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Lakshman stopped the chariot in the middle of the forest, Sita got down, revealing the beauty of the nature.

“The scion of Raghu Clan wants you to know that the streets are filled with gossips about you. The king’s wife must be above all doubt. You may go wherever you please but know that you are never to return to the palace” Lakshmana’s nostrils flared as he said this.

Sita looked at him, smiling, as she saw the rage in her brother in law’s voice.

“You think he has abandoned his Sita? He is a god, he can abandon no one and I am a goddesses, I can be abandoned by no one.” Smiling, Sita unlocked her braid of hair, a sign of a married woman, now free and turned to the forest.


Devdutt Pattanayak, serenely manages to captures some of the most critical moments in India’s favourite retelling epic. Retold over the years, divided by regionalism, far reaching is its effects of being in retold with regional and regional twists even in far reaching countries like Indonesia. Ramayana has the certainly come a long way from being narrated by Sita to the thief turned poet, Valmiki to be being described and transcribed into local folklore to even Jain and Buddhist versions. The most beautiful part about this retelling is that Devdutt actually manifests to seize the essence of even the other versions of Ramayana. He does not seek to explain why or how these indices came about to being but merely states them for the reader to believe what they think well. This book also seeks point out the two sects that are present in Hindu culture, one which worships Ram, one which worships Krishna, both yet being forms of the god Vishu. Yet Sita, is a brilliant attempt to break free from the shackles of showcasing women as inferior to men and offers a chance to understand the events of Ramayana from the goddess’s preview, signifying why her name is before Ram’s when Hanuman and we all chant “Jai Siya Ram”.

Sita is gone, swallowed by the earth in an attempt to prove her purity to Ram, Lakshman has gone to the forest and beheaded himself, while the god of death, Yama, looms large on Ayodhya, afraid only of the monkey god Hanuman who stands watching the gates of Ayodhya, letting no one in or out. Ram, lost in thought, somehow manages to lose his ring in a crevice on the floor. He calls out to Hanuman to fetch it, and Hanuman, always eager to please his lord, shrinks to the size of a fly and flies into the crevice. Deeper and deeper he goes, till he reaches the centre of earth, home to the dreaded creatures called Nagas. They surround him, eager to know about the speaking monkey who demands to know where his beloved master’s ring is. An agreement is reached after the nine headed serpent, Adisheeshnath, the king of the nagas agrees to show the path to Hanuman, provided he tell them the story of Ram and Sita.

Hanuman’s story starts with the advent of a scholarly king who while ploughing the field finds a baby girl and on the other hand a warrior king who is pining for a male heir to help his ancestors be reborn from the swarglok. In the beginning only, the Ramayan thus manages to show a distinct lean towards the differences of the scholarly Janaka and the warrior Dashratha. One welcomes the gift from mother earth and raises her to be a fine princess and the other shuns his daughter in the want of a son, a scion to take the family name forward.

Dashratha decides to conduct a yagna which would bless him with sons and from this yagna a fertility potion emerges, of which Kaushalya and Kaikei take a part and both of them give half of their portion to the third queen, which results in the birth of twins. Ram, Bharat and the twins Laxman and Shatrugun are thus born. Their guru, the warrior turned yogi, Vashitha takes up the task of training them and making kings out of them.

One day, the revered rajguru, Vishvamitra calls upon Dashrath’s sons to keep guard of his hermitage as performs a yagna. It is here important to note that in the Ramayana, the dwellings of the cities are the places where culture and morals are upheld, where humans live, while in the forest where the Rakshashas reside; there is no value for culture or morals. The Ramayana clearly goes on to show that the in the jungle, truly the laws of the survival of the fittest are well placed, much before someone known as Charles Darwin came to call it his own. The asuras or rakshashas as they are called

In Devdutt’s narration, Sita and Urmila (to be Lakshmana’s wife) are present in the ceremony, and that Sita is already smitten by the courageous youth who fights like a warrior yet who manages to match up with her even in knowledge of the worldly matters.  A swayamvara, the ritual of choosing her own husband is held, but just for the sake of it as Sita had already chosen Ram. In the Swayamvara though, the challenge is taken up by many, even the king of a place far south known as the city of gold, Lanka. He huffs and manages to almost string Shiva’s bow, but he slips and becomes the laughing jest of the court even as a woman, Sita has to lift the bow which has fallen upon him. Ram manages to not only string the bow, but also breaks it, emerging as the winner of Sita’s hand.

Both the Ramayana and the Mahabharata are constructed on the principles of Karma. Janaka finding his daughter in the earth, Dashratha’s yearning for sons, Ravana being humiliated at Sita’s swayamra, the exile of the prince and his wife, the wife’s demand to be able to follow her husband into the forest, Suparnrakha’s arrival, her fascination and erotic desires for Ram and Lakshman, the crossing of the Lakshman rekha,  The curse of Vali’s wife, revenge on Ravana and finally the King’s test for his queen. Karma is an embodiment of the both the past and the future and the repercussions one actions bring. Be it a Tapasvi Yogi, a king or even a mere tribal woman who feeds Ram berries.  Karma is just a probability triggered in the future of an action taken today.

Ram himself implores this, Had Sita never followed him into the forest, she would not have been involved in Suparnrakha’s punishment, nor would she have crossed the Lakshman Rekha and nor would she have allowed herself to be taken prisoner thus causing a blot on the Raghu Clan. The Maryada Purushottam, as he is called, here forgets that his wife is the meek housewife Gayatri, also the battle ready Durga, and the destroyer in Kali. He does not take into account that Sita could have easily overpowered Ravana in the form of Kali, but does not do so as she knows it would cause a further blot on Ram, who already failed to protect Sita.

The Ramayana’s similarity with the modern world is quite stark. Here the power of gossip, which brought down a queen to a mere woman living in the forest and the ego of Ram, for whom family’s honour and rules are the upmost.


So how does Sita end up in the forest after passing the Agni Pariksha, Why does Ravana seek revenge on Ram, Why does the Marayada Purustottam, order his own brother to behead himself and does Hanuman find the ring in time with the God of death, Yama lurking outside the gates of Ayodhya, beckoning Ram he’s waiting for him ?


This is one retelling of the mighty epic that will change the way you know Ramayana as it and bring you face to face with a whole new perspective of a Ramayana which truly celebrates the essence of why Sita is the ideal for any Indian woman.



