tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-364387282024-03-13T08:16:05.488-07:00THE SOJOURNLife is a journey. Let's walk together- you & I. Let's make this journey memorable.Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.comBlogger269125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-35491764634269385652023-06-19T00:47:00.001-07:002023-06-19T00:47:22.196-07:00The Wisdom of Trees<span style="color: #04ff00;">I was thinking about the group consciousness of animals and how one needs to show an animal love in order for its consciousness to individualise. I wondered what was the point. Since the group consciousness of a soul has to individualise and then connect to the I AM Presence where it eventually becomes a Group Consciousness "WE ARE" again. And then it connects to God eventually to realise that I is WE and WE are I. </span><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;">That I am the tree in front of me, the crow building a nest on top of the tree, the vegetable seller walking from building to building, trying to sell groceries on a rainy day.
I AM THAT I AM.
I look at my friend, the Tree in front of me and ask it, "What is the point? Just different perspectives. You look at me and I look at you. We are essentially experiencing the same reality from different perspectives. I wonder what you think when you look at me. Gublu, my mother's dog can stare into space for hours without thinking anything. What do you think?" </span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;">"Just existence", Tree replies. </span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"> Existence.
</span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPdHQFGwqspu7Ef6AcBsTpbnhteH2xOor4sGFMozf1K0UbKS6pdXVrmCrkeacS87dNcHRChSYvs2XnpaHXy8iwNDW-MxYQ-rId8DPijsvog434j6E4sqZNUghhgTK-gJIi1YJptUlZ5fJ3HcWQYhZE9w99zHQB_MJWM5En5ex_eYrv4mH2MN2-/s4000/IMG20230619121807.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #04ff00;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3008" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPdHQFGwqspu7Ef6AcBsTpbnhteH2xOor4sGFMozf1K0UbKS6pdXVrmCrkeacS87dNcHRChSYvs2XnpaHXy8iwNDW-MxYQ-rId8DPijsvog434j6E4sqZNUghhgTK-gJIi1YJptUlZ5fJ3HcWQYhZE9w99zHQB_MJWM5En5ex_eYrv4mH2MN2-/w301-h400/IMG20230619121807.jpg" width="301" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;">Aah, I remember now, "I think therefore I am (exist)". So Descartes, the old chap was wrong. You exist even if you do not think. Just look at nature.</span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;">How did a whole line of Western philosophers convince humankind that you have to overuse your mental body in order to exist? And look at us now, all we do is 'think'. But my friend, the Tree can look at me and think nothing. What a gift!</span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;">(I realise this is also a think-piece but consider it an outlet to untangle my mental thoughts.)</span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;">A tree can look at anything and not judge. Recently, I saw a video that said trees have more photoreceptors in their entire being while we only have it in our eyes (will link below). Apparently, a tree can see the colour of your shirt if you are near it, feel your thoughts and hear you sing. That is why, when high vibrational music is played in front of plants, they grow well.</span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;">Most trees also connect with God Source directly for food ( through chlorophyll etc) and don't need any other form of nutrition. Trees are 5D beings that exist on multiple dimensions. Another video channelling Trees (By Allison Coe, linked below) found that Trees were the original Builder Race. Here, humanity in its supreme ego is researching which alien race was the builder race and here we have trees, silently standing right next to us, as they always have, waiting for us, to look at them with the same love as they have for us.</span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;">"We are related. You are like my sibling, you are me. Because if you weren't me, I would not be able to connect with you and see reality through your eyes." I tell Tree.</span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;">(Note: Yes, Prof. Charles Xavier was right. You can connect with the entire Earth / Universe / all living beings and see their truth. Imagine if more of us did this. There would be no strife, no intolerance, no war.)</span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;">This connection is only possible because we are made of the same original organic fabric. And it is so fluid, so interchangeable that I can choose to be a tree in next life just like Tree can choose to be a human. Of course, there are stages and soul goals. When we die / awaken spiritually, we realise that we have woken up from this dream and that we are in a bigger dream: God's dream</span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;">(Refer: Amanda Lorence's video on God's dreaming states on Youtube / FB talks about this: linked below)</span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #04ff00;">All realities / dimensions are just different dreams for us to experience different perspectives. The bad, the good, the light, the dark are just that: Perspectives. Truth, then, the Whole Truth, that is, can only be found when you look at something from all perspectives: higher and lower dimensions and multiple points of view.