How to make twins
Belief
The wandering monk, Swami Vivekananda, was once the guest of the king of Alwar. During their talks, the king told him he disliked people who worshiped statues made of stone, metal and wood, because they had nothing to do with God. There was an oil painting of the king on the wall behind the throne. Vivekananda took it down and asked a courtier standing by to spit on it. The nervous courtier refused to comply. Then Vivekananda asked the king to do the same. He too was taken aback. Vivekananda then asked the assembly why they were hesitating, since the painting was just an amalgamation of colours and not a representation of the king? Nobody had any answer. He then explained that the devotee does not worship the metal or the stone. The representation is just a medium. The believer pays homage to the creator through the representation. Belief is what counts.
The Man With The Scar
It was on account of the scar that I first noticed him, for it ran, broad and red, in a great crescent from his temple to his chin. It must have been due to a formidable wound and I wondered whether this had been caused by a sabre or by a fragment of shell. It was unexpected on that round, fat and good-humoured face.
He had small and undistinguished features, and his expression was artless. His face went oddly with his corpulent body. He was a powerful man of more than common height. I never saw him in anything but a very shabby grey suit, a khaki shirt and a battered sombrero. He was far from clean. He used to come into the Palace Hotel at Guatemala City every day at cocktail time and strolling leisurely round the bar offered lottery tickets for sale. If this was the way he made his living it must have been a poor one, for I never saw anyone buy, but now and then I saw him offered a drink. He never refused it. He threaded his way among the tables with a sort of rolling walk as though he were accustomed to traverse long distances on foot, paused at each table, with a little smile mentioned the numbers he had for sale and then, when no notice was taken of him, with the same smile passed on. I think he was for the most part a trifle the worse for liquor.
I was standing at the bar one evening, my foot on the rail, with an acquaintance – they make a very good dry martini at the Palace Hotel in Guatemala City - when the man with the scar came up. I shook my head as for the twentieth time since my arrival he held out for inspection his lottery tickets. But my companion nodded affably.
‘Qué tal, general? How is life?’
‘Not so bad. Business is none too good, but it might be worse.’
‘What will you have, general?’
‘A brandy.’
He tossed it down and put the glass back on the bar. He nodded to my acquaintance. ‘Gracias. Hasta Luego.’
Then he turned away and offered tickets to the men who were standing next to us.
‘Who is your friend?’ I asked. ‘That’s a terrific scar on his face.’
‘It doesn’t add to his beauty, does it? He’s an exile from Nicaragua. He’s a ruffian of course and a bandit, but not a bad fellow. I give him a few pesos now and then. He was a revolutionary general and if his ammunition hadn’t given out he’d have upset the government and be minister of war now instead of selling lottery tickets in Guatemala. They captured him, along with his staff, such as it was, and tried him by court-martial. Such things are rather summary in those countries, you know, and he was sentenced to be shot at dawn. I guess he knew what was coming to him when he was caught. He spent the night in gaol and he and the others, there were five of them altogether, passed the time playing poker. They used matches for chips. He told me he’d never had such a run of bad luck in his life.
When day broke and the soldiers came into the cell to fetch them for execution he had lost more matches than a reasonable man could use in a life time.
They were led into the patio of the gaol and placed against a wall, the five of them side by side, with the firing party facing them. There was a pause and our friend asked the officer in charge of them what the devil they were keeping him waiting for. The officer said that the general commanding the government troops wished to attend the execution and they awaited his arrival.
“Then I have time to smoke another cigarette,” said our friend. “He was always unpunctual.”
But he had barely lit it when the general – it was San Ignacio, by the way: I don’t know whether you ever met him – followed by his A.D.C. came into the patio. The usual formalities were performed and San Ignacio asked the condemned men whether there was anything they wished before the execution took place. Four of the five shook their heads, but our friend spoke.
“Yes, I should like to say goodbye to my wife.”
“Bueno,” said the general, “I have no objection to that. Where is she?”
“She is waiting at the prison door.”
“Then it will not cause a delay of more than five minutes.”
“Hardly that, Señor General.”
“Have him placed on one side.”
Two soldiers advanced and between them the condemned rebel walked to the spot indicated. The officer in command of the firing squad on a nod from the general gave an order, there was a ragged report, and the four men fell. They fell strangely, not together, but one after the other, with movements that were almost grotesque, as though they were puppets in a toy theatre. The officer went up to them and into one who was still alive emptied two chambers of his revolver. Our friend finished his cigarette and threw away the stub.
