAB6z9Y2nyzVvcrhae8AS/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArOugvmjdFC_yEsUxnc_ztPlRUg4hjF0A9J3BlTyCUhpoqfdaq53emcyt3WZDXlVrZvhNJw8gQwu9fjDsGHQRYX0iqDWavR4ERvyeFRMMre3owKIzOVQGsVuNAB6z9Y2nyzVvcrhae8AS/s400/10.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Like the man who said the cow ‘talked’ to
him.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Or the one, who oblivious to the chaos, was
reading the morning news. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqzkNA_FapTuuPD_EatapcXhnSPtNdfQxbnAEWRQDlVslWhiUyII3-KMptBsgu2coI7lOvdlMegEom2rm4jtS6Ybmjo9MbB4WKCrgsXizeYO64Xp9WSdTaJulZ0XCDNVQ7pyS4m4Cf6kKd/s1600/14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqzkNA_FapTuuPD_EatapcXhnSPtNdfQxbnAEWRQDlVslWhiUyII3-KMptBsgu2coI7lOvdlMegEom2rm4jtS6Ybmjo9MbB4WKCrgsXizeYO64Xp9WSdTaJulZ0XCDNVQ7pyS4m4Cf6kKd/s320/14.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">We saw gems of indigenous organizational
skills </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjru9zERyRuROwv8FVMZnPuw5Uz3wYoAIwrF5cm2gR3Co8gSXs34wSZMXs-j7Yw381OkgpjuuWImBkI5R3DHhgCc-XMtVtmb1ZTXBs56JjblVV8fYmAuAWf79whS0MUw2pVLsZIgudy4jB2/s1600/11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjru9zERyRuROwv8FVMZnPuw5Uz3wYoAIwrF5cm2gR3Co8gSXs34wSZMXs-j7Yw381OkgpjuuWImBkI5R3DHhgCc-XMtVtmb1ZTXBs56JjblVV8fYmAuAWf79whS0MUw2pVLsZIgudy4jB2/s400/11.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">And a world of exotic colour and fragrances
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Nw09ITzEH6RITL85q9rctouSwW7WhwMNoGI4xoVggvS0xvhfK3njTkMUSBecRL6ErINk-xWTmoEXtz9PAwsv-7Lq7UzXR6EQWegoxeUDE3erATRI_MNvf_F2IJjF8olzCUSAmuSOxdtT/s1600/18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Nw09ITzEH6RITL85q9rctouSwW7WhwMNoGI4xoVggvS0xvhfK3njTkMUSBecRL6ErINk-xWTmoEXtz9PAwsv-7Lq7UzXR6EQWegoxeUDE3erATRI_MNvf_F2IJjF8olzCUSAmuSOxdtT/s400/18.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I was, once again, amazed to see how these
bazaars effortless bind together modernity and yesteryears’ charm. There’s a
constant push to keep up with the times on one hand, and a seemingly untouched
and unchanged way of living on the other. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDHi5OO7oflHeRyfmP2N4sSXKFKuXwvfCrPcq08oqY0yjPC1DFoyiV-gPU3maUloUuCugt1Wp2tvKeN75dGiOmEHSp_dl-tX3AdvFeugIZ2vVny_nxBIXH7P8vlcJbhy4x6G2AtcX3QaJ/s1600/19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="373" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDHi5OO7oflHeRyfmP2N4sSXKFKuXwvfCrPcq08oqY0yjPC1DFoyiV-gPU3maUloUuCugt1Wp2tvKeN75dGiOmEHSp_dl-tX3AdvFeugIZ2vVny_nxBIXH7P8vlcJbhy4x6G2AtcX3QaJ/s400/19.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">Suddenly all clutter looked beautiful</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span id="goog_294560316"></span><span id="goog_294560317"></span><br />and even what I couldn’t decipher, began to
enchant.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vLIUzSN1ZCc/UMh96ZU0MvI/AAAAAAAABUA/df9FDeVMANk/s1600/16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vLIUzSN1ZCc/UMh96ZU0MvI/AAAAAAAABUA/df9FDeVMANk/s400/16.jpg" width="337" /></a></div>
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:)</div>
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bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-19400514611952603892012-07-17T02:42:00.000-08:002012-07-17T02:42:57.735-08:00Flower power<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="text-align: left;">When I first landed in Bangalore (almost a year ago), one of
the many things that struck me (apart from the beautiful weather and the bad
traffic) was the sheer number of flowers around. From embracing vehicles to
adorning women’s tresses to creating a neat colourful border on either side of
the road – there were flowers everywhere.</span></div>
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAbK0Xb9o-8c9bnkj2VRf844YuOCXp1awmaa7fYIlED9U6OKhFrYw3yNuVawMGuXDlLJyS56NL3NndGSJE18AHq8x_qSAKe8Ashyq5yVLuODlHWUMyhlIFbz7qosCIrdsmnXz0QhoFOYd3/s320/buying+flowers.png" style="text-align: center;" />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQza4wYq7u42dqbWTI0MK1OgZ4EfQcuXQsi-7aqe7qkhsu2FLlir4NXYqWJtjJ5hDOXnvIIQ7go4EJTv90dpNTi7cQoflxumnNXsgO8GoLy3Tzxrqse0ARcAQC_bGg1X-opaj1TWahPYz/s1600/garlands.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQza4wYq7u42dqbWTI0MK1OgZ4EfQcuXQsi-7aqe7qkhsu2FLlir4NXYqWJtjJ5hDOXnvIIQ7go4EJTv90dpNTi7cQoflxumnNXsgO8GoLy3Tzxrqse0ARcAQC_bGg1X-opaj1TWahPYz/s320/garlands.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Every season, a new variety of flowers would bloom. On one
of the Bangalore walks (another post that’s pending), I learnt that the
Britishers had thoughtfully planted these trees so that no season would be
without flowers, thus lending the city great cosmetic value. And they were so
right. Walking around the neighbourhood and travelling to places proved to be
sheer eye candy. Bright yellows, pretty lilacs and cotton candy pinks took
turns in welcoming me on my way to office. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4c13gbrSYXmbxZlQI0NvdrZVi0OOGQPO_zZpQCE4dhZ1tLX6NKD3KRSengGzFqGLBgipmkK-USmgxlAG785kUkKcVa6SruqoG4abivDfMeq7hx-lyt9Ti4Em_E7bbOnmMpvGRln0b-ESC/s1600/pretty+path.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4c13gbrSYXmbxZlQI0NvdrZVi0OOGQPO_zZpQCE4dhZ1tLX6NKD3KRSengGzFqGLBgipmkK-USmgxlAG785kUkKcVa6SruqoG4abivDfMeq7hx-lyt9Ti4Em_E7bbOnmMpvGRln0b-ESC/s320/pretty+path.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Frequenting temples became a joyful
experience. And the flower show clearly stole the show. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ5JdDDA9-O3aTf8bmTUoqBEReG5LN60Mfq1uP9oiEwBpZvQUZYHCm00VyYFmyzrGWnufztjk95JE6Dugj8bN8MAF0dsTKQF-QnoBx6WI1q_3ter3UWFP7odQ0_gZaj6VsjzqKY54W1D6z/s1600/flower+show+1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ5JdDDA9-O3aTf8bmTUoqBEReG5LN60Mfq1uP9oiEwBpZvQUZYHCm00VyYFmyzrGWnufztjk95JE6Dugj8bN8MAF0dsTKQF-QnoBx6WI1q_3ter3UWFP7odQ0_gZaj6VsjzqKY54W1D6z/s320/flower+show+1.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjljsHHN4HIhLmqkqRG0gXK9W516T33tE96MC2HTiyK9Gteco5c4FOLfzahWRp5ueW1UqtSBNl_NTf51iPNWQOCMN22vKd5FG_KrXcEATjlFKV3zxJyI2NsG3PIBMX1KelxvTOxEQzLasM8/s1600/flower+show+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjljsHHN4HIhLmqkqRG0gXK9W516T33tE96MC2HTiyK9Gteco5c4FOLfzahWRp5ueW1UqtSBNl_NTf51iPNWQOCMN22vKd5FG_KrXcEATjlFKV3zxJyI2NsG3PIBMX1KelxvTOxEQzLasM8/s320/flower+show+2.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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My indulgence with flowers grew. I began to buy the mogra
malas for the small temple at home. After the trip to the temple in the
neighbourhood, I’d even pin the flower the panditji gave, in my hair (like