</span></div><div><p data-pm-slice="1 1 []" dir="auto"><span style="color: #04ff00;">My friend the Tree, the Crow, Gublu and I, can experience a storm and have wildly different perspectives. I love the sound of thunder, Gublu is afraid, the Crow gets drenched and looks for a place of shelter, Tree only observes. The storm itself is neutral. How ironic that physical immobility (that we would consider a barrier) affords Tree with such a beautiful perspective. Rain or Shine, the Tree continues to stand still and observe instead of drowning in mental thoughts.</span></p><p dir="auto"></p><p dir="auto"><span style="color: #04ff00;">May we all learn from their wisdom and reconnect with them.</span></p><p dir="auto"></p><p dir="auto"></p><p dir="auto"><span style="color: #04ff00;">#treeconsciousness #tree #trees</span></p><p dir="auto"><span style="color: #04ff00;"><br /></span></p><p dir="auto"></p><p dir="auto"></p><p dir="auto"><span style="color: #04ff00;">References:</span></p><p dir="auto"><span style="color: #04ff00;">1.</span></p><p dir="auto"><a href="https://youtu.be/szFNOMPoCE8" rel="noopener noreferrer nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="color: #04ff00;">https://youtu.be/szFNOMPoCE8</span></a></p><p dir="auto"><span style="color: #04ff00;">Allison Coe: A Message from Trees</span></p><p dir="auto"><span style="color: #04ff00;">2.</span></p><p dir="auto"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/reel/Ctf0w4BAVrL/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==" rel="noopener noreferrer nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="color: #04ff00;">https://www.instagram.com/reel/Ctf0w4BAVrL/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==</span></a></p><p dir="auto"><span style="color: #04ff00;">Trees are Sentient</span></p><p dir="auto"><span style="color: #04ff00;">3.</span></p><p dir="auto"><a href="https://youtu.be/8nRgclDgy-U" rel="noopener noreferrer nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="color: #04ff00;">https://youtu.be/8nRgclDgy-U</span></a></p><p dir="auto"><span style="color: #04ff00;">Amanda Lorence: God's Dreaming States</span></p></div>Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-51002793938514278952023-02-01T07:49:00.002-08:002023-02-01T07:50:08.927-08:00Qala - A Spiritual ReviewJust watched Qala and I'm still here, sitting on my chair marveling at how unhealed mother wounds can drive one to the point of insanity. Perhaps, it was the film's beautiful and haunting cinematography that is a poignant visual description of mental illness, perhaps it is the subject - a disturbing relationship between mother and daughter.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvgjxLM6p8pGeUyoY2mgrejJIy1hliRIsRPmzwVJY5RLtQzY5THQqndghtb-bHE5N6l_D34UC0E5z9fYYVd3PkBgonMIejAJALbMNSnZ6TYs9KsaBdeMQDn-quu8h4LGsfxOK4WSrVTcNMzzA86LxN9lCn1IK_M6JX1lUI25HFnlJhmyBKA/s739/images%20%2899%29.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="739" data-original-width="415" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvgjxLM6p8pGeUyoY2mgrejJIy1hliRIsRPmzwVJY5RLtQzY5THQqndghtb-bHE5N6l_D34UC0E5z9fYYVd3PkBgonMIejAJALbMNSnZ6TYs9KsaBdeMQDn-quu8h4LGsfxOK4WSrVTcNMzzA86LxN9lCn1IK_M6JX1lUI25HFnlJhmyBKA/s320/images%20%2899%29.jpeg"/></a></div>
But much like the central protagonist, the viewer also feels suffocated. Suffocated by the fame, prosperity, light. That difference between the external (light) and internal (darkness) is scary as it is the most silent. Every time Qala takes one more step into darkness to achieve her mother's dreams, a part of her soul is quietly chipped away. The most grotesque of scenes in the movie are the most silent, thus showing that child abuse, sexual abuse, murder always happens in darkness and silence. So why does Qala not stop?
Because, sometimes, our desire for love and acceptance from our closest ones can also act as blinders and blind us to our own intuition. Our own well-being.
Watching the film from a spiritual lens, I cannot help but wonder what would have happened if Jagan hadn't died. He seemed like the only character who sings because music is his life. Unlike Qala who sings for her mother's approval, unlike her mother for whom music is a matter of family prestige or the likes of Sumant Kumar or Mr. Sanyal for whom music is a source of power. In the death of the only person who genuinely cares for music, the film shows how creativity and lifeforce dies in a patriarchal capitalist industry.
Qala is not a film that can be forgotten. It is a feverish art piece, like Edvard Munch's Scream, that needs to be processed.
I wish more people realise the importance of working on mother wounds instead of giving in to darkness as Qala does. I hope this film makes people look at their life and see how they have allowed their parents to dictate even the most subconscious of their habits. And I hope they are able to work through them.