There was a little stir at the gateway. A woman came into the patio, with quick steps, and then, her hand on her heart, stopped suddenly. She gave a cry and with outstretched arms ran forward.
“Caramba,” said the general.
She was in black, with a veil over her hair, and her face was dead white. She was hardly more than a girl, a slim creature, with little regular features and enormous eyes. But they were distraught with anguish. Her loveliness was such that as she ran, her mouth slightly open and the agony of her face beautiful, a gasp of surprise was wrung from those indifferent soldiers who looked at her.
The rebel advanced a step or two to meet her. She flung herself into his arms and with a hoarse cry of passion: alma de mi corazón, soul of my heart, he pressed his lips to hers. And at the same moment he drew a knife from his ragged shirt – I haven’t a notion how he had managed to retain possession of it – and stabbed her in the neck. The blood spurted from the cut vein and dyed his shirt. Then he flung his arms round her and once more pressed his lips to hers.
It happened so quickly that many didn’t know what had occurred, but from the others burst a cry of horror; they sprang forward and seized him. They loosened his grasp and the girl would have fallen if the A.D.C. hadn’t caught her. She was unconscious. They laid her on the ground and with dismay on their faces stood round watching her. The rebel knew where he was striking and it was impossible to staunch the blood. In a moment the A.D.C. who had been kneeling by her side rose.
“She’s dead,” he whispered.
The rebel crossed himself.
“Why did you do it?” asked the general.
“I loved her.”
A sort of sigh passed through those men crowded together and they looked with strange faces at the murderer. The general stared at him for a while in silence.
“It was a noble gesture,” he said at last. “I cannot execute this man. Take my car and have him led to the frontier. Señor, I offer you the homage which is due from one brave man to another.”
A murmur of approbation broke from those who listened. The A.D.C. tapped the rebel on the shoulder, and between the two soldiers without a word he marched to the waiting car.’
My friend stopped and for a time I was silent. I must explain that he was a Guatemaltecan and spoke to me in Spanish. I have translated what he told me as well as I could, but I have made no attempts to tone down his rather high-flown language. To tell the truth I think it suits the story.
‘But how did he get the scar?’ I asked at length.
‘Oh, that was due to a bottle that burst when he was opening it. A bottle of ginger ale.’
‘I never liked it,’ said I.
by William Somerset Maugham
He had small and undistinguished features, and his expression was artless. His face went oddly with his corpulent body. He was a powerful man of more than common height. I never saw him in anything but a very shabby grey suit, a khaki shirt and a battered sombrero. He was far from clean. He used to come into the Palace Hotel at Guatemala City every day at cocktail time and strolling leisurely round the bar offered lottery tickets for sale. If this was the way he made his living it must have been a poor one, for I never saw anyone buy, but now and then I saw him offered a drink. He never refused it. He threaded his way among the tables with a sort of rolling walk as though he were accustomed to traverse long distances on foot, paused at each table, with a little smile mentioned the numbers he had for sale and then, when no notice was taken of him, with the same smile passed on. I think he was for the most part a trifle the worse for liquor.
I was standing at the bar one evening, my foot on the rail, with an acquaintance – they make a very good dry martini at the Palace Hotel in Guatemala City - when the man with the scar came up. I shook my head as for the twentieth time since my arrival he held out for inspection his lottery tickets. But my companion nodded affably.
‘Qué tal, general? How is life?’
‘Not so bad. Business is none too good, but it might be worse.’
‘What will you have, general?’
‘A brandy.’
He tossed it down and put the glass back on the bar. He nodded to my acquaintance. ‘Gracias. Hasta Luego.’
Then he turned away and offered tickets to the men who were standing next to us.
‘Who is your friend?’ I asked. ‘That’s a terrific scar on his face.’
‘It doesn’t add to his beauty, does it? He’s an exile from Nicaragua. He’s a ruffian of course and a bandit, but not a bad fellow. I give him a few pesos now and then. He was a revolutionary general and if his ammunition hadn’t given out he’d have upset the government and be minister of war now instead of selling lottery tickets in Guatemala. They captured him, along with his staff, such as it was, and tried him by court-martial. Such things are rather summary in those countries, you know, and he was sentenced to be shot at dawn. I guess he knew what was coming to him when he was caught. He spent the night in gaol and he and the others, there were five of them altogether, passed the time playing poker. They used matches for chips. He told me he’d never had such a run of bad luck in his life.