others did). And the house would never be without some pretty stems on the
table.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8LmOJUwgAabMMQLE0IPmf6kKuRhy7H8xat_zmBKzf7Bf3iZidqW8I-iupLq46fiqsnPbI3GS4sZsggKeC-4XR5NJH8C1ZVzvsH5lRgEItbzjhY68Br-0DV6dg3SgSd7ETnqJdb800xaQ/s1600/@home.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8LmOJUwgAabMMQLE0IPmf6kKuRhy7H8xat_zmBKzf7Bf3iZidqW8I-iupLq46fiqsnPbI3GS4sZsggKeC-4XR5NJH8C1ZVzvsH5lRgEItbzjhY68Br-0DV6dg3SgSd7ETnqJdb800xaQ/s320/@home.png" width="320" /></a>
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It’s been over a year in Bangalore. 3 flower shows, 2 spring
seasons and several visits to the temple – the beauty of the ‘garden city’ has
grown over me.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cFsEc3cR66o/UAU-KbuKKUI/AAAAAAAABIo/zk_mq70IyAA/s1600/more+flowers.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cFsEc3cR66o/UAU-KbuKKUI/AAAAAAAABIo/zk_mq70IyAA/s320/more+flowers.png" width="320" /></a>
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A trip to the Bangalore flower market is pending since long
and I know that I’m going to be smitten by the sheer number of flowers there. </div>
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PS: I finally made it to the flower market. More about it in
another post :)</div>
</div>bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com61tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-47011878751153529782012-03-21T00:52:00.003-08:002012-03-21T01:33:51.874-08:00DIY weekendA lazy Saturday afternoon, great ideas doing the rounds in my head and some lovely music to accompany - a perfect setting for a craft project that has been pending since long. <br /><br />So I get the object I’ve planned to work on. It’s a grater. Yes, a grater! The paints and brushes finally get to step out of the cupboard and all arrangements made, I get down to business. <br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y1azMN0M0aY/T2mXJUSU6VI/AAAAAAAABHk/IxbkxHKji_Y/s1600/grater1.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y1azMN0M0aY/T2mXJUSU6VI/AAAAAAAABHk/IxbkxHKji_Y/s400/grater1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722270987871119698" /></a><br /><br /><br />Getting my hands dirty in paints always leaves me feeling happy. The neck strains, the back aches as I try to paint the little corners of the grater, but nothing seems to bother me while I’m absorbed in that moment. <br /><br />Finally, the humble grater gets metamorphosed into an objet d’art.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzl5Ds71RWjnZE1EPSrUudEX1vdyOniwyaJVW0raHJ67G3Hba0cn7kVv79hADu5pcq7g20DWdZMKgGXDdYaLwNDMyZTf34t8_fbTokaHf8bMN4zAx7zrMNI7WuL6XUpLQblFBKjWGM0Jlj/s1600/grater2.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzl5Ds71RWjnZE1EPSrUudEX1vdyOniwyaJVW0raHJ67G3Hba0cn7kVv79hADu5pcq7g20DWdZMKgGXDdYaLwNDMyZTf34t8_fbTokaHf8bMN4zAx7zrMNI7WuL6XUpLQblFBKjWGM0Jlj/s400/grater2.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722271002317828738" /></a><br /><br /><br />But the purpose of painting it all pretty was something else. Those who know me well know about my huge collection of earrings and how I’m always on the lookout for a nice jewellery box for all those lovely pieces. So to make my morning looking-for-the-earring-pair ritual easier and add a kitsch angle to the boring jewellery box, this was my solution.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUUQjvhcXnaW-MxgRYyLIqgrkOX2dq233eazQ9sFb7VBpgKZBTc192MPfFuV7M-whVICTHHO0rfeeX51ph2AwKLGjzx5dz9Ni2SsblSJkNyOMuwWUSU1O5hoV69tI02q0FrSJyyc-qtWbn/s1600/grater3.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUUQjvhcXnaW-MxgRYyLIqgrkOX2dq233eazQ9sFb7VBpgKZBTc192MPfFuV7M-whVICTHHO0rfeeX51ph2AwKLGjzx5dz9Ni2SsblSJkNyOMuwWUSU1O5hoV69tI02q0FrSJyyc-qtWbn/s400/grater3.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722280781486184338" /></a><br /><br />:)<br /><br />P.S. Use an old paint brush as the sharpness of the grater can easily spoil the brush bristles.<br /><br />P.P.S. Try going for an aluminum base as it’s much easier to paint. <br /><br />P.P.P.S: Acrylic colours can easily stain the clothes so be careful. Else feel sorry about spoiling your favourite pyjama, like I did.bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-53172197506475862542012-02-22T22:09:00.003-09:002012-02-22T22:15:42.588-09:00What's cooking?Food holds a special place in everyone’s life - not only in the methods in which it is prepared but also the ways in which it is consumed. A table shared with friends energises and anchors relationships. A humble meal with folks revives memories. When we share tables, we effortlessly share a part of ourselves that chooses to stay latent otherwise. <br /><br />Lately, I have begun to believe, there is no better way to connect than through the medium of food. Gatherings, no matter how small, infuse a spirit of warmth in you. Food ceases to be food and becomes a catalyst to connect, share stories and soak in laughter. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-X_W4tfuIzqlR34njhHs29epdrOOolP3_Ji14-iajrSSTiqzSwfGfD3clwQjYDG_pLmsNjtptkSjUcgFzvRWEZFSdPFoVEIS-ilRE_17oTuBi67nWokEvWPjtCnpiaDxpEPBdzKFBhbh/s1600/7.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-X_W4tfuIzqlR34njhHs29epdrOOolP3_Ji14-iajrSSTiqzSwfGfD3clwQjYDG_pLmsNjtptkSjUcgFzvRWEZFSdPFoVEIS-ilRE_17oTuBi67nWokEvWPjtCnpiaDxpEPBdzKFBhbh/s400/7.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712225324329078018" /></a><br /><br />Food is all about sharing time with family and friends – at home, in restaurants, at work. We really spend quality time and linger over meals. The value of these gatherings is not in the quality of food, the flowers or any decorations as much as it is about the time spent together in eating and enjoying these things. <br /><em><br />“Talk becomes more honest and more personal; the words mirror the spirit of the food served. Hearty, warm dishes lead to talk of things that affect the soul: love, loss, sickness, and success” </em> - Forging Family by Saer Richards<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-PvBR_IR2qXHNef3wEnATq2yZSnG4qR4HX4z1yySYRWfkH94LunNU2voO4heVB7gFJWac2uKY9EYyizkPjHvCxBka-y5ibcS9n2T2BaIUyrOoIyJAD1b2g2NTN128muQoJnFMJzRvikC/s1600/8.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-PvBR_IR2qXHNef3wEnATq2yZSnG4qR4HX4z1yySYRWfkH94LunNU2voO4heVB7gFJWac2uKY9EYyizkPjHvCxBka-y5ibcS9n2T2BaIUyrOoIyJAD1b2g2NTN128muQoJnFMJzRvikC/s400/8.