#Qala #TriptiDimri
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-13592200545877211422020-09-12T15:39:00.001-07:002020-09-12T15:40:32.185-07:00WaveIt comes in waves<div>A tsunami, 100 feet tall </div><div>Making landfall </div><div>On the parched shore of my heart.</div><div>Filling it with love </div><div>Slowly, steadily </div><div>Enriching it, then drowning it </div><div>Whirlwind of emotions</div><div>Swallowing everything in its wake</div><div>A distant memory, a happily-ever-after dream </div><div>Reduced to rubble. </div><div>Blinded, bruised, battered</div><div>Must have been my fault.</div><div>Again?</div><div>Again.</div><div>As the second wave gets ready,</div><div>I close my eyes</div><div>And face it all over, again. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div>Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-50748441589498016022018-06-08T06:24:00.000-07:002018-06-08T06:24:09.020-07:00RIP Anthony<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">Another day ends.</span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;">And with that another life.</span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;">We gasp, choke, sigh and post our tributes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">And then get on with the day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">And the next.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">And the day after.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">Until the next person dies.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">A suicide isn’t a normal death.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">A suicide goes against the natural human desire to survive. To
exist. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">A suicide is born out of pain and despair. And the feeling
that there is no other way. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">It’s the final step in a series of unrelenting steps that
pleaded for help, screamed to be heard.</span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">Did no one hear Anthony Bourdain? Or Kate Spade?</span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">Or Chester Bennington?</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-978BYIpZDPc/WxqCyUI-iyI/AAAAAAAAH2o/aclrYiqXBjQxd13Dpl2DBp2FIjwEZUxRwCLcBGAs/s1600/anothony%2Bbourdain%2Bfortune.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: orange;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-978BYIpZDPc/WxqCyUI-iyI/AAAAAAAAH2o/aclrYiqXBjQxd13Dpl2DBp2FIjwEZUxRwCLcBGAs/s320/anothony%2Bbourdain%2Bfortune.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: orange; font-size: xx-small;"> Courtesy: Fortune</span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;">Not even their families, their loved ones?</span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;">Did we have the wrong idea about their personal lives?</span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">Or perhaps, no matter how happy a person looks, one can never
be sure what’s eating them inside. </span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">How hollow do you have to feel, how hopeless to take such a
drastic step?</span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">I can’t imagine.</span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;">But tonight, my heart cries for Bourdain, Spade, Bennington
and those millions of lives we have lost early. And those that we will continue
to lose if we don’t do something about it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">Depression is real. Suicides are happening every day. You
might not like it; you might think people should be stronger. But you can’t change
reality.</span></div>
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<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">What you can change is the way you are with people. Even a
few kind words can mean the world to someone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">Empathy is a gift. You don’t know what someone is going
through. You might not even understand at first. But be kind. Be patient.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be persistent. Don’t do it for that person to
thank you but because it is the right thing to do. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">And if we all try and be a little kinder to each other, perhaps,
we can make a small dent in this harsh world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;">And that’s a start. </span></div>
<br /></div>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-30719052705313208092018-05-29T06:44:00.001-07:002018-05-29T08:30:58.152-07:00When you start performing outside, do your words stop performing?<div align="left"><p dir="ltr">Dear words,</p></div><div align="left"><p dir="ltr">
It's been a while since I have written. Really written. </p></div><p dir="ltr">
And I don't mean the pathetic excuse of ads. Writing ads is not writing.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Sure, you can write good ads. But how many good ads have I written in a while? Sure, we have had some good times.</p><p dir="ltr">I can still dig out some of the ads I'm proud of, from the treasure chest of my folio. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Or rummage through my memory palace for the gems that made me who I am.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But mostly, I just take a peek in my blog.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I gaze at the worlds I created with you, my words. Where you became characters, happy, sad, angry, magical elves, talking parrots, Robert de Niroesque camels, sallow old men, abused vampires, even the timeless Night. A stranger in the world I created, I gaze in wonder, wanting to read more. What happens next? I ask.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But there are no more pages.</p>
<p dir="ltr">No more stories.</p>
<p dir="ltr">No more characters.</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Because I stopped writing.</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">And just like that, this world turns bleak. You look at me in disdain. Like I betrayed you, abandoned you. Left you out to die.</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But I didn't, I swear. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I just... got consumed... by other words.</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Glamorous and boring and shallow and self-centered but worth a lot. They are paying my bills, you know. What are you worth, anyway? What could you give me?</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Except my entire being.</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">What were you ever worth...except my soul?</p>
<p dir="ltr">What were you...except my reason to live?</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">And what am I now, without you?</p>
<p dir="ltr">Is this how it feels to live an empty existence? To roam like a ghost through the halls of success? To be famous without any identity? </p>