When day broke and the soldiers came into the cell to fetch them for execution he had lost more matches than a reasonable man could use in a life time.
They were led into the patio of the gaol and placed against a wall, the five of them side by side, with the firing party facing them. There was a pause and our friend asked the officer in charge of them what the devil they were keeping him waiting for. The officer said that the general commanding the government troops wished to attend the execution and they awaited his arrival.
“Then I have time to smoke another cigarette,” said our friend. “He was always unpunctual.”
But he had barely lit it when the general – it was San Ignacio, by the way: I don’t know whether you ever met him – followed by his A.D.C. came into the patio. The usual formalities were performed and San Ignacio asked the condemned men whether there was anything they wished before the execution took place. Four of the five shook their heads, but our friend spoke.
“Yes, I should like to say goodbye to my wife.”
“Bueno,” said the general, “I have no objection to that. Where is she?”
“She is waiting at the prison door.”
“Then it will not cause a delay of more than five minutes.”
“Hardly that, Señor General.”
“Have him placed on one side.”
Two soldiers advanced and between them the condemned rebel walked to the spot indicated. The officer in command of the firing squad on a nod from the general gave an order, there was a ragged report, and the four men fell. They fell strangely, not together, but one after the other, with movements that were almost grotesque, as though they were puppets in a toy theatre. The officer went up to them and into one who was still alive emptied two chambers of his revolver. Our friend finished his cigarette and threw away the stub.
There was a little stir at the gateway. A woman came into the patio, with quick steps, and then, her hand on her heart, stopped suddenly. She gave a cry and with outstretched arms ran forward.
“Caramba,” said the general.
She was in black, with a veil over her hair, and her face was dead white. She was hardly more than a girl, a slim creature, with little regular features and enormous eyes. But they were distraught with anguish. Her loveliness was such that as she ran, her mouth slightly open and the agony of her face beautiful, a gasp of surprise was wrung from those indifferent soldiers who looked at her.
The rebel advanced a step or two to meet her. She flung herself into his arms and with a hoarse cry of passion: alma de mi corazón, soul of my heart, he pressed his lips to hers. And at the same moment he drew a knife from his ragged shirt – I haven’t a notion how he had managed to retain possession of it – and stabbed her in the neck. The blood spurted from the cut vein and dyed his shirt. Then he flung his arms round her and once more pressed his lips to hers.
It happened so quickly that many didn’t know what had occurred, but from the others burst a cry of horror; they sprang forward and seized him. They loosened his grasp and the girl would have fallen if the A.D.C. hadn’t caught her. She was unconscious. They laid her on the ground and with dismay on their faces stood round watching her. The rebel knew where he was striking and it was impossible to staunch the blood. In a moment the A.D.C. who had been kneeling by her side rose.
“She’s dead,” he whispered.
The rebel crossed himself.
“Why did you do it?” asked the general.
“I loved her.”
A sort of sigh passed through those men crowded together and they looked with strange faces at the murderer. The general stared at him for a while in silence.
“It was a noble gesture,” he said at last. “I cannot execute this man. Take my car and have him led to the frontier. Señor, I offer you the homage which is due from one brave man to another.”
A murmur of approbation broke from those who listened. The A.D.C. tapped the rebel on the shoulder, and between the two soldiers without a word he marched to the waiting car.’
My friend stopped and for a time I was silent. I must explain that he was a Guatemaltecan and spoke to me in Spanish. I have translated what he told me as well as I could, but I have made no attempts to tone down his rather high-flown language. To tell the truth I think it suits the story.
‘But how did he get the scar?’ I asked at length.
‘Oh, that was due to a bottle that burst when he was opening it. A bottle of ginger ale.’
‘I never liked it,’ said I.
by William Somerset Maugham
She
She is my daughter. She can't walk. She can't feed herself and has to be continuously looked after. Even though she can't talk, her serene face is not devoid of emotions. Just a glance at her face makes me forget all worries. I wonder why God created us all so uniquely. Each of us with his/her own characteristics, strengths, weaknesses. Whatever be the reason, I feel lucky today. It is a wonderful feeling being father of my 10 day old daughter.