In life I have stumbled upon many people, some still are in my life, some no more..Yet what makes them special is the fact that we have memories with each other..Here are some of my own..Times that I have spent with them..Some would know it is for them, some would not..Yet they are there, and here I am..

The girl stepped below from the staircase across from the sofa he sat at and the moment he saw her, a strong adrenaline rushed through his body. It had been too long, way too long. The hotel receptionist became oblivious. His heart started pumping faster but his breathing got slower. With each breath he inhaled, his lungs expanded, his heart pounded, his pupils dilated and his mind went into more oblivion. He was not able to take his eyes off her. She wore a simple yoga pants and a jacket. Clutching her hand was a little kid, their eyes met and she smiled at him, shying, for the company around and at that very moment he felt an emotion never felt before. She looked like a woman who was not scared of exploring her wild side but still a woman who would give no guy any excess baggage. Her milky complexion, her long curly soft hair tied in a loose bun with few strands swinging on her bare shoulders and falling on her face in a way as to make it look as beautiful as a moon hiding its unbeatable beauty behind clouds. Her flawless beauty appeared to be all the more mesmerizing in the bright light. Her face was glowing and reflecting the light like the moon reflects the sunlight. She was undeniably beautiful. The sparkle in her eyes and the movement of her soft pink lips as she bit them left him flabbergasted. Her lips, exquisite pink lips were pouting and parting in poetic rhythmic movements showering upon the beholder an array of flying kisses. God, the skilled craftsman and she, proof of his perfection. He too had a past, many a women had wanted to call him their own but never had he met a one who just ruined his sense of reality.
” I envy your hair so much,” he said as he twisted her fringe that was grazing her face with his finger, and softly tucked it behind her ear.

She closed her eyes at his gesture, leaned into him and with a smile on her face asked him in a whisper, “why?”

He pulled her closer to him, and traced his hand over her face in that exact spot where the fringe lay earlier. “It gets to do this when I am not with you; and I don’t like it; only I am allowed to be this close to you. Can you blame me for wanting you all for myself?”

She leaned a little and reached his lips, lingering over them as she whispered, “I am all yours. Only yours..”



“We are quite different.” She said.

“That is why we have many things to share.” he added immediately.
“What?” She asked perplexed.

“Um, think of it this way, don’t you want to look forward for something new in life, I mean imagine a world where all stories had the same start. All films ever made had same plot and all mysteries had the same endings. I believe being similar will make people lonely.” he said taking the last sip of his coffee.

“But don’t you think if people are different in nature and liking, they will fight all the times?” She asked.

“If you personally ask me, I’ll take fights over loneliness. No one can play chess if all pieces have same colors. ” he said as a strand of hair fell on her face and she tucked it behind her left ear.

“Not a bad perception.” She said, smiling.


They both stood at the tip of the cliff with many other spectators and watched. It was a beautiful event; with fireworks, performances and music.

“I want to come back here again,” she said in daze.

“Yes, me too. I want to see this again but with you by my side,” he replied looking into her eyes.

She blushed a shade of pink and tackled him in a hug before whispering in a voice which could be easily missed if he wasn’t too close to her. “Don’t you think you will get bored with same old me?”

He smooched her full on the mouth, “Do you think you will get bored of these kisses and me?” he asked, raising his eyes as he looked into her eyes, smiling mischievously.

And all she could smile and look away.

There was a misunderstanding between them. They didn’t talk to each other while they walked down together near the empty neighborhood. The silence was killing both of them, and their ego was playing along, caressing the issue.

Finally he could not take it anymore; the silent night had to be broken. Turning to her just said “You know what?”

Knowing what he would say, and even before he said it, she said it,

“I love you too”

They walk in silence again but with their hands entwined.

A Time to Die Chapter No 8, Week 2

Hello everyone this is Team Blog-o-holics..

So we’ll take the story forward, but please visit the here to read the last part by Sakshi,
Continue reading

Game of Blogs Team Blog-o-holics

Team Blog-o-holics’ fourth entry. Please find the entry before this on

Day 2, Story 2

Black as the night, it rose from the horizon, it’s black wings blocking out the light from the sun. A sudden darkness fell over the kingdom, with only it’s yellowed neck a speck of light in the morning sky. It seemed as it had swallowed the fire lord of the sky himself. The majestic apparition was held in awe by the mere spectators of the kingdom, until the menial who sounded the alarm was crunched and swallowed into the beast’s fire belly.

And thus it began.

The farms and the fields were the first to go, the stony structures reduced to mere crumbles in a matter of brush against them by it. Soldiers ran to push battle formations but the mere small weapons proved to be little help against the thick hide of the beast. Most of them were burned to ashes even before they could raise there weapons. The creature of the night, arched itself on a tower, flames burning bright all over where ever it veered it’s ugly deathly head. It was death from above for little Sam, as locked his eyes with the beast and raised his wooden sword to it, which lay charred on the ground the very next moment.

The murderer of the king, towered above the beast, far away in his castle, watching his kingdom razed to the very ground his forefathers built it from. the screams of his people filling the air around his ears, all the while twitching with the firestone, as suddenly, the beast turned towards him, gazed upon him and took off in his direction.

– The Radical Guy.


So this is a Twitter exercise by one of my poet friends, Mr. Ashu, who very generally proposed that we take up a challenge to get our creative juices flowing and for some reason I could not bring myself to say no, even when I know that the stagnancy in my creativity has come to the brim, but well challenges being challenges, here we are. Hope I do this every single day of April month, for the lazy arse I am, I shall have to push and prod myself too. Here’s hoping you’ll love these single page stories everyday as much as I love to write them out.


The Radical Guy..


Day 1, Story 1

” God Speed my king” , he whispered, as the body held by him, twitched and turned but unable to cry for help. It tried to bring up it’s arms to it’s eldest son, but they never rose.

He hushed the weak attempts of his king, circling his fingers to the place where the knife lay buried in his back. The glistening moonlight offered little solace to the weak king, watching the life ebb out if him, watching as he again groaned and twitched again and again as the blade was replaced in his back, and as he fell silent and slump, a moment after the sickening noise of a cracking spine, rang in the room.