<p dir="ltr">Does this mean I have nothing left to say?</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Far from that.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I feel I have grown up.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I think I have become funnier. Other humans attest to that.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I think I have become more patient, more understanding...braver even. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I think I understand humans a bit better now. I will not say I understand everything about them or even like them but I think they like me a little better than they used to. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Why does it matter? </p>
<p dir="ltr">Because that has been one of my constant struggles. To understand human beings better. To get my point across. To see them. For what they are and what they can be. And to make them see me.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I daresay I might even have a following.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Human beings are not completely repulsed by the thought of me. How on earth did I pull off this feat? I'm sure you would be proud of me, dear words. You would be proud of how much I have achieved, how far I have come. I think humans find me funny too. </p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But is it because I started performing for them that I stopped writing for you? I wonder. </p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Perhaps, I was getting fulfilment outside so I didn't need to release words to feel at peace. </p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But just like a drug, this fulfilment is temporary. Human contact and appreciation is no match for the warmth and comfort of your creation, and your company.</p><p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Am I making up for the years of little human contact with rampant popularity?</p>
<p dir="ltr">Should I wait for the tipping point or find a balance now?</p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I suppose, humans will always be there. With their frivolous nature and their shallowness, their worship-or-criticise attitude, their shiny trinkets that lose value the moment they buy them, and their arrogance. I daresay I enjoyed being worshipped, I enjoyed being criticized but more often than not, I liked manipulating their view at will. </p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But you, my dear words have been with me through thick and thin. Through the darkness and abyss, the rise and popularity and success, you have been my one constant. You never asked for anything much like the quiet mother who makes way for her daughter's rise. She was the furious mother who wouldn't let mean kids make her daughter cry. Mean kids still exist. But the mother now believes she has created a strong woman who is ready to face whatever life throws at her and instead prefers to retire to the shadows. That, however, doesn't mean she is not ready to defend her daughter at the drop of a hat. </p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Just like that mother, I need you today, dear words.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Please come back.</p><p dir="ltr"><br></p><p dir="ltr">Sincerely</p><p dir="ltr">The writer who terribly misses you</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-56291747364997044812017-01-11T04:54:00.001-08:002017-01-11T05:00:52.517-08:00Instagram Whispers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx _2vxa" style="box-sizing: border-box; direction: ltr; font-family: georgia, serif; margin: 0px auto 28px; white-space: pre-wrap; width: 700px; word-wrap: break-word;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">I miss the days when Facebook used to be a park where words came </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">to play. When the empty noise of real life drove you crazy, you could </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">come and sit on a bench in this playground, watching the words </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">do their thing. Occasionally, you could engage with them, </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">but only if you wanted to. And even when you did, these words </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">were shy, respectful, sometimes, filled with a little mischief,</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">like the smile of a child who throws a snowball at you.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">These words are now grown up in an evolved Facebook world. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">Likewise, they are all brash and bragging, screaming and begging </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">for attention in an exclamation party. Shallow anecdotes make out </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">with 90-character trivia in a one-night-stand. Opposing worldviews </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">punch each other in heady bar brawls until the other bleeds </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">into oblivion. Meaningless, hankering for more meaninglessness. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">Just like life.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">Perhaps, that's why I like Instagram now. I guess, if a picture is worth</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">a million words, then a million pictures say a lot, without speaking </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">anything. That kind of quiet warmth that you get when you are inside </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">a tent wrapped under a dense canopy. The kind of peaceful murmuring </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">only trees can do. And nestled inside my tent, I can experience what </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">the words originally set out to be, what they were always meant to be: </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">comfortable solitude.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #e06666;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #e06666;">
</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 17px;">
</span></div>