---A short story found somewhere on net.
---A short story found somewhere on net.
हिन्दी में लिखने का सुख!
वाह! हिन्दी में लिखने का मज़ा ही कुछ और है। मतलब कितना भी अंग्रेज़ी बोल लो, लिख लो, हिन्दी से जो भावनाएं व्यक्त हो सकती हैं वो शायद किसी दूसरी भाषा से नहीं हो सकती। शायद मेरे ऐसा सोचने के पीछे ये कारण हो सकता है कि मैं एक भारतीय हूँ। :)
The square root of 3
I fear that I will always be
A lonely number like root three
A three is all that's good and right,
Why must my three keep out of sight
Beneath a vicious square root sign,
I wish instead I were a nine
For nine could thwart this evil trick,
with just some quick arithmetic
I know I'll never see the sun, as 1.7321
Such is my reality, a sad irrationality
When hark! What is this I see,
Another square root of a three
Has quietly come waltzing by,
Together now we multiply
To form a number we prefer,
Rejoicing as an integer
We break free from our mortal bonds
And with a wave of magic wands
Our square root signs become unglued
And love for me has been renewed.
-- An interesting love poem from the movie "Harold & Kumar escape from Guantanamo Bay". Movie is crap by the way.
Rain rain go away...
The rain this weekend was not romantic at all for Chennai, and "Nisha" was responsible for it. Yes, that was the name of the cyclone that hit the Tamil Nadu coast last weekend. That makes me wonder why all the cyclones are given female names(another eg. "Katrina" in US). It rained continuously for 3 days and Chennai was reduced to being an island city. My house being on ground floor was also not spared.
It started on 26th, Wednesday. It rained for the whole day and we had difficulty coming back from office. This was the same ill-fated night when the mini-war at Mumbai began. It continued to rain the whole night and by morning, I was already thinking its too much now. Crouched on the pillion seat of my friend's bike, enduring strong gusts of winds and a heavy downpour, I somehow managed to reach office. Apart from the routine work, most of the day was spent on following the news of Mumbai attack. By evening, the weather gods had made it clear, this was not going to be your usual ephemeral Chennai rain. Roads were already brimming with water and low-lying areas like the one where we live were definitely the worst hit. We scrambled back to our home hoping the water would not have entered our house as laptops and related accesories were lying on ground. Luckily, water level had risen just to the level of the doorstep. We rushed inside to secure our things. The rain stopped for an hour prompting us to believe that its finally over, but we were wrong. It started raining soon after as if the someone sky had teared the sky apart. Inspite of our stupid efforts to seal the front door, water started coming into the room around midnight through the back door. At this point, we gave up against mother nature and somehow managed to sleep on the single cot in house.
The next morning was a memorable one. Its really weird to wake up and find yourself surrounded by knee-deep water. My friend's chappals were floating around and I knew I had a difficult day ahead. I got up reluctantly and called up the office to inform about inability to come. Our landlord showed his magnanimity by inviting us to his house on the first floor. We spent the day at his place waiting for the water level to come down, watching TV and basically just sitting. Water did finally come down at around 9 PM and we cleaned the house of all the water and accompanying dirt and slept soon after tired of the exhaustion. The next morning was a sunny one and the two-day nightmare courtesy "Nisha" was finally over, coinciding ironically with the culmination of the long-drawn battle at the two symbols of affluence at Mumbai.
The whole episode clearly underlined two basic questions: Have we really conquered nature? and the second: How to make India immune to natural or man-made calamities?
P.S. Will upload some photos as well very soon.
It started on 26th, Wednesday. It rained for the whole day and we had difficulty coming back from office. This was the same ill-fated night when the mini-war at Mumbai began. It continued to rain the whole night and by morning, I was already thinking its too much now. Crouched on the pillion seat of my friend's bike, enduring strong gusts of winds and a heavy downpour, I somehow managed to reach office. Apart from the routine work, most of the day was spent on following the news of Mumbai attack. By evening, the weather gods had made it clear, this was not going to be your usual ephemeral Chennai rain. Roads were already brimming with water and low-lying areas like the one where we live were definitely the worst hit. We scrambled back to our home hoping the water would not have entered our house as laptops and related accesories were lying on ground. Luckily, water level had risen just to the level of the doorstep. We rushed inside to secure our things. The rain stopped for an hour prompting us to believe that its finally over, but we were wrong. It started raining soon after as if the someone sky had teared the sky apart. Inspite of our stupid efforts to seal the front door, water started coming into the room around midnight through the back door. At this point, we gave up against mother nature and somehow managed to sleep on the single cot in house.
