The Story of My Blog

It was 29^th of December, a usual monotonous day, leaving me emotionally drained, comfortably numb; when I registered myself again with BlogSpot. I had already tried blogging before at “Beyond the Bounds” and failed. In a moment of boredom when I had absolutely nothing to do, I thought to try again. At that time, I had no idea where would it take me; this; the writing thing. Fascinated by my favorite biscuit and its taste, in a jiffy I named it “Life is Krack-Jack, 50-50”.

I never ever hoped to get readers, especially not the regular ones, like you Shilpa Dutta. Neither do you miss any post, nor forget telling me what you liked in it.

            (Me and Shilpa, a unique relation of friendship and critic)

                                              

A “biscuit” has brought me here. One of the blog posts, “An Untitled Real Story”, conveying the story of a girl, helped me bag my first proper internship as a Content Writer. I have to admit I wasn’t serious at all about this writing thing, but now the habit is such that I am typing today, with an injury in my right palm.

It’s hard to describe myself in words. Talkative, who can talk sense; give people useful advice or a simple girl who can go on talking nonsense for hours. Perhaps that is what I am doing right now; I have no idea where this post is heading to!! An optimist, positive about life; brave enough to face the challenges; or a pessimist who prefers to give up, sit in a corner and lament at times. I have but both the sides; the good and the bad one. The circumstances, the people around, and above all it’s we who decide which side to nurture and let grow. Like every year, I choose the positive side. The popular saying holds true for me too, I am a bundle of contradictions; a chemical reaction maintained at equilibrium by the people in my life. For this, I must thank you girls, Shivee Saurya, Sneha Sinha, Toshima Singh, Shayoni Mukherjee, Shagufta Parwin, Shikha Sinha for maintaining that balance. 

 ( With Shivee And Toshima on my side)

                                     (With Shayoni)                                                  

Sneha Srivastva, I would suggest your name to anyone who doesn’t have access to grammarly.com. Ankur Anand you are the best co-blogger one can have. Soumyajit Paul, you are the best source of encouragement. Anshumaan Singh, I always dream to achieve the level you have; long way to go though!!

Today, I know what I expect of this blog. In the one next year, it is going to be the sole evidence of my journey I have chosen to travel with my people. This page must depict which direction I head towards and where life leads me to. What I have learnt in this one year is what has been told long before, “To write well, you need to write what you know, write what you feel”.
In the New Year, I will bring to you the stories, I have lived buddy. Cheers, and a very Happy New Year.

Will you still be my friend?

Tried poetry after long....

Inspired by a friend's blog; heart delving into its own emotions.
My belief in friendship is as strong as my faith in God.
Especially for a friend, well this is the question!!! And you know who you are!!!
I dedicate it to all, who believe and rejoice the relation of friendship..
This is for you my buddy!!

A parasitic cocoon lingering till the end.

A moth that never emerges;
A seed that may not sprout.
The autumn not paving the way for spring…
I mean no good, I know no amend.
Will you still be my friend?

No quality I possess that a friend must have,
My build a broken pillar;
Desolated soul an abandoned shack;
A wandering spirit; void inside.
Will you peep into the hollow once in a while?

An impatient human, a temperamental being
The Foucault pendulum that know no end,
With damages irreversible, wounds refuse to mend
My cries and shrills; a cacophonous ride.
Will you still call it music and stand beside?

I have no strength to be your support,
Instead may fall treading and long for your hand,
The days when I am completely out of mind,
My company might bring you shame,
Not just once but a thousand of times,
Will you still call me a friend with pride?

Like a rivulet during monsoons,
Brimming with emotions, I might just cry.
Devoid of fervor, standing unmoved;
I might not feel when it hurts you the most.
Will you let loose or still hold me close?

I may waste hours talking,
For days, I may sit silent and watch you smile.
Months may pass, suffocating you with the stench of my guilt.
For years, I may not let you live.
Will you still come to my rescue and help me survive?

Myself, somebody, everybody, nobody, anybody..
Don’t know who am I?
I may just never give it a thought;
Or may not find an answer, if I try.
A mortal being full of flaws,
I mean no good, I know no amend,
Knowing well, will you ever be my friend?