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712225341671022754" /></a><br /><br />Gastronomy, then, is as much of a pleasure as an art. It can be shared, offered, discussed –in flavours, colours, images and words. The culinary canvas is as much a means of self-expression as a way of entertainment. To say the least, food is the common denominator that pulls us together and stimulates conversation. <br /><br />There’s something about sitting together and sharing a meal. It’s the most natural approach to entertaining. It’s a healthy reminder to appreciate the friends we have and the times we gather. But more importantly, it’s a reminder to share our tables more often, to open our doors and our hearts.bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-71383077350861058242011-12-12T02:34:00.003-09:002011-12-12T02:41:34.919-09:00Death of a heroAnother hero dies and takes away with him a part of me. <br /><br />As I read the news of Mario Miranda, one of my favourite cartoonists pass away, I cannot help but wonder what conspiracy is afoot. The last couple of months have witnessed the loss of people who are an indispensable part of my growing years, an inspiration to my creative spirit and to say the least, a companion to an entire generation. Jagjit Singh, Bhupen Hazarika, Dev Anand, Uncle Pai and now Mario Miranda. <br /><br />Each demise was like a pebble thrown in a placid lake, disturbing the comfort zone I was living in. I realized, death has a knack of stirring memories that often sit quietly in a corner of the subconscious mind. <br /><br />I recollect picking a cassette of Jagjit Singh’s album from didi’s huge music library and listening to the heavy vocabulary just to feel her presence around. I never thought the same songs that once so bore me would become a point of connection and comfort me after didi got married. Surely, when she left, I lost a companion, but in listening to <em>her </em>favourite singer, I found another. <br /><br />I remember how every outstation trip meant picking a Tinkle from Wheelers on the railway station. The tales of Suppandi, Shikari Shambhu, Tantri the mantri along with the riddles and puzzles made for such a joyous journey. All thanks to Uncle Pai. And then, sometime in school I discovered Mario Miranda. I actually gave cartooning a shot after I saw Mr. Miranda’s distinctive style put to best use in a full page ad. The cutting of that page is neatly tucked away in one of my diaries.<br /> <br />And for a nation obsessed with cinema, how could you miss a legend like Dev Anand. Though remembered jokingly for his slouch and bobbing head, Dev Anand impressed me as a person whose spirit was undaunted by age. Add to it some of the most unforgettable songs from his films that continue to cheer me up on a bad day. <br /><br />Not having these people, who shaped my sensibility in one way or another, is like losing a part of me that was so intricately attached to their body of work. It creates a vacuum that is difficult to fill. <br /><br />In the words of Santosh Desai, “When people who make us who we are die, we grieve as much for ourselves as we do for them.”<br /><br />A tear is shed and life goes on. Though deep within you know, it’s not like before.bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-73777365738971812672011-12-05T20:06:00.002-09:002011-12-05T20:13:27.142-09:00MalledIt was huge. Well lit. The entrance itself was grand enough to intimidate. Flashy banners screamed names of brands she’d only read in overpriced magazines. It looked pretty. On second thoughts, pretty snobbish.<br /><br />While driving down the parking space, which looked like a never-ending twirling ride, she read something that reaffirmed her sense of the place.<br /> <br />“Most people may not have heard of these brands. But then, this place is not for most people.”<br /><br />Clever line, she said to herself. As a writer, that’s the first thing that came to her mind. But wait, there was much more to those words. There was a categorization of a brutal sense that she did not appreciate. <br /><br />Euphemism – that’s the word she was looking for. <br /><br /><em>Euphemism (n) - Substitution of an inoffensive term for one considered offensively explicit.</em><br /><br />She’d read it a hundred times in school; appreciated many examples of the same from countless poems. But unlike those several times, today it didn’t leave her with a very happy feeling. <br /><br />She felt uneasy, probably unable to decipher which side of the bracket she belonged to. She entered the large atrium nonetheless. Manicured women, spendthrift men and difficult kids – it had the usual elements that make for the drama called retail therapy. <br /><br />But remember, this mall was not for the usual shopaholics. People walked in and out of the obnoxiously expensive stores - checking price tags, expressing surprise in hushed voices and longingly looking at the stuff they wish she could afford. Suddenly, the uber- cool mall culture seemed like a conspiracy to stop people from being who they are. Why would you want an overcoat that’s meant for the London weather? Why would you need a soap that costs more than your pair of jeans? <br /><br />Surely, she didn’t belong to this bracket, even if she could. After an hour of aimless walking that left her with tired eyes and feet, she headed back to the car. There again, in front of her, she saw that line; like a swear word written in beautiful calligraphy. <br /><br />“… But then, this place is not for most people.”bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-69894104561548684542011-11-08T21:40:00.004-09:002011-11-08T22:04:06.029-09:00November RainThe drama in the clouds<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BQWrgxMFOa0/Trolrvq8YAI/AAAAAAAABHA/BpAjOl-gBGc/s1600/clouds.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 195px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BQWrgxMFOa0/Trolrvq8YAI/AAAAAAAABHA/BpAjOl-gBGc/s400/clouds.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672888114087747586" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Blurred escapes<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dRRklzz-Frg/TrohaKNJwvI/AAAAAAAABGo/2hQNjPGNScQ/s1600/road.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dRRklzz-Frg/TrohaKNJwvI/AAAAAAAABGo/2hQNjPGNScQ/s320/road.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672883413926396658" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />The sweet surrender<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9vClDZvhv_w/Troha8n5mWI/AAAAAAAABG0/JNAg1cfbQCw/s1600/coffee.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9vClDZvhv_w/Troha8n5mWI/AAAAAAAABG0/JNAg1cfbQCw/s320/coffee.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672883427460356450" /></a><br /><br />No words can match up to the magic of monsoon.bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-64163992151063128222011-08-29T04:07:00.000-08:002011-08-29T04:08:36.364-08:00Notes to myselfHow little does it take to be happy?