</div>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-47748224718613563572017-01-11T04:28:00.002-08:002017-01-11T04:52:05.780-08:00Men Don't Understand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx _2vxa" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px auto 28px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap; width: 700px; word-wrap: break-word;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Men don't understand that long after they leave you, they are still with you. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Men don't understand that even though you might win the world, they will always </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">be your world. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Men don't understand that you don't have to sleep with them to fall in love with </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Men don't understand that even though you are the most articulate person </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">in the world, you are at </span></span><span style="background-color: black; color: #bf9000;">a loss of words when it comes to them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Men don't understand that you would do anything, just anything to make them </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">happy, </span></span><span style="background-color: black; color: #bf9000;">even if it means losing a part of yourself. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #bf9000;">Even though, you would hate yourself for it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">And they would hate that you have changed. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Men don't understand that you spend nights crying for small things. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">And the weekends too. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">And you dare not tell them that you care so. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Men don't understand that it doesn't matter if it's been 5 or 10 years, </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">you never stop thinking </span></span><span style="background-color: black; color: #bf9000;">about them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Men don't understand that you cherish the smallest of their stories long after </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">they have ceased </span></span><span style="background-color: black; color: #bf9000;">to remember it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Men don't understand that you will never listen to a song that reminds you </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">of them, after they are gone. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">And that you will hate them for ruining a perfectly good song. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">They don't understand that you might not like the red roses or chocolates </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">or even the day of love, </span></span><span style="background-color: black; color: #bf9000;">but your mushy heart will be bubbling with love </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #bf9000;">when they do the smallest of things for you. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">They don't understand that for better or worse, your life </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">will never be the same again.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">It’s true that they never understand, but you do,
don't <i>you</i>? </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Yet, you let this happen. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Every.single.time. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-78344079322775822682016-12-10T13:24:00.001-08:002016-12-10T13:24:10.777-08:00Ideas<p dir=ltr>Ideas are like poop. Sometimes, they flow like a carefree waterfall. Sometimes, they are a gigantic roadblock. But do you know what makes them the most exciting? When they rumble and pant like a dormant volcano, about to burst in the pits of your gut, but never quite.<br>
.<br>
.<br>
.<br>
.<br>
.<br>
.<br>
.<br>
So, you see, ideating is just like pooping.</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-89119585243061312632016-05-30T12:25:00.001-07:002016-05-30T12:25:15.355-07:00Things People Say<p dir=ltr>'Oh you are so negative.'<br>
'Oh you are always pissed.'<br>
'Oh you are so depressive.'<br>
'Oh you are so boring.'</p>
<p dir=ltr>'Oh yes, Neanderthals like you make me lose my faith in mankind.'<br>
'Oh yes darling, because I suffered through an overdose of moronity, courtesy, you.'<br>
'Oh you need to not use that word so lightly, it offends the actual depressed people.'<br>
'Oh you need to start hanging around with 'your' kind of 'fun' people. What does it include, btw, half baked fb rants and selfie postures?'</p>
<p dir=ltr>Don't expect respect if you cannot show it. :-)</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-44951672638367492452016-05-30T12:05:00.001-07:002016-05-30T12:30:26.780-07:00No Rhyme Or Reason<p dir=ltr>I don't know what I'm feeling.<br>
I don't know how I'm still feeling.<br>
Writing used to be the balm of sore life, the medicine that nursed me through days and nights of cold love and longing.<br>
The only area of my life uncontaminated by petty competition.</p>
<p dir=ltr>It was never about writing 'better', it was just about writing.<br>
Because that was the only way I could express myself.</p>
<p dir=ltr>So when did it become 'If you cannot write better than 'X' or 'Z', you shouldn't write at all?' <br>
The only area uncontaminated by petty competition is now infected.</p>
<p dir=ltr>I miss those days.<br>
When the voices crowded my head and I released them on paper.<br>
No therapy could compare to it.<br>
The voices still crowd my head but instead of releasing them, I sweep them under the rug.</p>
<p dir=ltr>Truth be told, I feel like a Stepford Wife.<br>
Writing honey-coated lines for sugar sweet brands.<br>
Superficial. <br>
I want to sink my teeth into those words, bite them apart, just so the little bitches realise how full of crap they are.<br>
Shallow. Kinda like the girls that the men I like go for.<br>
Words without depth, words without me.<br>
Where's me?<br>
Where's the rawness, the passion?<br>
The honesty that punches your heart and rips your guts out?<br>
Aren't words the last hope of mankind?<br>
The last shelter where mankind can cry, love, hate with a fierceness it can only dream of in real life?<br>
When did I start pimping words to make a quick buck?<br>
When did I stop loving them?<br>
They are the only ones who ever loved me.<br>
Without rhyme or reason.<br>
How did I forget the times they rescued me?<br>
Narrowly pulled me away from the edge.<br>
Provided an outlet so I wouldn't cross the line of insanity.<br>
Gone are the days when I used to fill pages and pages with words, big and small, thick and thin, happy, fat, sad, grumpy. No judgment.<br>
Now, every word I write is questionable, changeable. By every random idiot.<br>
It's not a labour of love anymore.<br>
Then what is it? What, pray, is the point of it all?<br>
If I cannot love it, if I cannot protect it, if I cannot fight for it.</p>
<p dir=ltr>Should I give up writing and continue to float lightheaded in this vast numb plane?<br>