Rise Above Caste and Religion

It has been five days, since I last posted. Well, it was Christmas, relatives pouring in for celebrations, some more woolen clothes' shopping and some LG (Life’s Good) cooking classes for me!  I was filled with enthusiasm on the Christmas day, heart filled with serene peace from praying in front of the Universal Father, lighting candles and confessing; when I wished one of my acquaintances a merry Christmas. Don’t promote western culture was the instant answer I received. I was baffled, by such a cruel display of emotions.The reply I gave is an appeal to every such person, who wonders why people celebrate all festivals with avidity. As a small child, I always used to wonder why we don’t have cakes and puddings on twenty fifth of December. I felt I am missing some great fun. Today, in this modern era, would you like to see your child in front of the television watching some movie pondering where his Christmas tree and gift is, just as you did? Why do we have to divide children and kill their innocence on the name of caste, religion or culture. Let them fly free like a bird. Let every person have the right to choose what they wish to celebrate or follow. In the end, these are just different ways to reach the same destination of resurrection.

A belated Merry Christmas, buddy!!

A Lesson Learnt from 'Bachchan Bol'

Today is one of those days when I feel too tired and exhausted to pen down my thoughts. Well, such days are many and that is the reason I have never appeared too serious about blogging. Sheer lack of determination, I guess!

While I am typing this today, my hands are trembling; there is dizziness in the head and ears red with the wintry breeze they have been subjected to all day. As I tried recollecting all the activities of the day, I found I did absolutely nothing. Neither I go to an office nor I am a home-maker; but a student of the kind who rarely studies or completes any assignment. I have been just shopping all the day. Well, now you would say, look she is that kind of girl who spends all her time and money shopping. Sure, I am, but if you aren’t a shopaholic, you won’t ever have an idea of how weary it could be!

It was nine o’clock when I was still in the mall, searching a perfect red jacket for myself. Finally, when I found one, I felt my limbs twirling in pain. Standing in the queue waiting for my turn at the billing counter, I made a mental note to get back home, have dinner and sleep tucking myself in the quilt.

I was about to doze off when mother asked me if I read the latest post at ‘Bachchan Bol’.I lay in silence when this question popped.  Ignore the following information if already aware, else visit the link: “http://srbachchan.tumblr.com/”. You would surely love to read what the greatest actor of the millennium, Sir Amitabh Bachchan has to share everyday with the commoners. I along with my mother have made it a habit to catch up on the blog before going to bed. 

                                   ( A snap from the latest post on the blog )

Suddenly, a scene from Kaun Banega Crorepati flashed before my eyes. A contestant asks Sir Amitabh Bachchan about how he manages to write a post every day. His only answer was, despite the busy schedule he manages to write else he feels incomplete without it. My mother now asks me for the third time, if I visited the blog. At this moment, I remember my blog, my incompetence and lack of determination.

Getting up from the bed running towards the study room, I reply back, 'He is not only a great actor but a great person from whom one can learn a lot.' I open my laptop and start typing, with absolutely nothing in mind other than him!!!

HOPE - "Ek Packet Umeed"

Recently, I got indulged in an argument with a friend about his status on an android chat application. It proclaimed, “Hope is but just a four letter word”. Taken aback at the intensity of his pessimism, I asked myself, is hope really just a word? No, my heart and mind screamed in unison, perhaps for the first time.

Hope is an attitude, buddy. Hope is the door-way to a happy life. When things go wrong, the only thing that keeps us going is the hope of things turning out to be better again. Imagine a situation where you know, no matter how hard you try to bring on a change, things will remain the same. What will life be like? Still, like a portrait on the canvas of a painter!! But we all know, life is dynamic, with change being the only constant in it.

When you give up hope, you give up a part of yourself. It is like scraping off that part of your body which you need the most to survive.

When your mother carried you in her womb for nine months, she hoped to see you; ‘a miracle’. When your dad held your finger and taught you to walk, it was with a hope that one day you could march on the journey of life without having him hold you. When your parents kept asking you to call them mummy, daddy but you just chuckled; it was hope to hear you talk. These were the little things yet most crucial to prepare you for the uncertainty of future.
From a fetus to an adult, if you could read this now, remember you are a result of someone’s hope.