“God speed, my king” he spat as he sheathed his blade, and with a swirl of his robe, walked off into the moonlight, his boots clattering on the stoney ground, walking on the blood spilt from the guards necks that lay outside the room.



I never thought I could be like this. Never thought that someday, someone would leave, only to never comeback and leave me shattered. I’ve been left by many people in my life, always been the one who’s been at life’s lows and been dogged to the point of emotional damage by the very people I’ve loved more than me. It’s never too late to realize they say..never too late to know that somehow, somewhere down the line you’ve ignored the people who’ve been with you all your life and been there for you,shouldering your back, making sure you stay up. These people are the ones whom we never even take measures or pains to make happy on a regular basis, because somewhere,somehow..we know they wouldn’t mind that..Even if they did, they won’t say it.


Family. Funny word this. Be-seethes the inner sanctum of the people in your life, but pray put a hand on your heart and tell me, asking yourself whom this inner sanctum really defines. Is it the people we can’t live without ? or is the people who’ve been with us all our lives.


It’s never easy to bid a relation goodbye for an emotional man like me. I’ve been back stabbed, cheated, hurt, driven to the point of desperation, torn apart, left in my desolation..but never by my family. Even when I was in the lowest point in my life, I knew I had a group of men and women looking over me. A group that has grown less by one and twos in the last many few days. And they all said they’ve gone to a better place.

I’ve been raised by a group of two, who raised my own mother, until I was three, at my ancestral place.There was a code of a working woman, and an alarmed mother when she one day came home to discover that the aaya she had brought over her own child and was making him drink the share of milk she was supposed to give to me. Two days and an aaya later, I sat in my mother’s lap, looking at the trees dwindling by trying to make whatever sense a one year old could make, but not crying for a moment as the big bad world seems helpless against the arms she held me in.

We got off at a rather huge estate, one of the many in the locality as I would discover later, but the place and the smells were none like the small home we three lived in. On the streets ran weird creatures with horns, on the roofs were big black man faced aliens with furs and tails, and there was a man outside the home, feeding some four legged creatures who were increasingly defiant on licking his face off.

This is when I first saw my grandfather, a man whom I had grown to worship,admire and wrench-fully watch him wither with pain on a hospital bed in the later years of my life.

He took me in, a little too harshly for my doting grandmother, who prominently named me “Bony” for my skinny appearance and she has bequeathed a task on herself to ensure that I never went hungry from the time I woke up to the time I slept. Once a mother, always a mother they say. And now to watch her, ensure that she feeds herself..That is something a grandson should never have to watch.

My grandfather was a astute disciplinary man but he had his softness too. He’s thrill me with his stories everynight before I slept and make theatrics to ensure he always had me smiling. He didn’t have the feet or the back to be my horse but he ensured that I had my rides with him everyday. He’d take me places in his little town of Khambhat and talk to me. Talk about it’s history, talk about what he’d done there as a kid, talked about whatever he could, even though I did not understand a single word he said, but there it was, the bond of a man and his grandson. He had engaged in my life so easily that I never felt that my mother and my father were never there until on weekends.

He never really talked about his past, and I until reached an age where I could logically reason, never asked him about it. Upon asking, a shot of pain ran though his face and he would simply refuse to have a word on the subject, and I rather than the fear of him feeling the pain than his stick, once sneaked upon my grandmother to question about her the same. The story she told me, makes me cry still, even as a grown man.

My grandfather, was an orphan. I never knew the word nor the gravity until a long time. My grandmother told me that how my great grandfather had marched with the people of India shouting “Vande Mataram” when he was riddled by lashes and lathis by the British rulers of India. He breathed his last in a cell where he paid the ultimate price for his country, dying in the filth and muck like amongst the hundreds. My great grandmother, a patient of tuberculosis leaving my grandfather at the age of twelve to fend for himself. His maternal aunt took him in. And another hell began for my him. He slaved day and night for three years for them, doing their housework,taking care of their needs, not like a blood relationship, but a mere servant. He ran away one night, leaving it all behind, in hope that it would never follow. And it never did.

My grandfather was nor a hero, nor a billionaire, nor a famous man. He was man who merely worked in a saree shop for the lack of better knowledge, but the way he taught me about life, imbibed in me the qualities he so fiercely followed in his life. Until he could, he spent his days working behind the counter, fending for himself and grandmother, for he never chose to live with his sons.

And somehow as I grew up, his importance in my life was reduced to the customary sunday phonecall and the summer visits to their place. He had only grown more broody and wrinkly I thought every time I looked at him and now I realize that he must have looked at me and be saddened about the fact that his grandson was no longer the one he bought up with so much love and care.

I regret the fact that I didn’t have enough time to thank him, to repay him, to care for him, the same way he had once done for me. I’m sorry grandpa for all the times I refused to talk to you, didn’t think so high of you, never came to visit you like you wanted and I’m sorry for giving other relationships more importance than ours. I miss you. And I’ll always love you bald old wrinkly man.



I’ve never cried a single tear, since the time I last saw you on the hospital bed, nor when I carried you away. And yet today, I am sitting in a train full of strangers, writing this, for my words are my grief, there comes a old man, withered, wrinkly and a tuft of white hair on his head, just like you were..And besides him is a kid of seven years maybe, holding his hand, scared of all the people around him. The man took his hand in his and pressed it. The kid looked up to him and smiled, knowing that he was going to be just fine and that he has his grandfather to look after him. They looked around to find their seats and the kid pointed out to the ones besides me. They sat besides me, him smilingly acknowledging me. They sat with me watching them with glistening eyes, and the kid held his grandfather’s hand and whispered ” I love you nanu” and to the man replied ” I love you too son”

I didn’t cry a single tear since the two days.


Not until then.










Just another man..

Enough blood has been shed. Enough tears have been wept. Enough pages have been ripped from the seams of books and enough cigarette butts have been rubbed against the walls to quiet them. Enough nights have been spent naught, staring out that moon, replaying the same story in my mind over and over again. Enough work has been done. Enough thought has been given to over come this bloody writer’s block.

Make no mistake. This blog post is not for you. It is for me. It is for so that I shun my misappropriations and write. Do something I have been aching to do, yet have been held back friends and foes alike, the very ones whom I’ve called my own.