The next morning was a memorable one. Its really weird to wake up and find yourself surrounded by knee-deep water. My friend's chappals were floating around and I knew I had a difficult day ahead. I got up reluctantly and called up the office to inform about inability to come. Our landlord showed his magnanimity by inviting us to his house on the first floor. We spent the day at his place waiting for the water level to come down, watching TV and basically just sitting. Water did finally come down at around 9 PM and we cleaned the house of all the water and accompanying dirt and slept soon after tired of the exhaustion. The next morning was a sunny one and the two-day nightmare courtesy "Nisha" was finally over, coinciding ironically with the culmination of the long-drawn battle at the two symbols of affluence at Mumbai.
The whole episode clearly underlined two basic questions: Have we really conquered nature? and the second: How to make India immune to natural or man-made calamities?
P.S. Will upload some photos as well very soon.
The rime of the ancient mariner
Nowadays it is very common for a boy/girl to interact with the opposite gender freely and a possibility of having a more than "just friends" relationship always exists. Nobody is surprised to find couples going around and indulging in PDA(Public Display of Affection). I was wondering how it would have been, if someone was attracted to a person in past. Now, by past I am talking about the time when there used to be kingdoms with kings, queens to rule over.
So, starting off with a childhood TV serial's title song(there is a prize for guessing the name of the serial): Naugarh-Vijaygarh main thi Takraar...Naugarh kaa tha jo rajkumar...chandrakanta se karta tha pyaar..(there was enemity between the states of Naugarh and Vijaygarh...Prince of Naugarh named Virendra Singh loved princess of Vijaygarh named Chandrakanta). Now, suppose they want to go on a date, how will they go about it?
Firstly, they may think about gifts, especially if its a first date, or something important like either one's birthday. Guy would come up with some sort of a jewellery, or if he is more daring sorts, maybe a garment made out of skin of a tiger killed by himself(he could say while gifting, "Maine apne hathon se banaya hai.."). The girl could gift a new sword/knife. She could also gift him a new faster horse. Lets say the gift is decided.
Next, is the communication issue. No cellphones at that time, so one has to rely on our friendly pigeon (remember Bhagyashri singing "Kabootar ja ja ja, kabootar ja ja ja..", and the kabootar thinking, "AAhh...You don't have to say "ja" so many times..."). Let us say, kabootar did reach Chandrakanta and she replied back saying yes and deciding upon the time and venue. Now, here I think, they had an advantage. There were so many cool places to go. I mean, no pollution, no concrete jungles and everything free of cost(unlike the Pizza Huts, McDonald's and costly Malls). Just go out of the city and you are at a picnic spot. Virendra singh would send a baggi(horse-driven wagon) to pick Chandrakanta up. He would take care that the baggi was closed from all sides. It served two purposes, One was they avoided spies who would inform their parents of this adventure, Second and more important was they were free to behave as they wanted inside the privacy of the baggi. Now, they roamed around in the baggi, found a nice and secluded place at a beautiful river side and had their dinner. A young girl and a guy, together, alone on a moonlit riverbank, gentle breeze, the only sound comes from the leaves ruffling in the nearby trees and the breeze of course. At this point, Virendra would give her the gift, which makes her very happy and emotional. Sparks obviously fly but they can't do anything "substantial". The reason: No contraceptives available. I mean, here its fine, they will convince themselves by saying, "after marriage". But even after marriage, till the contraceptives were invented, couples must have had a hard time. Or maybe that explains why Gandhari had 100 sons.
Another advantage a couple had was there could be no hard proof for their affair. No cameras or audio/video recorders available. They could deny almost any witness by just saying, "wasn't me".
It must be a great time though. At least the prince, princesses etc. never had to work all their life. Their work involved only to find innovative ways of dating(before marriage) and innovative ways of doing "the thing"(after marriage). Rest of the wordly affairs would be taken care of for by the king and the queen. The flip side could be they were bored with life like anything.