I still remember, in the year 2008 when the entertainment channel NDTV imagine was launched. It aired a weekly show, “Ek Packet Umeed”; a spellbinding tale of hope and hard work. Fifteen women with their own heart-breaking tales, come together to make ‘umeed bhavan’, their abode with a family of their own choice. By selling packets of spices, poppadom, pickles, jams and jellies they earn their own living. Each of the characters have taken responsibility to bring delight to themselves leaving the painful experiences of past behind. Their only hope is a packet they sell!!

The show ends with a message that HOPE is not a four letter word, but an attitude. HOPE is honesty, optimism, persuasiveness and enthusiasm together, a word that sums up life well.

I would like to end this, by saying again, the things you know. You are going through a tough phase, where nothing seems to be alright. Even a shoulder to cry on, comforting hands that wipe your tears, a blissful hug, all fails to make you feel better. But remember, as this night has come surpassing the dusk, it too shall pass, paving way for the dawn. The sun is waiting in your porch to shine again, open your eyes, wake up, leave that comforting quilt of despair, and let the window of hope open, buddy! For whatever comes, it shall change, as life is not about either joy or sorrow, but just like the Krack-Jack biscuits, it’s 50-50.

The Misconception About Patience

My observations have made me realize that the most peculiar desire of humans is to wait.

That one moment, perhaps when we all were a restless child; someone told us to have patience. And there, buddy, we took it all wrong! If I ask someone what patience is, the most probable answer would be to wait without losing temper.

True, patience does mean to wait for the right time or the right thing but not to sit idle with a delusion that everything would change on its own.

Patience is defined as “the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, problems, or suffering without becoming annoyed or anxious.”
Wait is “to stay where one is or delay action until a particular time or event.”
Look deep beneath the definitions of the two words, buddy. Have patience; try to change the situation by your deeds but don’t you keep waiting; don’t just stay where you are; keep moving!

Wait while standing in a queue, whether to book tickets for your favorite movie, to clear the various household bills, for your turn to visit the doctor or at the billing counter of the shopping mall. Stay where you are without losing your temper, but remember it is for such things where you should morally wait. After all, breaking the queue to get things done fast, wouldn't be right on your part!

But are you waiting for your numb limbs to feel lively again? Exercise as you must, may be starting from the minutest ones. Waiting for your loved ones to call and patch up? Rather pick up the phone yourself and talk. Waiting for that precious call for a position you applied? Inquire the progress of your application. Waiting to be notified about the joining date after receiving the letter of intent? Rather talk to the management about the reasons of delay; if inevitable, search for a new job. After all if you are competent enough to bag one, you surely can grab another! Waiting to come out of a bad relationship and feel free? Why not just do it today and move on? Have patience when you practice these, for they demand time and persuasiveness.

Whatever you wish should change, get up and alter it, buddy. If you are waiting for a perfect moment when your life would be without any sorrows and pain; thereafter you could start nourishing your dreams; working hard for your future; then perhaps you are waiting for a "LIFELESS LIFE" and would keep waiting till eternity. You won’t get to see such a flawless time, as life is not joy or sorrow alone but both together. All you need to do is to look at that imperfect moment perfectly. As I say, Life is just like those Krack-Jack biscuits, 50-50. Which taste to love and cherish, I leave it up to you, buddy. Have patience, but make your way and work, because you must!!

Fall in Love with a Writer

The theme isn't new buddy, but it still amuses me. Inspired by other write-ups, an account of my own observations of what it is to be with a writer!!! 

The writer’s persona

Writers are a bunch of extraordinary people. Deep within they are artists with a golden heart. Crossing theirs self made barriers, breaking the cocoon in which they hide; you will find yourself unlocking a treasure. You could perhaps never find a writer not loving or caring. They are social workers, keen observers, revolutionists and rebels.

They are impulsive people; fond of order and chaos at the same time. Fickle-minded; you won’t find them afraid or ashamed ever to change their decision. They understand it is humane to change mind; to accept if you have been mistaken and to look forward to a better solution, if it exists. Writers are bound to have no routine. They are meant to break rules, sometimes only to experience and write about it. They might wake up in the middle of night to note what crossed their mind. They might sleep all day or sometimes days and then write continuously when bestowed with a story. They may forget to eat, forget to bathe; sometimes lost in solitude carving the best tales from the fruits of fantasy.
If there has to exist a God of imagination, his name must be coined as the “writer”.