<br />
<br />A perfectly made cup of tea
<br />A new coat of nail paint
<br />A random post written as perfectly as it could be
<br />A picture that transports you to another world
<br />An unexpected kiss
<br />The sweet smell of flowers in the house
<br />The play of shadow and light on his face
<br />An unusual buy
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<br />We always remember things that make us feel miserable. How seldom do we soak in the thousands of moments that bring us joy.
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<br />Notes to self: Devour every beautiful moment. Stop cribbing.
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<br />bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-20026978660615466512011-07-07T23:05:00.001-08:002011-07-07T23:07:30.807-08:00Sipping tea while it rainsFunny how a little drizzle <br />is enough to start <br />a flood of thoughtsbhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-76119072404085117102011-07-07T22:59:00.003-08:002011-07-07T23:04:11.707-08:00MyopiaThis city is of extremes. There’s so much to see, to hear, to feel. It keeps her senses on high alert. She doesn’t want to miss anything. Everyday, she keeps dealing with the overload.<br /><br />Then, one day, the city’s sharpness gets blurred. <br /><br />She forgets her glasses at home. On purpose. <br /><br /><br />(<em>An attempt to write 50-word stories. This one is exactly 50 words.</em>)bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-45251524652604971592011-05-12T03:21:00.000-08:002011-05-13T12:38:19.284-08:00Colour me happyMy fondest memory of a birthday gift remains to be a box of camel oil pastels. With a typical scenery of a beautiful sunset showcased in enigmatic shades and expert strokes, the box promised to be something I had never seen before. With eyes that shone as if I’d won a million dollars, I slid the case open. My heart skipped a beat as I saw a spread of 24 breathtaking colours. For an 8 year old who always wished to have more than those 12 basic colours for her drawing classes, this was like a double promotion. For minutes, I kept staring at those wax jewels. Then held them closer to my nose to inhale that characteristic whiff that felt oh-so-comforting. This was it, I said to myself. ‘I’ll become an artist someday,’ I proudly announced to my folks, thinking that with this gift the power was purposefully bestowed upon me.<br /><br /><br />The new box opened up a whole new world for me. 24 colours. TWENTY FOUR colours!! I meticulously rearranged the box and divided it in 2 sets, exclusively putting aside the 12 new shades I’d never used before. As much as I was fascinated by the colours, I was curious to read their names. So there was a sunset orange, a blue-grey, a mint green and some others. With every name I read, I actually imagined the colour in its rightful place. How could they’ve come up with such exact descriptors, I was amazed to see. Then, as a challenge, I went about observing everyday things and coming up with my own set of shades. <br /><br /><br />For beginners, there was the Sindhi Kadhi colour – a mix between yellow and burnt orange. Then there was the very fresh Chutney green, which was unlike any other green the new box offered. Winters brought with it the Jaipuri Razai blue, while summers were spent slurping the kala-khatta colour off ice golas. A trip to nani’s house meant revisiting a Lifebuoy red and a Bajaj Chetak blue. And school was all about the chalkboard grey (or was it a dirty green?) and ofcourse, the Sisters with their faded muddy brown sarees. <br /><br /><br />With years, my love for the name-game has only grown stronger. Not to say, now I have a new colour vocabulary altogether. From the Deep Kiss Pink to the Lonely Lavender, from the Old Book Yellow to the Dried Rose Red – there are colours that have chosen to stay with me, while there are some that have just thrown a hint and left never to return. <br /><br /><br />There are so many more colours to explore, so much more to ‘tag’. And someday, I’d love to capture it all and stack it neatly in a box to be able to pick one everyday and live the colour I wish. But for now, I continue to occasionally stop by stationery shops and take a closer look at the colour boxes to read the names on the wax sticks. <br /><br /><br />I’ve realized, you need to think out of the box for things that go into it.bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-37177134161677554512011-03-04T00:41:00.004-09:002011-03-04T00:46:45.698-09:00RitualsShe remembers how she would always try and avoid the rituals around festivals. The socializing, the pujas, the fasting…Ma would constantly pester her to take an active part in these things as she would be expected to continue the tradition after marriage. ‘Oh please!’ she would scoff and walk away. All of it looked very artificial, very insignificant to her. <br /><br />Then, she got married and moved to another city. <br /><br />Now, in this strange new place, she doesn’t have any family around. Nobody to see whether or not she is practicing the family rituals. <br /><br />Like every day, she sits to have her morning cup of tea with her husband. He opens a new pack of Parle-G and offers her. She refuses...<br /><br />‘It’s Shivratri. I’m fasting today.’bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-86086263640505002442010-11-25T03:06:00.006-09:002010-11-25T03:54:52.246-09:00i like it hazyEverybody craves for perfection. Symmetry rules the world. Clean lines are the order of the day. But what is not perfect can be beautiful too. Like a hazy picture. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUOYoTjwL7P9xFZHUUwSh8VoIAVs9X_UVFAEItyK_nElBCk85-B8Y8XWWr8No1zoebsWy_LZE1pJ6-UvyRyESX_OXXWgic3nG_0aR_XamWriSYe5udTbJRw6xMAFcxplgGXGxzCv-Itl4t/s1600/nirvana.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUOYoTjwL7P9xFZHUUwSh8VoIAVs9X_UVFAEItyK_nElBCk85-B8Y8XWWr8No1zoebsWy_LZE1pJ6-UvyRyESX_OXXWgic3nG_0aR_XamWriSYe5udTbJRw6xMAFcxplgGXGxzCv-Itl4t/s400/nirvana.