I am tired. I am done. I am at a stage in life where I am not an adult yet no more the child. The adult in me refuses to believe this and the child fears at growing up. Family, Friends, Work, Dreams, Ambitions, Targets, Budgets, Fears, Expectations. In an manner of three mere years, life has shown me all that it could.

Living for others, fighting for others, making sure that the dreams you are expected to do are completed before your own. “Am I what I want to be ? ” is a question I ask myself, daily. I have been back stabbed,broken,beaten,shattered,left for the dead,cheated upon and my dreams, my work..has been snatched away from me. For what ? For what fucking what ?

A stable life ?

A stable job ?

A stable bank balance ?

A stable future ?

Well I say fuck this stable shit and this so called shit I’ve been taught and imposed upon since I have been a kid. Not only by my parents, peers, teachers but each and every fucking cunt of the society I have come across.
We live in a world of jealousy, where people want us to be happy, but not at the expense of us, out doing them. Bondage, sniggers and thrives amongst us, as we bind our bloody minds at stifling talents of the ones who dare, who fucking dare out grow us.

We are the ones happy with mediocrity and the lowliness of our mind sets. Letting life screw us royally while we sit and fucking admire and awe the men and women who had the balls to live up to their dreams. We have our own set of social fuck ups who when in a crowd have less IQ than that of a newborn.

Yes I am a rebel and I have no qualms in being the outcast if you make me be. You say I am a disgrace and so I shall be. Because fuck you and your fucking society. You have made me one. I am one of you after all.

Just another fucking common man.

Oh the pain..

I scream but no one answers.
My own scream echoes back.
Endlessly, repeatedly,
Teasing me, taunting me.
It echoes in my mind,
In the empty place around me.
This is the silence,
It tortures me.
I scream, I scream again.
No answer, just the silence.
The very air is still,
It’s heavy, smothering me.
Why doesn’t someone answer?
Can’t they hear me?
Of course they can’t…
I’m alone with silence

I made a mistake to weave the dream of love from the string of words.

I brought my heart on the paper to breath life in words

I wrote the story of my love in the ink of tears.

It was the truth like the thorns in stalk of roses the tears in the way of love without the stab in heart love is the incomplete word.

The beauty of love in the darkness of broken heart colorful shade of love driven by wounds of the heart..

2013 in review

The stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,200 times in 2013. If it were a cable car, it would take about 20 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Giving up..

I am a point in life where I do not know what to do and where to head out to..For the first time in my life I feel myself crashing everyday through an abyss of dismay and fear. Too many reasons to bring me down. I mask my emotions with a smile, a grin and some friends, but behind that mask I’m still the same. I’ve learnt to live a lie, an action which I dislike, but it is better to lie to them than to explain why..I feel empty..totally numb..I cannot write, I cannot read, I cannot do anything !! I’ve been through tough times but then you were there to pick me up when I fell..not as a lover, but as a friend..

I’ve seen days when nothing comes out right
I’m not saying you should call my name
Just give me warmth, stay alone with me tonight
I’ve got nothing left to use in this life
And I’m just dying to see the end of it all

I can’t help wanting to give up and cry
I want to curse and scream till my lungs give
Stumble over this stone-filled road and die
Because there’s nothing left in this life
And I’m tired of pretending to live

I’ve got this feeling inside me
Of wanting to leave it all behind
Because I want to waste away, waste away
Taking only in that abandonment and decay
I just want to waste away

I’m alone in this world for tonight
I’ve called many times but you won’t answer
I’m done pretending I live in the light
And I know that makes you want to run
So run away from me, the bad person I am

I can’t help how terrible I can be
Exhausted and hungry, this is who I am
I can’t stand life, death means so much more to me
And I’m still thinking of wanting you
Even if I’m not good enough to be with you

I’ve got this feeling inside me
Of wanting to leave it all behind
Because I want to waste away, waste away
Taking only in that abandonment and decay
I just want to waste away

I want to die quietly tonight
I’ve got nothing left to lose
I’ll always keep you in my sights
As I waste away, waste away..

This is what the protest is all about..Shame on them..


Having pontificated for two days over the tornado of protests that have hit Delhi, I found time to contemplate if I *really* knew what they were protesting about. So I asked someone who has lived there and experienced the alternating splendor and horror of Delhi; my wife. This is what she had to say.

I love Delhi, the city. I love its wide, open roads, its wonderful architecture. I’ve made great friends in Delhi. I went to a wonderful school in Delhi. I’ve also suffered in Delhi. I’m one of millions of women with tales to tell of how Delhi has ground our self-respect and security to dust. General descriptions of harassment can’t adequately describe the horror a woman faces every day in the city. There isn’t a single moment when you’re walking its streets that you can think “I’m safe, I can breathe easy and enjoy the sunshine. What…

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Rape victim

Remember Remember,O India,this December..
Where women are not safe and Protesters are cannoned..
Remember this fire,Remember the injustice given..
For we sit silent on the verge of a revolution..
A Government,which we elect,sits uptight on the notion,
And the men sworn to protect,are the ones who hit without hesitation,
Remember Remember,O India,this December..
A one filled with hate and a stark glorification,
A nation where goddesses are worshiped,
But it’s women raped in the open..
A country where women do not step out in the dark without hesitation,
While the lust hungry wolves roam out in the open,
Without boundaries or fears they lay their hands on our women open,
The people around them silent for the fear of defamation,
They crib and they cry,but their own safety do they not let deny,
They condemn the acts,but take no prevention,
So is the Government of this great nation..
We protest in peace,with no arms or action,
Still they rain upon us without justification,
We merely demand an answer which was not given,
Remember Remember,O India,this December..
Where the nation cried,
To the pains and the sufferings the daughters of this country have been given..

I am but a writer..and this is how I show my support..For as an Indian..and more importantly as a man..It is my duty to help and protest..Let us not kill the fire..Keep it burning alive, till humanity in the nation is alive.

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Please be allright..

