The daily vagaries

Memories - It is a wonder as how they get recorded and how they re-appear. When you think back, you might see flashes in your mind - of a certain day, or a certain moment or a certain person. Memories are queer things, really. Ever wondered, how they are formed? Sometimes, even an insignificant detail gets recorded in our brain cells whereas sometimes, there is no visible imprint of something we promised ourselves to remember life long. I was surprised yesterday when I stumbled upon an old school photograph and I could not recall the name of my favorite teacher. It is equally queer to know as how the memories get activated - sometimes only by a smell, sometimes by a touch Or by a sound - even a taste and of course by the visuals. Music brings my memories alive - to the strongest level. Few songs that I heard till the cassettes broke down :) - if I hear them again, possess the power to travel me back right there, back in time and flying in space. But hold on - these memories have a st

You don't believe it? Well, I too did not before I realized this equation invariably goes unchallanged by us; almost daily. We are more and more accepting the unreasonable without being assigned the right to reason; being pushed to the corner daily to be converted to the ones who would simply accept the authorities even if they tell us that 2+2 makes a big 5. Consider this: 1. Vaccinations How many of us really know what these vaccinations are all about? Where do we get informed about what really goes behind the doors of the pharma companies doling out vaccines after vaccines for our children & whether these vaccines are really safe? Still - the so called "educated class" invariably is getting vaccinated on its own. Any investigative questions on vaccines are either met with a harsh rebuff Or a simplistic "Why can't you follow like others" attitude. For those looking at this text with a questioning eye; for those who are reading about it for the first ti

Amazed to find such an excellent and rare video on internet today. None other than Shiv himself - and I am seeing him for the first time although I have been reading his poems since long and singing his wonderful songs since ages. It is quite a treasure :) and so sharing it with its worthy audience

The magic of bollywood and oldies of yesteryears - is as exotic as it can get. While these songs of Kishore Kumar and Hemant Da throw you back in those 1970s when Rajesh Khanna swept the nation with his "emotive eyes" and Dharmendera was the dream man of every dream girl. Today again, we are in singing mood and we recorded these wonderfuls songs .... (look up in the video bar at the top of the page)

There are days when despair surges up within me; when the fabric of life seems shorter and stifling - the days when the fledgling self wants to take a flight out in the open sky knowing there are risks of vultures and preys but opting for the sense of freedom nevertheless. These days, I realize, make everyone around me feel very concerned and worried. They want to see my happy face again and I am given numerous doses of motivation and positives of life :). I know now - albeit only after few failed but brave attempts - it is difficult to make them understand that sickness is not a "bad thing" to have. This "sickness" is generally the starting point of changes in life; it might hold the key for the future by prompting oneself to cleanse himself of the "rotten waste within" and lay foundations for a new beginning. With this sickness, although I am restless throughout the days - somewhere inside, I know that this is also only a "phase" and it will

Love Story        of the young one   Aashish Singla  Written in year 2000 Those days, love was in the air. A wave came and swept the city with the effervescence of eternal love. Every moment, someone was falling in love with someone or something at every place. Even that fellow with crooked nose found a lovely girl to fall in love with. Markets and parks were full of people, as if a festive season were going on. Girls, all over, were buying, borrowing, consulting and reading "Mills and Boons" while boys could be seen carrying Erich Segal’s "Love Story". Throughout the day, people perambulated on the roads with their beloved, reciting verses, smiling and throwing loving gestures at every other soul. Those were dreamy days! Everyone was dreaming - strangely enough, dreams were getting converted to reality too. The whole city became a living dream where love lived; love ate; and love only slept. How could I have managed to escape the love epidemic that the entire city

Scraping through my old notebooks, today I stumbled upon some interesting piece-meals of notes - written on the way of "learning to write" and ofcourse they carry a deep impression of writers that I was reading at that time (almost copying the style :) ) but this scene did come about okay, isnt it? ---- He sat amidst children’s party at her home. Though in exuberant surroundings, he felt too dull and aloof. Even in a group of children of his own age, he felt himself alone and different from all others. His silent watchful manner had grown upon him and he was rarely a participant in the games. The children were throwing knee slappers, inventing new games, dancing and chattering noisily, and though he tried hard to share their mirth, he felt gloomy. But then someone pulled him to the dance floor and he too tried some steps. After doing his part, he retarded safely to a snug corner and slowly he started to taste the joy of his solitude. The joy, which in the beginning of t