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543459223154149090" /></a><br /><br />When I was young, I remember hiding such pictures behind the last good picture in the photo album. It was perhaps a reminder of the money gone waste in developing these good-for-nothing images and that such a mistake should never be repeated. At other times, it brought great joy to watch a hazy picture and try to make sense of the details it was intended to capture. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-HzHYzCQ8wuaIscnwtXi3_u0unRGVwMcbv0TWzwQ81ZDduYOFGGappPiLtkH1Tgzm_kktInsnwZsPV8zsyuyVZywFhqezVuwtntlcdOjGPcTdTUJID3z4WOpFnoVQPnvSeDahczXca56/s1600/family+portrait.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-HzHYzCQ8wuaIscnwtXi3_u0unRGVwMcbv0TWzwQ81ZDduYOFGGappPiLtkH1Tgzm_kktInsnwZsPV8zsyuyVZywFhqezVuwtntlcdOjGPcTdTUJID3z4WOpFnoVQPnvSeDahczXca56/s400/family+portrait.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543459236297695282" /></a><br /><br />Today, when everything has gone digital, we no more brood over such pictures. There is no sense of loss really…for there are plenty that have made it to the finish. Now it’s just a matter of a ‘delete’ button that paves the way for the survival of the fittest. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhW0i4F7ZpOBxfZn5D1Y7TTUexwfn7-z0UupxC7mOtsu7TKkEX5hUjAxRTCGvlx_kL3ukK8squJzeSVTd0GopiZB8gWZ2f2fqX1jGE412LmGjNVfWOrK_OPxcr1mjYhkJDkxe53G_haEBp/s1600/dog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 329px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhW0i4F7ZpOBxfZn5D1Y7TTUexwfn7-z0UupxC7mOtsu7TKkEX5hUjAxRTCGvlx_kL3ukK8squJzeSVTd0GopiZB8gWZ2f2fqX1jGE412LmGjNVfWOrK_OPxcr1mjYhkJDkxe53G_haEBp/s400/dog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543460223686305970" /></a><br /><br />But something inexplicable still draws me to these hazy pictures. <br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/TO5S2KYWW_I/AAAAAAAABAg/Y6YjpWKXOzs/s1600/krish.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/TO5S2KYWW_I/AAAAAAAABAg/Y6YjpWKXOzs/s400/krish.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543459281792556018" /></a><br /><br /><br />The shaken picture, often seen as a waste, appeals to me as an action in process. Its presence is liquid – oozing out of its definitive boundaries and seeping into everything that was not ordained. For me, it stands out like a rebel. <br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/TO5Tt7XcN5I/AAAAAAAABAw/p4pzobN4YhQ/s1600/dervishes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/TO5Tt7XcN5I/AAAAAAAABAw/p4pzobN4YhQ/s400/dervishes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543460239834888082" /></a><br /><br />And in doing so, never mind by fluke, it lends a character to the frame that can seldom be replicated. Everytime you look at it, you discover something new – a little detail or effect that was left unnoticed all this while. In that respect, it becomes an art piece you never intended to create. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQtFt7JsnOKeSfn7Gi_2tJOxRKU9k7dnGbWUl-z29I-1R7XNBATsQ3XlGuLyHhOd0ZpGcxaaCtuRW9njLv9c5EYSmTu6TCJfaYvZRBEh3zwv-94dm6f0oXOalbAt1vPY4jir_a4d7E1gw/s1600/fire.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQtFt7JsnOKeSfn7Gi_2tJOxRKU9k7dnGbWUl-z29I-1R7XNBATsQ3XlGuLyHhOd0ZpGcxaaCtuRW9njLv9c5EYSmTu6TCJfaYvZRBEh3zwv-94dm6f0oXOalbAt1vPY4jir_a4d7E1gw/s400/fire.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543460894356837826" /></a><br /><br />Tucked away in a quiet folder on my laptop, lie many such unwanted pictures which I know I can never part ways with. My mother calls me a maverick to be still holding on to these. But for me, these pictures are special too. They remind me of the days we were starved of good pictures from a manual camera. Of days when we celebrated every picture in our photo album – good, bad or ugly. Of days we coped with the scarcity of resources. Of days we were comfortable with imperfections. <br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/TO5S1LpNn-I/AAAAAAAABAY/44U4Q0lhTmg/s1600/lights.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/TO5S1LpNn-I/AAAAAAAABAY/44U4Q0lhTmg/s400/lights.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543459264951853026" /></a><br /><br />For me, they serve as the thin line between the curious and the compelling. They are those captured moments that are unique in their own fashion. Or rather, those moments that could never really be ‘caught’ on camera; they just dodged and fled.bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-11809008122691038022010-04-21T05:11:00.003-08:002010-04-21T05:42:30.790-08:00Finally!DISCLAIMER: <br /><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> She wishes to make it crystal clear<br /> Before beginning this unapologetic slaughter<br /> This has absolute resemblance to real incidents<br /> And not based on any fictitious character</span><br /><br /><br />So it happened on a Tuesday morning<br />Without any prior intimation <br />Leaving her in great shock & anger<br />And a day filled with sheer frustration <br /><br />They called her into the cabin <br />And greeted with a near-extinct smile <br />She knew there was something fishy <br />It was, she decoded, the devil’s wicked style <br /><br />“We are really happy with your work”, they said<br />As if it were such a revelation<br />Then handed a shameful cheque<br />Calling it the apt compensation<br /><br />Not an increment, an ex-gratia it was<br />Which clearly spoke of their evil plan. <br />They justified “We’ve suffered through recession, <br />BUT STILL we’re giving you whatever we can.”