Or should I quit the paycheck to keep alive the only thing keeping me alive?</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-87745880402083420772016-01-12T10:14:00.001-08:002016-05-30T12:10:37.222-07:00If Dogs were on Facebook<p dir=ltr>I wonder how the social network would be if dogs could chat. Would they use more smileys or words? Would they ever go offline? What would their newsfeed look like? Pictures of bones and dirt. Chew toys and torn rugs. Embarrassing photos of their humans. Animated selfies, where you could never see their whole face. Because they would be too excited to take a proper selfie. And certainly no Instagrammable food. Because a dog wouldn't take photos of its food. It would gobble it up, because that's the sensible thing to do. Do you realise Mark, where you should diversify instead of trying to shove Free Basics down people's throats? But I digress.</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-86506667907569604672015-11-02T09:32:00.001-08:002015-11-02T09:32:16.553-08:00Unreal <p dir=ltr>'It's late', he mused.<br>
'Just a little while longer,' she insisted.<br>
'Isn't he waiting for you?'<br>
'Please...I want to be with you.'<br>
'Sara,' he held her hands, 'I'm not real.'<br><br><br></p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-25177187930220539042015-10-26T11:53:00.001-07:002015-10-26T11:53:56.458-07:00RIP Pijush Ganguly<p dir=ltr>What is life but a fickle fantasy<br>
A chance encounter<br>
A present on its way<br>
To become a memory?</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-51383350503637230002015-09-21T10:26:00.001-07:002015-09-21T10:26:16.259-07:00Requited Love<p dir=ltr>What is requited love?<br>
When you are stalked by the people you stalk on Facebook.</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-52653559977241231332015-09-21T10:23:00.001-07:002015-09-21T10:23:28.264-07:00Silence Between Us<p dir=ltr>Amidst the heavy fog of words surrounding us, it was silence that said the most.</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-87286359313829912912015-09-21T10:21:00.001-07:002015-09-21T10:21:30.063-07:00Ah Fish!<p dir=ltr>As she stood on the edge of the platform, nostalgia from the city market below found its way to her unassuming nose. She closed her eyes, breathing in the aroma and gasped, 'Ah fish!<u>'</u></p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-56408801074092718972015-07-21T09:07:00.001-07:002015-07-21T09:07:15.003-07:00#MumbaiRains<p dir=ltr>21 July 2015</p>
<p dir=ltr>I sat listening to the sound of rain on my laptop, while your city flooded. Never knew clouds could carry fire.</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-75937002941264844052015-03-04T04:49:00.000-08:002015-03-04T04:51:25.259-08:00Bread Omelette<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">The bread omelette stared at me, like the disfigured face of a burn victim.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">Its wrinkly white pores resembled an old man with no teeth. The omelette hung limply from the sides like the limbs of a cancer patient.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">I sank my teeth into the rubber.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">I hate bread omelette. So I had asked the guy to get me a plain omelette. It was a simple enough instruction. But what arrived was a sallow egg sandwiched between two resilient pieces of bread. I told him I did not want the bread. What made him get the bread?</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">He told me I should have specified.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">Only I did.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">I told him off, a bit rudely. And then realized, may be this was why people thought I was obnoxious. I left the sad bread omelette as the lame kitty nobody wanted. A desperate desire to throw away the pathetic excuse for food rushed through me. The nerves in my palms leaped in joy.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">I could throw the plate in the kitchen and make him cringe in fear. May be the resounding noise would wake him out of his carelessness. A thousand such scenes flashed through my mind. It was worth a try. The act would be obnoxious enough to get his attention.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">Or I could ignore it. Let him know I didn’t care for his substandard service. He would get the message.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">Or I could just rescue the omelette and eat it. Ignore the distorted bread.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">But there wasn’t any evil in that.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">I patiently waited, looking to create maximum impact.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">And as I pondered over the next course of action, I slowly ripped the bread to shreds. Along with the omelette. The elastic slice badgered my teeth. Amidst mouthfuls, I thought. This time, I’ll let it slide. But the next time, I drag him to hell.</span></span></div>
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Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-31802309452713554282015-02-23T05:27:00.001-08:002015-02-23T05:27:40.583-08:00Conversations with The Parrot<p dir=ltr>Dressed in green, Mr. Parrot hopped down my balcony parapet.<br>
'I see you have resorted to walking, Mr. Parrot. Perhaps you should buy some heels...you know, to help with the height ,' I said cheerily.<br>
'Good Morning to you too, my dear,' Mr. Parrot replied in a dispassionate Forest Whitaker tone. 'Have you seen my hat?'<br>
'Umm no,' I said, a bit disappointed. 'What are you, a Leprechaun?'<br>
Unruffled by my question, Mr. Parrot quietly preened his feathers.<br>
In a bid to get his attention, I continued, 'You should get your tail cut! It's out of shape.'<br>
'You know, my dear,' he looked at me solemnly with his one lazy eye. 'Your snarks about my appearance don't bother me. I'm not human.'</p>
<p dir=ltr>Before I could reply, he turned away and dived off into the blue summer sky.<br>
'Wait...,' I called out to him. 'I have your hat.... I won't give it to you!'<br>
It was late. He had already become a distant speck.<br>
What a show off, I thought. From tomorrow, I'll stick to making fun of humans. At least they can't fly.</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-76266098942824937202015-01-21T08:58:00.001-08:002015-01-21T15:10:31.856-08:00Walking through the Bylanes of Memory<p dir=ltr>As the S9 bus started to grate its way through the pebbled road, the roar of its ancient engines deafened me. An unknowing smile lit up my face. Of course. How could I forget the 5 years of riding through noise to the university? It was the same bus, the new ones they had purchased 7 years ago. Even the passengers were the same. I recognised the conductor. </p>
<p dir=ltr>A shy lad looking to learn the ropes of a government job, he had first joined the service around 2007. I had noticed him instantly; he stood out, a quiet, humble voice amidst rowdy conductors. But today, as he went about the rows of passenger seats, his brazen attitude made me realise that he had after all, become a pro. He walked towards me, a little heavy-set (as are most Bengali men), wearing the same moustache and <i>good-boy haircut </i>(another Bengali specialty) I had first seen him sport almost 7 years ago.</p>