Coming back to present, I think I should go back to work, else my boss will make sure that I don't continue with my job. My father is not a king as well. Yeah, I should definitely get back to work.
P.S. Post inspired by an unexpected conversation with someone at the most unexpected time of day.
So, starting off with a childhood TV serial's title song(there is a prize for guessing the name of the serial): Naugarh-Vijaygarh main thi Takraar...Naugarh kaa tha jo rajkumar...chandrakanta se karta tha pyaar..(there was enemity between the states of Naugarh and Vijaygarh...Prince of Naugarh named Virendra Singh loved princess of Vijaygarh named Chandrakanta). Now, suppose they want to go on a date, how will they go about it?
Firstly, they may think about gifts, especially if its a first date, or something important like either one's birthday. Guy would come up with some sort of a jewellery, or if he is more daring sorts, maybe a garment made out of skin of a tiger killed by himself(he could say while gifting, "Maine apne hathon se banaya hai.."). The girl could gift a new sword/knife. She could also gift him a new faster horse. Lets say the gift is decided.
Next, is the communication issue. No cellphones at that time, so one has to rely on our friendly pigeon (remember Bhagyashri singing "Kabootar ja ja ja, kabootar ja ja ja..", and the kabootar thinking, "AAhh...You don't have to say "ja" so many times..."). Let us say, kabootar did reach Chandrakanta and she replied back saying yes and deciding upon the time and venue. Now, here I think, they had an advantage. There were so many cool places to go. I mean, no pollution, no concrete jungles and everything free of cost(unlike the Pizza Huts, McDonald's and costly Malls). Just go out of the city and you are at a picnic spot. Virendra singh would send a baggi(horse-driven wagon) to pick Chandrakanta up. He would take care that the baggi was closed from all sides. It served two purposes, One was they avoided spies who would inform their parents of this adventure, Second and more important was they were free to behave as they wanted inside the privacy of the baggi. Now, they roamed around in the baggi, found a nice and secluded place at a beautiful river side and had their dinner. A young girl and a guy, together, alone on a moonlit riverbank, gentle breeze, the only sound comes from the leaves ruffling in the nearby trees and the breeze of course. At this point, Virendra would give her the gift, which makes her very happy and emotional. Sparks obviously fly but they can't do anything "substantial". The reason: No contraceptives available. I mean, here its fine, they will convince themselves by saying, "after marriage". But even after marriage, till the contraceptives were invented, couples must have had a hard time. Or maybe that explains why Gandhari had 100 sons.
Another advantage a couple had was there could be no hard proof for their affair. No cameras or audio/video recorders available. They could deny almost any witness by just saying, "wasn't me".
It must be a great time though. At least the prince, princesses etc. never had to work all their life. Their work involved only to find innovative ways of dating(before marriage) and innovative ways of doing "the thing"(after marriage). Rest of the wordly affairs would be taken care of for by the king and the queen. The flip side could be they were bored with life like anything.
Coming back to present, I think I should go back to work, else my boss will make sure that I don't continue with my job. My father is not a king as well. Yeah, I should definitely get back to work.
P.S. Post inspired by an unexpected conversation with someone at the most unexpected time of day.
Blogging from Microsoft word
Last few days have been very difficult. A lot of bad things happening around me. Hope the coming days are better comparatively.
An amateur
Sharing a story. Found on a short story site. Interesting.
An Amateur
I got on at Champs-Elysees Clemenceau, as instructed. It was packed as usual, but with the wrong kind of people - tourists. They probably thought they were heading off for a day out at the Louvre - the stop after next, if I remember rightly. Numbers is numbers, I suppose. Still, I am careful to look only outwards into the tunnel; "remain detached" they had said. As I stepped off onto the platform at Concorde, a husky male voice called out to me in French; no doubt someone had spotted my left-behind briefcase. Fortunately the automatic doors slammed shut before he decided to take action. I was glad not to have understood; it made it easier somehow, to know that I wasn't one of them. I took the steps two at a time, pushed through the exit barrier and emerged on the surface, all the time counting down from thirty.
-Peter Cashmore
Colors of life
Today is Holi. The only festival where you can colour anybody's face, get your face coloured and dance and sing like mad, with everything allowed coz "Bura naa maano, Holi hai!".