Will I ever love again?
A question on my mind
Will I ever love another?
Like you in this life

If it was meant to be it’ll happen
This is what I am told
But I fear I won’t find another
And will die alone

Will I ever love again?
I really miss you now
Will I ever love again?
Thinking about it just brings me down

I wake up at night
With sweat in my eyes
My heart starts pounding
And I begin to cry

Well it’s better to have loved
And I still have my memories
They’ll always make me happy
And set my heart at ease
today I learned a lesson
that will always be true
saying goodbye to someone
is the hardest thing to do

I’ve never felt a loss
until I said goodbye
I thought I was strong
and I broke down and cried

never will I forget
the times we had
though the reflections are happy
it makes me rather sad

the most brutal of men
cries at the past
I only wish
the good times would last

so I humor myself
I’d smile if I could
why can’t things work out?
Because life isn’t supposed to be that good


Waking up, looking at you
and knowing the sun is high in the blue-
I realize everything is beautiful.

Feeling you brush across my cheek
brings my morning to its peak-
I realize everything is beautiful.

Sipping my coffee, I look into your eyes
Ones full of life, joy, love and surprise-
I realize everything is beautiful.

Hearing the words slip from your lips
those same which greeted me with a morning kiss-
I realize everything is beautiful.

Love, you don’t know what you do
But every move… makes me more in love with you.
So, Good Morning, Beautiful. You are My Everything.

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I have found out, over the past several years, that one of the hardest things to do is to be honest with myself. And even writing this out is so difficult…

Nonsense, in fact, is a very difficult thing- it lasts, but a while!!

A fair realization of the incredible degree of diversity I follow, appeals! – For me, it’s all the experiences that I’ve been through, the good and the bad, the happy and the sad, the laughter and the tears, the friends and the jerks, the black and the white… everything; – Struggling to be restored to the place where it belongs!! I’d like to know more stuff, but probably can’t be bothered to find out.

Important? Yes! Critical? Absolutely. I would go so far as to say that…

Once a man has changed the relationship between himself and his environment, he cannot return to the blissful ignorance he left. Motion, of necessity, involves a change in perspective. Theories, for me, are judged by the coherence they lend to our natural experience and the simplicity with which they do so… For, if you can control the meaning of words, you can control the people who must use the words.

And all of it is alive with the hideous vitality of things that have organized themselves amid disorganization. I’m a proactive daydreamer, inactive achiever. Trilingual, Metrosexual, Polyphonic- and all of it bottoms up!

My head is in the clouds, but my feet are well grounded. I love to dance. Laughter is definitely the elixir that cures all ills.

And for those who fall in love every Monday, and those who don’t, and those who might – One of the most dangerous things you can ask for when it comes to love, is a warranty card!!

It’s been a long time since I saw the moon…

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I used to know a woman deep within the sky,
She was sweet and had something pure to her cry,
But things changed and the distance caused her to flee,
There are no more beautiful skies of stars left to see.
My heart had shattered like a rock smashing a car windshield,
MY moves used to be smooth but now I must yield.
Our souls used to tangle more than vines growing up a tree,
But the newspapers are all sold out, There are no stories for me.
The fifth amendment is the only defense left to plea,
With her I could pick my battles and win my wars,
See the sun and the sky, but no longer that star outdoors.

My inspiration..

You are my inspiration
Having you in my life
Revived my sleeping devotion
You are indeed a special someone

Loving you gives me hope
To free this misery that I coped
In those times I gave up
You came and I stood up

Never will I forget
How you always cheer me up
Every time I’m sad
And for that I’m glad

Whenever I’m lonely
You were there for me
Keeping my heart alive
With your every smile

I dedicate this poem to you
To show how much you meant
To me I love you
My special someone

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The Redemption…

Hey Readers 🙂

Just for starters, this is a new concept I’m trying. I’ll be putting up my story in parts, and the parts would continue one after the other.Hope you all like this one, and if you do please comment on and promote my blog 😀

And just a disclaimer, the story or its names do not denote real life incidences nor am I targeting any religious group for any activities.

The Radical Guy

Part I

She ran through the woods, her laughter echoing through the silent jungle. I ran behind her, but somehow she always remained elusive of my reach. I ran after her, but she playfully always managed to dodge my grip. Her laughter filled the forest and then suddenly a shot rang out. Birds flew in all directions. Blood spew all over me, and I ran forward to catch her. Blood oozed from her as I caught her, but she was already limp. I turned around to find a man in a black mask. Same height. Same built. A same. Me. I looked at her body, the eyes were open, the lips parting and she had started to smile. The smile then turned into a grin and then broke into a hysterical laughter, and she screamed was “I thought u loved me, Javed”

I woke up, sweating and stared at the clock. The blue light blared 3:20 am. I felt thirsty, but the nightmare was too much for me to take, and I did not want to wander in the house at this hour. I felt my hand shaking as i lit up, the smoke filling the balcony. My head lightened as the nicotine worked on my mind. But my patience was breaking. It was happening all over again. The same dream. Again and again. I stared at Imran’s back and watched him sleep, but even his face was like his mother’s. I had become a morbid soul. Unable to sleep, unable to work, I saw her face everywhere. For eight years I had with stood the nightmares but that stupid dog finding that skull had been the final nail in the coffin. I could not take it anymore.

I picked up the telephone and dialed 911.

Detective Stoner looked at me squarely in the eye, not blinking once. His piercing gaze made me stare back, while detective Fuller paced around the room, his footsteps echoing in the area.

“My head hurts”, I said.

Fuller stopped walking and stared at me. Stoner did not move an inch.

“Why the fuck did you do it?”

“What is this Good Cop, Bad Cop ?” I sneered.

“Playing funny are we ?” I felt a sting on my cheek as a swift right hand left a red hand print on my face.

I piped down. Silently whispering my prayers.

“Stop fucking with me. I need answers. Goddammit”.

“She knew. Had to be taken care of”, I whispered.

“What did she know ? She was your wife, god damn it, not some side walking bitch that you killed.”

I knew I was a dead man, when I had surrendered to the police. The orders of execution would be on its way.My organization did not believe in weak men. But I could not survive the dreams, or I’d have to take a bullet to my head. I figured better them than me.

“Mr.Hassan, Why did you kill her ? What did she know ?”

A single tear rolled down my eye and my mind went back to my past.


I sprinted down the Heathrow’s aisle, amongst the usual hustle and bustle, my footsteps drowned in the din of the worldly chaos. The terminus was swarming with people but she stood out from the rest of the universe, those glaring eyes piercing at me amongst the thousands who stood on that busy airport. I stopped in front of her. She locked her dark, black eyes into my, her gaze holding mine. She frowned and turned away and started walking.