When you are in love with a writer

Accounting to their unpredictability, you could perhaps never understand them completely. Repeat the same words to them; on two different days and you would see them expressing two totally opposing sentiments. It will always depend on their state of mind.

Every writer is synonym of a plethora of emotions. Tell him you love him when he is happy with his work and you will find your reflection in some unknown character. Tell him the same when he is dissatisfied and you will get a cold reaction. A writer is just like a river, sometimes overwhelmed, happy with the monsoons while running dry at times yet thirsty to meet the gigantic ocean. No matter what the season is, it is always too easy and too hard, to reach that river bed. But when you do, you will find precious gems engulfing your life with their glow.

When a writer loves you

They will make you feel as their first and last love. They will never let past experiences come in the way. They give away all they have without any fear.

They make their beloved a perennial being. You will live in every word they write, in every word they speak. Enveloping your mortal body with their immortal stories, they will never let you die; never let you leave.

Making love is always going to be different when it is a writer; sometimes, too soft while sometimes too wild; but always heavenly. A writer just won’t sleep with you if not in love.

They might wake you up in the middle of night just to have a stroll at the highway or to recite a prose for you that crossed their mind; they might just take you on a sudden midnight or morning date; they might just cuddle up and sleep for long; they might just bring you a surprise, early morning; they might just hug you tight and speak nothing at all; they might bring you the old traditional love notes on the postcards; they might just cook your favorite dinner at morning; when away they might just call to hear your silence; they might just act sometimes too pure, too loving and sometimes too stubborn. When a writer loves you it is simply incredible!

Why not to fall for a writer.

Writers need solitude. They could leave you by yourself for days. Getting along with writers is not that easy; their mercurial disposition makes it tough.

If they like certain things that you don’t, be ready for an argument. They are adamant and simply won’t give in.

Hurt them and they might hurt you more by writing somewhere about it. Or they may write long letters to resolve the issue. You never know what is next!

Sometimes, they may just put you through a variety of circumstances to get that feel to write. At times, they may look at each person as a character. They may forget the subtle differences between reality and imagination. Some people say, when they have written all about you, when you have been completely put into words, they might need another inspiration. But you must not forget, writers will never fall out of love, short of words for you. They just might need another inspiration, for a brand new story.

Sometimes you may find them leaving you in the middle of sex, to write, as their heart has been submerged with emotions. They might let you sleep disheartened after a scuffle, and then caress after you have fallen asleep.

They will remember the minutest details, the spoken as well as unspoken words, the look in your eyes, the things you have forgotten and even the things you don’t want to recollect. Like it or not, they will remember it all.

Being with a writer will definitely not let your life be boring. Every then and now you will see a new trait. You will see a little of you in their every sketched character and a little of every sketched character in them. If it has to be a fairy tale, it has to be with a writer!!

An Untitled Real Story

Hey buddy; it has really been a long time. Well, if you wonder where I was all these days; it was exams that kept me away.
Before you begin reading, I must tell you, completing this article took away all the patience I have, all my skills; and made me realized how novice I am when it comes to writing.  Writing what you feel, and writing something that has happened for real makes the difference between the good and bad write ups.
I bring forth you a real story with a hope that you would read till the end of it; hoping I have done justice; at least a bit to the essence of it.

That gloomy day

After caressing her beautiful curls; taking her hand in his, he kissed her fingers softly; noticing the little hairs on it, he smiled. Embracing her in his arms; he whispered I love you. 

Untouched by the love showered upon her, she stood terrorized at the middle of the platform. Afraid that he might have offended her, he stepped back. 
Her innocent face was overshadowed with fear; her eyes filled with tears. Mustering all her courage, like a new recruit of strife, she asked him, if this is what people call expressing love.

Baffled he did not understand how to react. A few moments of silence lingered. 
It is love only when you want it to happen this way, he said after a deep thought.

And what if I don't, she asked.
Then it is perhaps molestation.

She felt paralyzed that moment, remembering the past all of a sudden. Without uttering a word, without wishing him a goodbye she boarded the train.

The bitter realization

It was not the first time she was touched; but she never knew before what a wrong touch was. All of a sudden she felt the pangs of being a victim. It was too late to realize and perhaps too late to tell. Locking herself in the lavatory, she shrieked. The continuous rumbling of the train, the furious winds; enshrouded her cries.  She felt a sharp pain engulfing her heart; the pain that would now stay forever.