<p dir=ltr>'Ticket?' He asked, betraying no signs of recognising me. <br>
I immediately handed him a 100-rupee note, being the first in a long line of passengers to do so. If you have been to Kolkata, you know how difficult it is to get a change for Rs.100 here. It occurred to me how easily I had asked for change of 500-rupee notes from auto rickshaw drivers in Gurgaon. </p>
<p dir=ltr>'Jadavpur, <i>toh</i>?' He looked at me, as I handed him the note. I looked up at him and smiled. He had after all, recognised me. I sat behind the driver's seat, watching the green plains of the Eastern Metropolitan Bypass give way to luxury high-rises. The metro plan that had been on hold since 2006. The traffic jam. Everything was the same. How was it, that the conductor was in the same post for over 7 years? Didn't he want anything more from life? How was he happy?</p>
<p dir=ltr>As the bus inched towards my university, he came back with the change. I had never spoken to him before.</p>
<p dir=ltr>'<i>Bhalo</i><i> </i><i>achhen</i><i>? </i>(Are you well?)', I asked him as he handed me the change.</p>
<p dir=ltr>He looked at me, surprised. Generally, passengers aboard public buses only speak to conductors to either ask for some change or to halt the bus between stations.</p>
<p dir=ltr>Embarrassed, he smiled and mumbled a, '<i>Ei</i><i> </i><i>cholche</i><i> </i>(It's going alright)', and rushed to the bus door to reprimand the passengers who were trying to get off in the middle of a traffic jam. </p>
<p dir=ltr>I got off and walked through the smoky 8B bus stand and into the crowded lane filled with food stalls, mobile recharge shops and Xerox counters. The lanes where I had spent 5 valuable years of my life. Everything was the same, even the people. There had been no change in this part of town, except in the number of food items that had increased to include more delectable fares like momos and <i>chicken </i><i>pakodas</i>. </p>
<p dir=ltr>As their heavenly smell hung in the air interspersed with smog, I inhaled deeply. Not everyone wanted to be part of a rat race. Perhaps, the biggest ambition some had was to come home to two square meals a day and a loving family. And that was okay. </p>
<p dir=ltr>I met my friend, and to my surprise, she hadn't changed at all. Still petite and crazy, she entertained me for hours. We chatted about life, our old classmates and the university. As I boarded the returning bus from 8B, who else should be there but the driver-conductor duo from the morning! Some things never change.</p>
<p dir=ltr>As the citylights kissed the dark Kolkata sky, I realised the biggest complaint one had against this city was also perhaps, its biggest strength. Kolkata didn't have ambition, they said. And that's okay. Perhaps, it was fine just the way it was. </p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-52508164792389939832015-01-18T11:21:00.001-08:002015-01-18T12:41:13.128-08:00The Imitation Game: How the Bullies from your High School transferred to your Government<p dir="ltr">Alan Turing's biopic,<i> </i><i>The Imitation Game</i> brought back memories of lunches eaten in quiet corners of busy classrooms, being the only one in class nobody sat next to, being the only audience as the rest of the class played in PT, being termed 'unsocial' by teachers and 'psycho' by classmates, basically being the odd-one out for a better part of academic life. </p><p dir="ltr">Broadly speaking, Bullying, or Intimidation aims to humiliate an individual or group because of their 'perceived difference'. Aside from the fact that Turing was a genius, and socially awkward, the film primarily focuses on his feelings of persecution. A feeling that haunted him all through his life, the feeling of not belonging, of not being accepted in mainstream society, the very feeling that led to his untimely death.</p>
<p dir="ltr">As we leave high school, we believe the worst is behind us. That the world in front, the wonderful, positive world will finally treat us with the respect we deserve. That it won't look for every single chance to squash you like a bug. That you finally, will be a human being. That, you won't have to hide.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Surprise, surprise. The world, your new world, whether it be higher studies or your workplace, turns out to be exactly like your high school. Bullies everywhere. And if you are lucky to find someone like Joan Clarke who befriends you and guides you through your mistakes, you will be saved. At least, till the time the bullies don't find another reason to crucify you. Turing discovered the hard way that even though the War was over, his war wasn't.</p>
<p dir="ltr">And now, it wasn't just that he was socially awkward, it was something more: He was different. And isn't <i>being different </i>what bullies pick on? Doesn't it perplex you just a little that the stout kid who used to give you a wedgie every day on the school bus is now the local councillor? Or that your boss reminds you of the classmate who loved making fun of your flaws? </p>
<p dir="ltr">Hasn't that been the trajectory of our culture, electing bullies in powerful positions so they can feed on the insecurities of the marginalized?</p>
<p dir="ltr">The story of Alan Turing is a big blob of shame on our hero-worship fairy tales. It shows, just how far, we are ready to go to condemn and persecute those who think and act different. It doesn't matter how creative they are, if they have stopped wars or engaged in breakthrough scientific research. And the medium of discrimination, is really, just an excuse. If it's not religion, it's race. If not sex, it's sexual orientation. Sometimes, it's about not smiling much. At other times, smiling <i>a little too much</i>. Unlike Enigma, the reasons why those in positions of authority might like to bully you, is truly an enigma.</p>
<p dir="ltr">If you are different than the powerful few who like to call themselves 'majority', and are also socially awkward, then chances are, 9 out of 10 times you will be bullied. Most of us undergo this ritual in school, which gives some practice before professional life arrives with its golden promises. You think high school's all over when lo and behold, you are eating lunches alone again. </p>
<p dir="ltr"><b>How to Combat Bullying?</b></p>
<p dir="ltr">1. Unity in Friendship- In school you might have been a loner. Just remember, in your adult life, you will have a larger number of minorities who, too, feel persecuted. Befriend them. We might like to hide when being bullied, but a better idea is to unite with like-minded individuals who are going through the same experience. Remember, bullies intimidate by alienating you, so the more people you have on your team, the better.</p>