I shook my head and started after her and called out to her, “Aasma, Aasma, I’m sorry. Please wait up”. I caught up with her and held her hand; she turned around, that angry gaze and had mellowed to become moist and wet. She knew my weakness and used it to the maximum effect.

“I’m sorry Aasma.I just got caught with some work”, I tried to calm her down, as I wiped the tears off her cheeks.
“Javed, this would have been the third flight that I would have missed and them I and Imran would have to leave without seeing you”, she said as she guided my hand to her enlarged tummy. I ran a hand over her stomach, as if asking my unborn son to calm his mother down.

She looked at me skeptically, but I had no anger over the woman I loved. She was already going through the pregnancy tantrums and she was also intimidated of flying. I kissed her forehead; she took my hand and kissed my scar. I smiled and bent down and whispered sweet nothings to my son. She smiled despite her tears.

“I’m going to miss you Javed, Ammi and Abbu did want you to come see them too. Told me to bring you along”

“No, Aasma, we’ve been over this. If I didn’t have this important work I would have surely come”

“Boarding for the flight Qnt 842 bound for Karachi, Pakistan has begun. Please proceed to gate number 8”, rang over the aisle.

I watched as the flight slowly mounted to the skies and finally out of sight. I held my hand against the glass, missing them already, as the rising sun gleamed through the glass panes.
My phone rang. Startled, broken out of trance, I fumbled to find it.

A harsh voice boomed on the other side. “Commence operation Pashtun .Allah be with you”.

The person who held the phone was no longer the man who was lost in thought of family. His eyes lost their innocence, his face became taut, his lips whispering a silent prayer to his Allah for victory and the scar on his hand seared.


The person who held the phone was no longer the man who was lost in thought of family. His eyes lost their innocence, his face became taut, his lips whispering a silent prayer to his Allah for victory and the scar on his hand seared.

I adjusted my glasses, but the frown on my face remained. The time was upon us. The mission that I had prepared for my whole life was about to begin. An orphan adopted by the rebel camps in remote Afghanistan, thrust into the blind followership of Islam and Jihad by the Mujahidin and fuelled by the revenge that burned inside me. I was the son of the local teacher; my father was the richest man in terms of what riches meant to us: cows, sheeps and goats. These along with a lot of hard work in the fields provided meat, milk and hides. Patches of corn grown provided bread and porridge.

There was no reason for me to leave the village till I was eight. The twenty odd families that stayed in the village shared a small mosque. My days were spent tending to the animals and my nights when my father and his brothers gathered around the fire and told stories of the Pashtuani warriors had defeated the red Angleez in these mountains a hundred and fifty years ago, only like it was yesterday.”Always fear a Tiger’s claw, a Cobra’s bite and an Afghani’s vengeance, he used to say. My father taught me some of the language of the foreign land that lay beyond our Afghanistan. Beyond my home in these mountains, there lay an Afghanistan which called itself the Democratic Republic, heavily supported by USSR.

This was the time before the entire Soviet Army rolled through Salang Pass and had taken over Kabul. It was not about Islam now. This was an insult. My father had taught me the rules of the Pukhtunwali, the code by which a Pashtun should live by. Honor, Hospitality and the necessity of vendetta to avenge any insult. These were the rules of the code and Moscow had insulted them. My village did not survive the attack that was brought about by the men from the east. The entire village was burned down and it my father shot while trying to protect the soil that he’d grown on so fiercely protected. It was only a matter of hours before my village and all in it were wiped away. All except me. My Allah had kept me alive to avenge the death of my father and my village.

I found my way to the resistance that had begun in the mountains, to the men who called themselves the warriors of God, Mujahidin. We knew nothing of the cold war but I came to know that my Sardar had powerful friends with the fundamentalist dictator General Zia Ul Haq, the Pakistani President and the Angleez who were the enemies of Russia.

I grew up amongst boys like me, educated in the Koranic school where I was endlessly learning to recite the verses of the Koran, and the rest would be learnt in war. War I went to, but due to my father’s teachings of the Angleez’s language, I was moved out of Afghanistan to London, where the image of a loan manager with a degree from the London School of Economics. Javed Sheikh was not only a well settled man in the society with a family about to start, but he was also one of the revered financer and bomb maker from the camp.

The mission that I had prepared for my whole life was about to begin. I had promised my Sardar, I would do his bidding, even if my life depended on it. This was also the vengeance of a son who had seen his family being ripped by bullets and his village burned down by the Russian and American troops in the name of the land. The time to bid the plan was upon us. The plan was in place and so were the bombs and the so were the men.

On August 13th 1994, five men left their haversack bombs in Central and North London on Subways and the buses. Their bombs ripped apart through the jam packed areas killing eighty two people and injuring several hundred, leaving at least a hundred crippled for life.

The news said that within twenty fours of the explosion the men had been identified and traced to their various residences in and around London and their leader called Mohammad Siddique Khan. Their financer still at large.

My contribution was well rewarded by my Sardar but he said that he still had campaigns planned for me. My vengeance still unquenched.


The repercussions of what happened were felt on all the Muslim families in and around London. People feared us, looked at us with disrespect and fear . We had become a clan of monsters to the English mongrels. But I did not mind that. In war there will be casualties and blood will flow of your brothers too but let that make you stronger and your passion towards your goal and your religion more defined and stronger, my Sardar had told me.

The pressure of the mission had made me hysterical. I had become a nervous wreck, eating nothing, talking nothing and spent sleepless nights spent in my basement talking to my Afghani brothers plotting the arrangements of the next vengeance on the white men. Aasma’s concern towards her husband were raised. Soon these concerns turned to fears and then to suspicions. She became suspicious of man I had become. I could not tell her anything risking the fear of putting my family in danger. I started taking my daily doses of opium to sooth my nerves. The fights between us grew frequent and many, and beyond control. I raised my hand on her and she left my house with my boy. I was only too happy to see her go.

My new assignment was to get the transfer of the money from the account of Al Mujahidin to another account for the next bombing. The money was to travel from Afghanistan to Syria, then to Cyprus, then to Cuba and finally to London. It the usual night of the hour and the house had a deathly silence to it. I was in the basement talking about decoding the signals from Afghanistan and the financing that was to take place from Cuba for the next bombing on the Wembley Stadium. The Mujahidin network played in the background reminding me of the purpose of my life and to kill anyone who stood in my way, the fanatism rising in me, my opium pipe in hand, my world felt light headed.