I am musing over the world of arts - of literature, of music, of artists - wondering over questions and answers. How our mind tricks us into the hunt of answers that are nothing but the "golden deer" that even Rama could not recognize. Questions are eternal. Answers will always be found wanting at the high altar of eternal questions. What is it that we want? Security? Love? Power? Well, nothing stands the test of time; everything keeps shifting ground. We live in a mire of our own mental pettiness and pull ourselves down every moment with the weight of our own self-destructive ignorance. Compromise is the word that we feed our souls on; Compromise on every single breath. Do we ever know what is it to let loose? To be ready to die in order to live? But then we are too scared of death. So scared that we talk ourselves into accepting a compromise as if it is not what we know it is. What is it that we want and what is it that we really need at this time - again an eternal questio

One morning, a buddhist mendicant went through the streets of Sravasti asking for alms. He sang aloud the praise of Lord Buddha, on whose behalf he was going abegging. From the palace of the King, jewels were thrown on his path, but he did not pick them up. Wealthy merchants and their wives opened the windows and showered gifts and gold, some took off their necklaces, some jewels from their hair. But the mendicant went on refusing the gifts and saying aloud - ‘Buddha, who is greatest of all men, has come to the city among you, so give him only your best’. He passed the roads, making his way through the jewel strewn path, till he reached the end of the city, where a poor beggar woman was lying on the ground...she also heard the call of the mendicant and bowing to his feet, she somehow took cover in the forest and took off her only garment and stretching her arm she dropped it on the ground in the path. The mendicant eagerly lifted the garment on his head and throwing up his arms, he pr

“Once there was a king .... “ and so starts another of those melodious stories, somewhere in the broken old voice of granny while somewhere in the rhythmic tones of a loving mother. Each moment somewhere a young one is waiting for another story to be told and retold; for what else has ever been more interesting in our lives than the flights of imagination and loving dreams. Isn’t that the reason that whenever we meet someone, we generally ask - “So what else?”, “What is new?”, or “what is the news?” - waiting to hear some other story whether old or new. Our mind is distilled down from school to high school to college but it seems that howsoever far the refinement may take place, there is one thing in us that never dies - “longing to hear another story”. While the memory of trigonometries and geographies goes down in our mind; the image of Krishna driving the chariot grows even clearer. Isn’t Duryodhana as real for us as Akbar is? Whether there is an evidence to prove it or not - does

Another day passed ...

Such a wonderful phenomenon: every single individual that I meet - is as if he/she is an epitome of strong values, a keeper of truth, a moral and upright person but as soon as there is a group, this individual is lost. Individual easily hides behind the "anonymity" of the group and easily gives in to all the evil deeds that one can possibly think of & there he comes out clean again - as an individual. This world is wonderful :) with such so clear ambiguities. Just imagine - everyone is talking about "searching for the meaning in life" while the entire clan seems utterly clueless; everyone is talking about "we should have justice and peace" and the entire world is bleeding with voilence and power-play. I am not worried anymore to know this; not disappointed anymore. I will laugh with the life....

Chanced upon an interesting article on a long and heavily debated issue: schooling and education. Putting the excerpt below with the link to full article ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- By  Deepti Priya Mehrotra   You could put your children in a school that hammers them into assembly-line products. Or you could choose an education that nurtures your children into creative, sensitive individuals. First of a two-part report from the leading alternative schools and their underlying philosophy 1965. All of four years old, I'm bursting with excitement as I wear my new uniform-red checked skirt, starched white blouse, striped tie. I've been longing for this day, green with envy as I see my sister go to the ' bada  ( big ) school' every morning. Already I have tasted school-an  experimental  ' model school ' in which I've played on sw