<br /><br />She smirked and walked out<br />Not knowing what to say <br />Enough, she said to herself<br />Let today be <span style="font-style:italic;">the judgment day</span><br /> <br />She had sacrificed uncountable weekends<br />Had dismissed all her family time<br />Worked with a strained back, at unearthly hours<br />Even lost her sleep for writing a mere line<br /><br />But she wouldn’t give into this anymore<br />THIS blatant exploitation <br />She walked into the cabin once again<br />This time to hand over her resignationbhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-8570426456059608212010-02-22T02:03:00.009-09:002010-02-22T03:31:43.156-09:00Why we travelIt always happens – there comes a point atleast once in a week, when I think I've had enough. With the work pressure continuing to drive me insane, all I wish to do is pack my bags, hit the road and run away to a serene land far far away. And I’m sure, each one of us has felt the same many-a-times. I wonder if it is triggered by the urgency to escape the routine or the need to explore something much more rewarding. Which brings me to the raison d'etre of this post. <br /><br />Afterall, why do we choose to travel?<br /><br />Travel, I believe, is not merely a physical getaway; it's a state of mind. It is the willingness to move out of our comfort zone, to shed our inhibitions and escape into aimlessness. It is an outward journey to get a deeper understanding of the inner self. <br /><br />We travel to become young fools again – to take great joy in the simplest of things and to unlearn the old ways of learning. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVB6ci17caLseJtBQB_iw07dfshDly8yDJHxdNkyDCPiYrsS5IFNclhusYbsXLdF6sAuSCt1tsm7MJFXU-1NpQyUH5lAQ8htmXKQALEfJZiEpPytnAjgOk2is6JS8N3uXIzz3CK0GiHZ2/s1600-h/P1010388.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVB6ci17caLseJtBQB_iw07dfshDly8yDJHxdNkyDCPiYrsS5IFNclhusYbsXLdF6sAuSCt1tsm7MJFXU-1NpQyUH5lAQ8htmXKQALEfJZiEpPytnAjgOk2is6JS8N3uXIzz3CK0GiHZ2/s320/P1010388.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441032942812689922" /></a><br /><br />It lets us see the world with inquisitive eyes, which in turn bring in a fresh and renewed sense of wonder. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscZOlfQPsIyIYLUN14YElMunZJ8wI3YjNS10AaQy-zAuQ1pABBRePGjRV2AInhvtZuP6_TH2zMRp6x9h53pdZRF8xCOh64S3d3IGFjyZ6wobqwpm0z2wdlY-LuICzjx9lp76w9JjlEvGK/s1600-h/P1010011.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscZOlfQPsIyIYLUN14YElMunZJ8wI3YjNS10AaQy-zAuQ1pABBRePGjRV2AInhvtZuP6_TH2zMRp6x9h53pdZRF8xCOh64S3d3IGFjyZ6wobqwpm0z2wdlY-LuICzjx9lp76w9JjlEvGK/s320/P1010011.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441034034693007122" /></a><br /><br /><br />Suddenly, every colour...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_PF-zpvta33XaOh0ANlHR0sVH3IhbZ3KA5xaWa_T95qiirqD_uggp7tQimspw1hgSc47VaQjoadamoVk7kItG6qFFd1zxx2VjrlMYLjq3uWJo4AMpnSxSyZP3kSPaMr-uuPQfyxp4aHE/s1600-h/P1010370.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_PF-zpvta33XaOh0ANlHR0sVH3IhbZ3KA5xaWa_T95qiirqD_uggp7tQimspw1hgSc47VaQjoadamoVk7kItG6qFFd1zxx2VjrlMYLjq3uWJo4AMpnSxSyZP3kSPaMr-uuPQfyxp4aHE/s320/P1010370.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441031615052493522" /></a><br /><br />every sight...<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/S4JseXbXkKI/AAAAAAAAA94/E5pbCYQfThU/s1600-h/P1010032.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/S4JseXbXkKI/AAAAAAAAA94/E5pbCYQfThU/s320/P1010032.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441030568757661858" /></a><br /><br /><br />every taste arrests our senses...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVmK25_LgZ2Eh-QhPdU63yWJQapSXVTTFr9UFkK3gz0tFx-cC13xuRbcPYhBRjL6I23X3TREzpN-rbMZN9wmwS9oAc3hVj1Bw4B2VMnYDm8C58-bU139kLoy_3zZhFiAiBshw70OA3KEzT/s1600-h/P1010262.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVmK25_LgZ2Eh-QhPdU63yWJQapSXVTTFr9UFkK3gz0tFx-cC13xuRbcPYhBRjL6I23X3TREzpN-rbMZN9wmwS9oAc3hVj1Bw4B2VMnYDm8C58-bU139kLoy_3zZhFiAiBshw70OA3KEzT/s320/P1010262.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441030599985177122" /></a><br /><br />...giving a different kind of high. And we are more than willing to become a slave of this sensory roller coaster ride. <br /><br />Traveling makes it possible to tear away the ‘tags’ that we live with and see ourselves in the naked light. As Ray Bradbury puts it, “Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness”. When I am in a foreign land, I don’t think of myself as a sindhi , a gujarati or an advertising professional. I am just another face in the crowd. And in this process of losing oneself, we create an opportunity to decipher our true identity<br /><br />To travel means leaving assumptions far behind, killing prejudices and seeing for ourselves places we thought we knew. And from the comforts of our home, we can only get a myopic view. No amount of google earth can bring us closer to the land we wish to visit. No amount of social networking can substitute the joy of getting to know people for real. And no matter how small the world becomes (thanks to all kinds of technology), there are always vast lands waiting to be explored.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXrsxBFl433L7SJ5dZfsUCpDtpd7g5_-gzIC3gjBWX9hxFtHvgBMREb0mzRJVTNeYr446i91Osyc34bk6DUnRH5W5wt3-HlBPR6iJwQ9bkadTTOpnKsHDUs2_OxiJO0Cl4ExSi_Do9FLA/s1600-h/P1010144.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXrsxBFl433L7SJ5dZfsUCpDtpd7g5_-gzIC3gjBWX9hxFtHvgBMREb0mzRJVTNeYr446i91Osyc34bk6DUnRH5W5wt3-HlBPR6iJwQ9bkadTTOpnKsHDUs2_OxiJO0Cl4ExSi_Do9FLA/s320/P1010144.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441030581008080210" /></a><br /><br /><br />So travel, the way I see it, is nothing short of some kind of divine intervention. It is the love of the unknown. And the lust for knowing it up close and personal. And this one time, I shall let lust take over love. <br /><br /><em>pics from my trip to Singapore last year</em><br /><br />P.S.: This is my 100th post and this one’s dedicated to <a href="http://www.chaikidukaan.com/">Prashant</a>, a travel freak himself and who motivated me to write after a sabbatical of almost 2 months :)bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-85404750009748230992009-12-28T22:17:00.003-09:002009-12-29T00:00:45.164-09:00A winter morning<em>A flower's appeal is in its contradictions - so delicate in form yet strong in fragrance, so small in size yet big in beauty, so short in life yet long on effect.