The conversation in progress, i swung around on hearing a stair creak, my hand reaching for my Browning 9 mm and the pipe falling to the ground. There stood Aasma, hands on her mouth, her eyes terrified . She stepped back and stumbled at the sight of the gun. I strained my neck to my right and let out a smile. She backed up and fled. I fired. Missed.

The opium running in my blood pumped up my adrenaline. She had a head start and was out of the back door leading to the woods before I got up the stairs. She ran with all her might and I ran behind her, the woods fast approaching, the silence of the night ruptured by the shots from the suppressor of my 9mm. The foliage thickened, the chill of the night air biting at me. But I ran, the fanatism of her ruining my mission pushing me on. She ran but always remained elusive of my reach, the fear in her eyes showing, her hair astray, her face bearing the signs of cuts. I aimed and fired. The bullet shot whistled through the air. She arched and fell forward, her hair astray, a small cry as the bullet went through her head. She fell dead. The wind howled behind me as I went down on my knees, a single tear rolling down my eyes.

I buried her there in the forest.


Next day I went to the officials reporting the missing of my wife. The cops came down and investigated but they could not find the body. The neighbors said they saw a couple of white drunk guys following my wife and misbehaving with her on the road. I was only to happy to suffice with that story and so were the police. Her car was found abandoned in another part of the city. The case was closed with the suspects still at large.

I was taken off from the mission by the Sardar, sensing the insecurities that had been built up within me. He told me that I was still one of his favorites and he could get back to me whenever the force needed me. And then the nightmares came. Night after night I would wake up seeing her in my dreams, the same smile, the same fear that I had seen that day. I used to see her at places in my house and then she suddenly vanished. The Hallucinations continued and my mind weathered the storm.

One day me and Imran were strolling along the lawn when the couple living next door walked into theirs. Seeing us they came over for a chat and I knew the woman adored Imran, she having no child of her own. I held my child close to me as they came and the usual round of talks ensured. Suddenly the neighbor’s English Mastiff came pounding out of the woods and bounded towards it’s master with something in it’s mouth. My blood froze when I saw what it was. It was a human skull.

“The same skull that was brought to us, right??” Stoner asked. I slowly nodded.

“I could not take it anymore. She was there. Right there. Laughing at me. Pointing at me and calling out my name. I cannot take it anymore” and I resumed my prayers.

The door was knocked on a file passed to Fuller. He read it and let out a gasp. Stoner went over to look at it and dropped the file.

I looked up. “What is it u scumbags ?? Tell me !! “

“The skull you found Mr. Javed, ….. is more than 200 years old..”

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I am Anna…

The name’s been racing all over the country..He’s on the lips of a billion Indians…One man, did it to get us independent and another is doing it again to get us independent again from the word corruption…But will he be able to do it ?? God bless him, I hope…The feeling I get that is the Indian society has enough, may it be from the traffic policeman who turns his badge around, demands 500 rs and gives a receipt of 100, or whether is the public services officials whose table drawers open at both ends ?? Corruption runs deep in the Indian society, interwoven with its culture, it’s a way of living I’ll go on to say…We cannot think of getting any administrative work done without a bribe,it’s a bloody crime to even think of it..The society today is a parallel abyss of those corrupt politicians and social servants who are fearing the back lash of the Lokpal bill will have on them, and the other is a large group of Indians, normal people who break their backs to make ends meet while the people in power lap up the funds and resources, which were meant for the people of the nation, for their own personal use ?? It’s India time to reckon and shine…It’s people have fully understood the implications and the cause of the bill and thus have ensued to remind the government that this is a democracy and the Indian middle class is no longer to be taken more lightly…India’s out on the streets…and they are calling you…Let’s go Anna…We are with you 🙂

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The Conundrum of David De Gea:.

Debts of blood…

Rain pelted on his face, as he ran. His legs hurt, his body screamed for him to stop, but he ran. He looked back, they were still pursuing, appearing like hungry wolves pursuing their prey. He faltered and fell, and the wolves pounced. Tearing at their fallen quarry, they laughed frantically as they shoved and pushed him around. He cringed with pain as the fists and the kicks landed left and right. Having had their fill with him, the wolves left. Pain seared through his body. Blood ran down his face. The scar throbbed. He let out a scream and then laughed maniacally.

Stanford High. I looked up at the fading crest. My old school. And fate had me back here. I glanced around. Things had changed. In much worse shape. The building looked in a bad shape; shards of broken windows lay on the ground, spray painted illusions covered a better part of the building. Students filed in the building in large numbers. A scrawny little kid ran past me with a book far more colossal than his own weight, and in bold letters written, “Advanced Chemistry”. He hadn’t made it too far when they appeared. Four big jocks came out of nowhere and surrounded him. The raucous started. They pushed him around, slapped him as other students quickly passed them, no one uttering a single word. Many of them watched, silently, some smirking, some cursing under their breath. But nobody intervened. I had a feeling they knew better than to disrupt them. With a one final shove, he fell to the ground, and the book was thrown right at him. Hitting him squarely in the face. The kid had a scar already. Blood seeped out. Nobody even budged to pick him up. I moved forward and held him by the arms and picked him up. He was muttering, “No more, no more, can’t take it anymore. “ He jerked his hand free and walked off. I watched him go.

The receptionist let out big yawn as I came up to her. Students filed the passageway behind me. The usual hustle-bustle of the school pulled me back to from my reminiscence. The receptionist still stared at me. “I have an appointment with Mr. Baker.”
“The principal’s office is that way”, came the curt reply.

I turned around to the crowd, my eyes darting around. A shadow creeping up behind the gym doors caught my eye. The shadow got bigger and bigger. In its hand there was something. Something familiar. Realization struck. During my time in the army stationed at Afghanistan, it was something which even a kid could be seen carrying in the streets. A god damn bloody AK-47, one of the most deadly weapons known to mankind. A school shootout. Bloody hell.