She remembers it all now. She feels him digging his head in her belly, again. She feels his strong hands holding her. She feels his hands on her cheeks. Now, he starts running his hands on her back when suddenly the door bell rings.

I was saved perhaps from a more unfortunate pain, she thought. Should I be happy for that, or lament that he was my uncle, she shouted to herself. She fell on the dirty wet floor of the water closet and cried for hours.

She was thirteen then, she is eighteen now. People would ridicule her for realizing it so late. But how would she have known it before, when it was never told? She was kept away from all the harsh realities of life; only to let the truth dawn on her catastrophically someday, ruining her from inside.

Every night since then she has felt that touch. It not only ruined her relationship with others but the relation she had with herself. Every time she looked into the mirror, she pitied herself; just because she was a girl…

Yet Again

It has been a year since that gloomy day. It had made her afraid of the dark, silent and not so crowded areas. She had abruptly stopped talking to men. She is again travelling with her cousin by railways to join her college at time after a minor surgery at home. There are less people travelling that day yet she is unafraid as her brother is beside her.
After four hours of the journey, six men board the same train. 

Oblivious to them, she keeps looking out of the window enjoying the scenic view. Interrupting her thoughts one of the men asks her name. Unaware of his cruel intentions, she just answers him back and turns towards the window again. 

Her thoughts are intervened by some sultry song being played. She looks around and find six men, all of her father age enjoying the sordid lyrics and singing along. She then turns towards her cousin and finds his face colorless; engulfed with a fear. A cold shiver ran down her spine. They are not the age of my father, but of my uncle she said to herself.

I cannot let this happen to myself again, she pledges. Deciding she would sleep somewhere else in the coach, she gets up. Seeing her go, one of the men obstructs her way.  I own a restaurant and I am rich; he began opening his wallet. She turns around when another asks her to see it once and she might change her decision.
Now her brother has unlocked the chain of their luggage for her protection. They are allowed to leave but only to find the whole coach almost empty which meant she would be spared nowhere.


She sits in a nearby compartment, from where they could keep an eye upon them.
The night is not enjoyable yet, she hears someone among them speak.

The element is near and I need to get her, another replies.

After you are done send that element to me, another says.

Her cousin somehow convinces her to sleep. She sleeps in a compartment occupied by two people, one of them being a lady; the only people except them in the coach. After two stations, he gets back to their original seat where the men are and ask them to stop talking about her, as she got down at the previous station.

The next morning she is thankful to God for letting her reach safe. She checks herself in the mirror at her room. Seeing and admiring herself was one of her favorite pastimes; but it has been different since a year. Each time now when she looks at herself, she hates her pretty face which got her all the troubles and insult.

This Time Again

It is that time of the year again, when everyone is excited to go home. She is travelling with a classmate as her companion. While she is lost in a novel, she feels someone is impeccably staring at her. Along with her friend she gets up to get some food. While she is walking, she is suddenly touched at her chest.

Her friend asks the person to behave, while she stands in sheer disbelief. It is wow, replies the person; instead of being sorry.

They leave.
‘Why did you not say anything’ asks her friend.
Did you notice his bag with the certification logo on it?

Oh yes, it means the guy is from our batch; her friend screams.
Exactly, and he is enough educated to know how he should behave.

This was the third time, excluding the misbehavior of daily stalkers when she felt it was a wrong touch. She has now given hope of women being respected in the society after encountering such men; even from her own university. She has understood it is not just the pretty face but it is all about being a woman in a patriarchal society.

She reaches her home the next morning; picks up the newspaper to find a tale of a saint harassing women. She turns the pages to find one or two gang rape articles. She looks at herself again in the mirror, and weeps. She thanks lord for saving her twice. She feels an immense pain in her heart. Afraid that someone might hear her shrieks, she locks herself in a room, puts a towel in her mouth and cries. When this is the pain in her heart, how would one ever understand what a real victim goes through? 

Next morning, when she wakes up, she dress up like a princess, apply kohl round her eyes, puts on her favorite lip gloss and smiles like she has never known what pain is. After all, she believes the only way to let the monsters not win is to tell them women are not afraid anymore!!