<br /><br /> <em> ~Adabella Radici</em></em><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/SznFAJWciQI/AAAAAAAAA9s/vsJyLcNK_e4/s1600-h/a1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/SznFAJWciQI/AAAAAAAAA9s/vsJyLcNK_e4/s400/a1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420580232817838338" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/SznE__aaw6I/AAAAAAAAA9k/IQ5y-2r0Tts/s1600-h/a2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/SznE__aaw6I/AAAAAAAAA9k/IQ5y-2r0Tts/s400/a2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420580230150144930" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/SznE_YtWxgI/AAAAAAAAA9c/IcG-zkWenfA/s1600-h/a3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/SznE_YtWxgI/AAAAAAAAA9c/IcG-zkWenfA/s400/a3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420580219760592386" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0mJbY1dCrnWv2Xqtb_FaVnUUrDa2xKEd4rGnKBj-otgJ6BfxVwBb6hyphenhyphenOueHrAh69ic_fLoD5JvJPFfLzvKTWHJFtE9JycqnzPmfERlt94e2ILpPu-ifcV75rCcrOocmrCjHM-x3OyauN7/s1600-h/a4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0mJbY1dCrnWv2Xqtb_FaVnUUrDa2xKEd4rGnKBj-otgJ6BfxVwBb6hyphenhyphenOueHrAh69ic_fLoD5JvJPFfLzvKTWHJFtE9JycqnzPmfERlt94e2ILpPu-ifcV75rCcrOocmrCjHM-x3OyauN7/s400/a4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420580214472760802" /></a>bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-11506153471611064162009-11-17T00:27:00.002-09:002009-11-17T00:39:34.603-09:00Arranged MarriageWe all know about arranged marriages - how they work and what all goes on before you say 'yes'. I always thought it was kind of funny and makes for a perfect subject for a film. But wait, there's more to it. And you cannot really imagine until and unless you actually go for a meeting like this one...<br /><br />Whoever thought of the ‘arranged’ meeting<br />Was surely an absolute nerd<br />Leaving two strangers in an isolated corner<br />Is, to say the least, obnoxiously awkward <br /><br />You are expected to chit chat<br />And find out if you gel well<br />If yes, the shaadi is fixed<br />If no, you are termed as rebel<br /><br />Now imagine this sweet li’l girl<br />In such a dreaded situation<br />Facing a prospective suitor<br />After great procrastination <br /><br />She begins with a hi and a hello<br />And asks politely, ‘What do you do?’<br />Behaving like a well brought up child<br />Atleast till the meeting is through <br /><br />She is nervous and clueless<br />And stares blankly at the aquarium<br />Just then he pops the expected question,<br />‘So, are you vegetarian??’<br /><br />‘Do you believe in God?’ he asks next<br />As if it were an imperative condition<br />‘Neither a devotee nor an atheist am I’<br />She replies smartly with great conviction<br /><br />‘How do you spend your weekends?’<br />‘What all places have you traveled to?’<br />One after the other the questions keep coming<br />Shrouded in mystery & enigma - just like a deja vu<br /><br />But slowly the uneasiness begins to fade <br />The interview transforms into interaction<br />And in a startling moment she realizes<br />Hell, there’s some sort of faint attraction<br /><br />I quite like this guy, she says to herself<br />And prays he too shows some sign<br />But time seems to run out, he has to go<br />Oh, the pang of this damned ‘arranged’ design<br /><br />The parents say they like the girl<br />But leave the final decision to the guy<br />She realizes it’s not the arranged meeting<br />But what’s worse is waiting for his replybhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-54004773668054892582009-10-15T00:22:00.005-08:002009-10-15T00:48:50.427-08:00More Kettles!A couple of months ago I talked about my idea of making handmade gifts like <a href="http://bhumikaa.blogspot.com/2009/05/on-gifting.html">this</a>. The idea was quite a hit and 2 of my aunts asked me to make the same for them. So here I am, with 2 more kettles as my Diwali gift to them :)<br /><br />It’s no secret – I absolutely love warli and try to use it wherever possible.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6q9hT66emQQkvycOvCPo2Bpb3pnCToZhOaAU7HShQwqeVPGtc0vNfDtqM5gUSgp6FQtbIhy1PN0M0wCBOfWGYJPhak7QC8mGu9hocQIWuodutWf5MXo0Fox8PvskOU4vDoOc08ki-49E/s1600-h/1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6q9hT66emQQkvycOvCPo2Bpb3pnCToZhOaAU7HShQwqeVPGtc0vNfDtqM5gUSgp6FQtbIhy1PN0M0wCBOfWGYJPhak7QC8mGu9hocQIWuodutWf5MXo0Fox8PvskOU4vDoOc08ki-49E/s320/1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392740806634906018" /></a><br /><br />This one turned out to be quite interesting and for once, I was really tempted to keep it for myself! ;)<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/StbdM2B5F0I/AAAAAAAAA6A/7GEOIPcCTTg/s1600-h/2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/StbdM2B5F0I/AAAAAAAAA6A/7GEOIPcCTTg/s320/2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392740816554366786" /></a><br /><br />I tried to bring in a couple of things together and even attempted some birds and beasts. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgoKgi6voNlLY8fLxPvkCVidY9fZu6NlA-lpDX2Q5l6_yghecBgC9FI9z3nYD1VZYO8r9tyr0mcQxwfaS6kHZq63pSjrUGUUi0-ggLqU-vseyhySA1ZDsTVu9O7k_mUW3W97kgoOWlkaCC/s1600-h/3.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgoKgi6voNlLY8fLxPvkCVidY9fZu6NlA-lpDX2Q5l6_yghecBgC9FI9z3nYD1VZYO8r9tyr0mcQxwfaS6kHZq63pSjrUGUUi0-ggLqU-vseyhySA1ZDsTVu9O7k_mUW3W97kgoOWlkaCC/s320/3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392740824209481554" /></a><br />For the next one I took a brighter base and did a little freehand. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTt-s1jnkvAbuEGtmIdXraQnqGUJ-ddm-dsHi6ISYjXYLs1CWHL6btHC4IsXTRNcZH4EtTtZO4vE68pR5Vs1eo3hrFSFTUTbyDpy4HxRfmV_JFpM-Nu0v9McI5XxlMcjUoYPc7cbfNoSef/s1600-h/4.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTt-s1jnkvAbuEGtmIdXraQnqGUJ-ddm-dsHi6ISYjXYLs1CWHL6btHC4IsXTRNcZH4EtTtZO4vE68pR5Vs1eo3hrFSFTUTbyDpy4HxRfmV_JFpM-Nu0v9McI5XxlMcjUoYPc7cbfNoSef/s320/4.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392740834396174722" /></a><br /><br /><br />Though floral is not my forte, I quite liked the final result. <br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/StbdOp3iQZI/AAAAAAAAA6Y/ZqjZXv08t7s/s1600-h/5.