Colours have a special effect on the human psyche and there would be very few who dislike colours. They affect us so much that they even have a place in our language. You can turn green with envy on seeing your colleague's brand new Honda Civic. You may turn crimson when asked about your latest love affair and may even turn red in anger when the person who's asking is of the same gender as you and shows too much interest in your crush. If you are boss's yes man, then your colleagues may term you yellow-bellied. You may be pleasantly surprised when a long-unseen friend comes out of the blue and both of you rejoice on seeing each other in the pink of health. For that matter, did you know that no single english word is a true rhyme for orange. You may be white as a sheet after you have lost your credit card or may speak a white lie of being in a traffic jam when you are late to office.
Whatever colour is your favourite, colours symbolize the variety inherent in life. No two moments in your life can be identical. Each and every second that passes is unique and that's what makes life so special.
I pray that all my closed ones, friends, acquaintances feel happy and contented and enjoy this colourful festival, called life.
Colours have a special effect on the human psyche and there would be very few who dislike colours. They affect us so much that they even have a place in our language. You can turn green with envy on seeing your colleague's brand new Honda Civic. You may turn crimson when asked about your latest love affair and may even turn red in anger when the person who's asking is of the same gender as you and shows too much interest in your crush. If you are boss's yes man, then your colleagues may term you yellow-bellied. You may be pleasantly surprised when a long-unseen friend comes out of the blue and both of you rejoice on seeing each other in the pink of health. For that matter, did you know that no single english word is a true rhyme for orange. You may be white as a sheet after you have lost your credit card or may speak a white lie of being in a traffic jam when you are late to office.
Whatever colour is your favourite, colours symbolize the variety inherent in life. No two moments in your life can be identical. Each and every second that passes is unique and that's what makes life so special.
I pray that all my closed ones, friends, acquaintances feel happy and contented and enjoy this colourful festival, called life.
Zindagi kaisi hai paheli
When we are young, we want to appear old. And we are old, we wish to appear younger. What exactly do we want? One finds the grass is always greener on the other side. I being in a reputable technological institute used to feel like, what life do I have? no masti, no girls. Life toh fashion/art college walon ki hoti hai. On the contrary, students in such institutes feel that they only do masti and are not serious enough for their careers.
When we are in school, we wish to move on to college to enjoy the independence. In college, you wish school was so good, one never had any career anxieties or for that matter girl-friend anxiety. So, you are just waiting to get out of college, to be on your own, to make money. When you start working, you feel everything you had before was better and you just wish to get married and get settled hoping to be happy finally.
Thus, generally the feeling is what one had before was better than what one has now. Add to that the feeling of getting something better in future. Now, the irony is, the present will surely seem really good in future, when it has become past. So why can’t we be contented with present? Why do we always long for what we don’t have, rather than cherishing what we already have? Maybe that is human nature. Maybe that’s how we are.
Pani-puri for thought
I am not very fond of quotes because saying is usually easier than doing. But sometimes, reading a particular quote leaves you with a food for thought and when it does that, I think the time spent in reading it was worth it. So, would write the quotes down in my blog, which inspired me, surprised me, shocked me, represented a different outlook towards life or just made me think.
I liked this one for a start.
About being successful....
"The critical ingredient is getting off your butt and doing something. It's as simple as that. A lot of people have ideas, but there are few who decide to do something about them now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. But today. The true entrepreneur is a doer." - Nolan Bushnell
I liked this one for a start.
About being successful....
"The critical ingredient is getting off your butt and doing something. It's as simple as that. A lot of people have ideas, but there are few who decide to do something about them now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. But today. The true entrepreneur is a doer." - Nolan Bushnell
Rain and noodles
There was an old lady whose elder daughter was married to an umbrella seller, and younger daughter to a noodle vendor. On sunny days, she would worry, "Oh no, the weather is sunny. No one is going to buy umbrellas." When it rained, she would cry, "Oh no, you cannot dry noodles without the sun." As a result, the old lady lived in sorrow everyday.
One day, she met a monk. The monk smiled kindly and said, "Madam, you just need to change your perspective. On sunny days, think of the younger daughter being able to dry noodles. When it rains, think about your elder daughter being able to sell umbrellas."
Found on a calendar. A new story emphasizing the old but always relevant funda of a glass being 'half full' or 'half empty'.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)