<p dir="ltr">2. Speak Up- You can easily discern a bullied person from a non-bullied person in public. How? The bullied person never speaks up, in fact, he hardly speaks at all. And it is particularly, because of this trait that bullies think he's a rug, to be stepped on, over and over again.</p>
<p dir="ltr">This might be due to past experiences that the bullied person has faced. Perhaps, he tried speaking up and was humiliated and socially ostracized. Bullying injures your confidence and self-respect in ways no physical injury can. But this damage can be repaired through counselling. There is no shame in asking for help. It is more important to know that you are not alone and there are people who are there for you. </p>
<p dir="ltr">So, if counselling is what you need to be assertive, then get it. But it is essential to speak up. For now, you have no Headmaster to run to, rather he is the bully.</p>
<p dir="ltr">3.<b> </b>Understand the Nature of Bullying- Why is it that you are being bullied? Is it your sex, your race or religion? Is it because you are more competent or competitive? Understanding <i>why </i>you have been singled out is the key to understanding the nature of the bullies and what they hope to gain from intimidating you. Oftentimes, bullies are just insecure kids who are afraid or jealous of you. Find out their weakness, and the tables will soon be turned. </p>
<p dir="ltr">When governments or institutions bully common people, the reason is mostly politically or monetarily motivated. As said in 1, you need all the help you can get to combat bullying of this kind.</p>
<p dir="ltr">4. Understanding it is Mental, not Physical- One of the important aspects of Bullying is that it is MENTAL, although its expression, sometimes might be physical. All forms of bullying are intended to humiliate an individual and harm his self worth. It can be a mother-in-law bullying a daughter-in-law, a government bullying human rights activists, a corporate group bullying indigenous groups or, a senior colleague purposely humiliating a subordinate.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Bullying, or Intimidation, has been the most preferred weapon of choice of institutions and powerful individuals alike to exert control over apparently 'weaker' marginalized groups. This form of coercion, tragically, does not limit itself to criminal outfits; rather it is most prominent in areas of high legal authority. Alan Turing was a war hero, who refused to resort to lies or connections and was left alone in the face of a sham law. </p><p dir="ltr">A posthumous pardon granted by the Queen did little in bringing him or his honour back to life. The contribution Great Britain made in winning the War was owed largely to this national hero, but his country failed to give him his due recognition or even, dignity. Alan Turing died, a misunderstood man, victim of a law that persecuted him because he was different. </p><p dir="ltr">To that, we owe, every single man and woman ever bullied to be kind and empathetic to others. Remember that the next time you rudely treat a street hawker or your own student. You have no idea what they are going through. <br></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-pymcGoKXEBw/VLwLdWwDjnI/AAAAAAAABEU/o1jELGT8Cw8/s1600/benedict-cumberbatch-in-imitation-game.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-pymcGoKXEBw/VLwLdWwDjnI/AAAAAAAABEU/o1jELGT8Cw8/s640/benedict-cumberbatch-in-imitation-game.jpg"> </a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-f-_WZPvGsCI/VLwUz6Gl55I/AAAAAAAABEs/Rw8VcfaAE80/s1600/imitation-game-benedict-cumberbatch_612x380.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-f-_WZPvGsCI/VLwUz6Gl55I/AAAAAAAABEs/Rw8VcfaAE80/s640/imitation-game-benedict-cumberbatch_612x380.jpg"> </a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-aItem7ao09U/VLwaZe6PG-I/AAAAAAAABE8/2GRqlmXJkog/s1600/cumberbatch-turing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-aItem7ao09U/VLwaZe6PG-I/AAAAAAAABE8/2GRqlmXJkog/s640/cumberbatch-turing.jpg"> </a> </div>Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-57022376072998195992014-12-10T12:32:00.001-08:002014-12-10T12:32:38.776-08:00A Good Book<p dir=ltr>A good book is a warm blanket that keeps you company on cold nights. A corner of solitude where you can cry in peace, and laugh with joy. It is a friend that says a lot without speaking at all. A good book is a philosophizing drunkard that dishes out life lessons, page after page. It is a graveyard where all human emotions come to rest. And that takes a part of you when it gets over. Because a good book, is love unrequited.</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-5961675653420768682014-12-10T12:22:00.001-08:002014-12-10T12:22:21.091-08:00Returning by Metro<p dir=ltr>Crowded Metro. A girl sits cozily turning a page of Sheldon's Angel of the Dark. The woman beside, puts her mobile inside the purse. Hoping she would get up soon, several weary legs near her seat perk up in position. Non chalantly, she takes biscuits out from a lunchbox and begins chewing.</p>
<p dir=ltr>A girl wearing a bright yellow woollen top stands casually by one of the poles, speaking on her phone, 'No, but you have to see what kind of dress I wear to office'. A few feet ahead, another young woman wearing a navy blue sweater lined with feathers, observes her intently.The girl standing next to me is whatsapping some Abhinav Sir. Me? <br>
I'm just trying to read her message.</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-34637002496092921832014-12-02T10:13:00.002-08:002014-12-02T10:24:02.949-08:00One Child - Many Hats<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In 2011, I wrote an <a href="http://sojournoflife.blogspot.in/2011/06/bowl-of-food.html"><span style="color: orange;">article</span></a> for the Akshaya Patra Foundation, an NGO with a focus on the midday meal programme for children. This organisation aims to serve 5 million underprivileged kids across 8000 Indian schools every single day.<br />
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Now, this Foundation has come up with a TV Commercial, that aims to highlight the plight of a child labourer, and the various odd jobs, these kids are required to do, every day, to get to that one hard-earned bowl of food. So if you thought your life was difficult, you need to see this video.</div>
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No child deserves to go hungry. Do your bit. </div>
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Visit <a href="http://www.akshayapatra.org/"><span style="color: orange;">www.akshayapatra.org</span></a> to see how you can help. </div>
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Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36438728.post-87181041980017419622014-11-22T01:34:00.001-08:002016-05-30T12:29:01.273-07:00My First Haiku<p dir=ltr>Here's my first attempt at Haiku. Be nice, people.</p>
<p dir=ltr>The pigs run scared<br>
Their ears fly in the air<br>
Somewhere, a dog leaps in joy.</p>
Trishahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15422728638748583885noreply@blogger.com0