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/StbdOp3iQZI/AAAAAAAAA6Y/ZqjZXv08t7s/s320/5.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392740847649440146" /></a><br /><br />I didn't do a double coat of the base this time, so the aluminium is visible in some places. <br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/StbeDtO40KI/AAAAAAAAA6g/LkAP668MPDM/s1600-h/6.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/StbeDtO40KI/AAAAAAAAA6g/LkAP668MPDM/s320/6.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392741759085760674" /></a><br /><br /><br />Learning from experience, I didn’t put in plants this time.<br />a) not many species can survive in the little space that a kettle provides<br />b) without the plant, it can be used as an adornment in any corner of the house<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/StbeEZTaTjI/AAAAAAAAA6w/Lwad8p3bX_Q/s1600-h/8.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_c1ctOPRwuFc/StbeEZTaTjI/AAAAAAAAA6w/Lwad8p3bX_Q/s320/8.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392741770915892786" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQUe_x8NK-_U1XAqL4G_r5H7UuPmBbtkmRCrekvs4Bk8XBc2XfW9vqf-Kpkto8uGP2KmgLIEYx7OFDxG1VaYWxVcKimZ6s7-gOZ-TyIovYCHwMeV8DVKb8X9RE5_MuG51W0p9OYUqaB0Ev/s1600-h/7.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQUe_x8NK-_U1XAqL4G_r5H7UuPmBbtkmRCrekvs4Bk8XBc2XfW9vqf-Kpkto8uGP2KmgLIEYx7OFDxG1VaYWxVcKimZ6s7-gOZ-TyIovYCHwMeV8DVKb8X9RE5_MuG51W0p9OYUqaB0Ev/s320/7.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392741760139451026" /></a><br /><br />I just hope after seeing each other’s kettles the aunts don’t complain, “Bhumi gave <strong>you </strong>the better one”. You know how aunts are...<br /><br />In queue are two more friends. But I believe now I’m done with kettles. Looking for another interesting base. If you have any suggestions, do let me know.<br /><br />And yes, wish you all a very Happy Diwali! :)bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2040063946738704893.post-49086157514277587932009-10-10T05:45:00.003-08:002009-10-10T05:48:31.687-08:00Kitchen ConfidentialI still remember the day I watched my mother as she carefully took out a shiny steel box from the cabinet of the kitchen. An aromatic burst engulfed the steamy kitchen as she opened its lid. Inside were some six mini containers, holding spices which had very unusual shapes. My little eyes shone as if I had discovered a treasure I never knew existed in my very house. She called it ‘aakha’ (whole) garam masala. But for a 5 year old girl, it was nothing short of magic.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFPq2mp4brkzhU1-wUjHZH6ppVoHDu3TqyDucRxrb93bXcVZqhalvCHTLlMt30GteAt8tDYRDiACcyG-w-sfg9qI35zDjYbdxZ7yet9eLE0eGcJ7n_I0Gz3BFufuqFZ56GAME02U04wsJK/s1600-h/whole-spices.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFPq2mp4brkzhU1-wUjHZH6ppVoHDu3TqyDucRxrb93bXcVZqhalvCHTLlMt30GteAt8tDYRDiACcyG-w-sfg9qI35zDjYbdxZ7yet9eLE0eGcJ7n_I0Gz3BFufuqFZ56GAME02U04wsJK/s320/whole-spices.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390967289411144786" /></a><br /><br /><br />Over the years, not much has changed. I still stand in awe when I see the simplest of ingredients being transmuted into bold, hedonistic blends of the perfect flavour. Undoubtedly, Indian kitchens still remain the Holy Grail of gastronomy – churning out dishes that make for exalting culinary experiences. And it is not merely about the food, but about a whole culture that surrounds it.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“If you don’t measure the right thing, you don’t do the right thing.”</span><br /> <br />But interesting, in India we don’t really follow measurements. Here, ingredients are measured out by practiced ‘instruments’ – by hand. Indian cooking is not like preparing cakes where you can say, “add 2 tsp. of sugar”. Instead, it’s a more liberating practice where you follow the dynamics of ‘andaazan’. And after having cooked quite some meals, I defer from believing that ‘andaazan’ would simply mean ‘approximately’. It’s more than just that. It’s about having the freedom to experiment and add a bit of what you think would possibly make the dish taste more delicious. <br /><br />At the same time, unlike western culinary quickies, traditional Indian cooking involves great patience. It’s about letting the curries simmer on a low flame; of grinding the spices leisurely, allowing the aromatic flavours to ooze; of churning the sheera at regular intervals for hours together until it attains that perfect golden allure…Definitely, it’s more than just patience at work; it’s passion.<br /><br />And the love affair with food doesn’t end there. There’s always the dollop of ghee to top it all or the generous helping of ‘gud’ in the thali. In other words, it is an unadulterated vision of life as a pleasure-seeking activity, where the need to provide our bodies with the nutrients alongwith an unabashed portion of fat is really okay.<br /><br />Having cooked for a substantial number of years now, I would like to believe that I have only begun to unravel the mysteries that make any food well worth its salt. A friend once said, “Never cook when you’re angry; the food wouldn’t taste good.” Food, then, is as much about the ingredients as about the ‘jazbaat’ of the person who prepares it. The pangs of the hostel-fed stomach, when it thinks of ‘ma ke haath ka khaana’, is certainly no exaggeration in that respect. <br /><br />Surely, cooking isn’t as easy as our mothers make it out to be. Like all great arts, it is something that requires dedication, passion and the ability to pick up those nuances that help create a masterpiece. It is a complex concoction of traditional methods, culinary secrets, social respectability, gratification and ofcourse a heady dose of love. In the words of Linda Henley, <span style="font-style:italic;">“If God had intended us to follow recipes, he wouldn't have given us grandmothers.”</span>bhumikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09474692306930275957noreply@blogger.com7