“Get down”, I managed to shout as I tackled a couple of students taking them down with me as the first shots rang out. Students shrieked and shouted as the floor of the antechamber was quickly covered with blood. Shots rang out again. More fell. Whoever this guy was, he was an amateur. He was just shooting right and left, I scanned around. He was still twenty feet away and the nearest door that I had was a good five feet away. We were still pinned down by bodies. I looked at the two besides me and put a finger to my mouth, they nodded. I glanced at the door and nodded at it. I knew we had to be swift enough to make it. The man with the hood was closing in. It was now or never. With a great heave I pulled the others to their feet, the gun man turned but he was slow.

We ran with all our might, the girls leading the front, me in the rear. Shots rang out from behind us. They dived for the door. A small thud but nothing happened. The door was locked from inside. Sitting ducks. Sitting ducks. And he came.

Thumping wildly on the door, the girls shouting with all their might for the people inside to open the door. I looked around again. The lockers on the either side made it impossible to find a hiding place plus that meant there was no other room on either side for another fifteen meters. The gunman closed in. Even for an amateur, brandishing a gun and hitting a human body was not hard. He aimed and the door opened ever so slightly, and a kick opened it wide enough to scramble through , but he had seen us. He fired. I threw one of them inside but the bastard was running and firing . Suddenly one of the girls got up and ran, ran for the other door, but it was too far away , he laughed fanatically again and fired, and the bullets ripped through her body , as she shuddered went limp. I had no choice but to turn inside. Outside more shots were heard, the hysterical laugh, and a scrawny voice cursed out “Die bitch, you whore, now see who’s laughing”. A chill ran down my spine.

I surveyed the room. Twenty frightened eyes looked back. They were screaming to me for help. I knew I had to help them. We were stuck in a laboratory. No windows nothing. Trapped. Again. The door was the only way in or out. There was a ventilator shaft. But there was no way I could get them up all of them up there and out of here. I had to take him out myself. The freak was still firing and cursing outside. But I couldn’t just walk in there. I needed a diversion. Something big. I scanned around. I saw sugar, potassium nitrate, and aluminium foil. I smiled to myself. Would do the job. Time to give the freak a dose of his own medicine. He had the advantage of surprise but now no more.

I got out; the smoke had started to fill up. The make do smoke bombs in the ventilator shafts were doing their job beautifully. The smoke was giving me enough cover to move without being noticed. The smoke was taking it’s time to spread around but it was good enough. Guns shots followed soon after and more screams. I ran through the smoke and blood filled corridors, slipping and falling but never ceasing. A flash of activity caught my eye. The hooded assassin had seen through my plan. He was trying to get into a corner. He saw me too. He aimed and fired. But there was nothing but a click. He had run out of ammo.

I ran with all my might and tackled him right off his feet. We crashed into a set of lockers. The gun hurtled off into the smoke. He tried to fight back but fall had knocked the breath out of him. I stood up and h holding him by the collar, forced him up. The hood fell back. The smoke was thick but even then I recognized the tear ridden face. It was the boy with the scar.

I stood watching as they took him away. The police sirens wailed aloud. Quivering students passed by me, to the warmth of their parent’s arms.

They would never have expected a reaction from him. Never expected him to fight back. Never expected him to stand up for himself. And when he did, all they could do was cover and run. But the human mind is a funny thing. Makes you do things that one cannot comprehend. Think over it the next time you put a finger on someone…..

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My world beneath the storm…

An elderly carpenter was ready to retire. He told his employer-contractor of his plans to leave the house building business and live a more leisurely life with his wife enjoying his extended family. He would miss the paycheck, but he needed to retire. They could get by.

The contractor was sorry to see his good worker go and asked if he could build just one more house as a personal favor. The carpenter said yes, but in time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work. He resorted to shoddy workmanship and used inferior materials. It was an unfortunate way to end his career.

When the carpenter finished his work and the builder came to inspect the house, the contractor handed the front-door key to the carpenter. “This is your house,” he said, “my gift to you.”

– A Syrian Fable….

What a shock! What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own house, he would have done it all so differently. Now he had to live in the home he had built none too well.

So it is with us. We build our lives in a distracted way, reacting rather than acting, willing to put up less than the best. At important points we do not give the job our best effort. Then with a shock we look at the situation we have created and find that we are now living in the house we have built. If we had realized, we would have done it differently.

Think of yourself as the carpenter. Think about your house. Each day you hammer a nail, place a board, or erect a wall. Build wisely. It is the only life you will ever build. Even if you live it for only one day more, that day deserves to be lived graciously and with dignity. The plaque on the wall says, “Life is a do-it-yourself project.”

Who could say it more clearly? Your life today is the result of your attitudes and choices in the past. Your life tomorrow will be the result of your attitudes and the choices you make today…

My world is a conglomeration of the choices that i have made before in my life…

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E-63 XD


After speculating and introspecting for quite sometime on whether or not I needed a business phone, I finally purchased the Nokia E63( long time ago :P). And to be honest, I’m loving this powerhorse! and the only reason i put up this review was that i got a lot pf people asking me bout the phone…So this way i find it easy to answer them and also leds them to my blog…(Marketing in the genes after all :P)

My criteria was simple: I wanted a phone with a decent application editing for instance Word, Excel, presentations. I have never been a fan of the ‘Touch’ phones (probably the only exceptions would be the iPHONE and more recently, the LG Cookie), and I definitely didn’t want a high-end PDA; and definitely not one with a touch screen. Another important criteria was a good QWERTY keyboard and WI-FI capabilities. Finally, my last criteria was the budget. I only wanted to spend a maximum of INR 15k for my upgrade from my N70 with which I was very happy.

Features like camera, music player, games etc were not at all a top priority for me. However I wouldn’t want their total absence; basic camera and music player would’ve worked for me. And I was willing to forego games on my targeted phone.

So after Goog’ling for such a phone, I got to know of the Nokia E series. And then the E63. It fit my bill to the T.

The feel and grip of the phone is good. The robbery finish on the keypad is nice, and the phone is fingerprint resistant.

There are a LOT of customizable attributes here as you’d expect, and it works like a charm.

Touted as a stripped off version of the E71, the E63 doesn’t leave much to be desired, except a metallic body, and GPS. Both devices use the same battery, and this means that the battery backup offered by the E63 is on par with the E71, and that is good.

The QWERTY keypad is nicely built, and quite easy to type. However it’s taking me some getting used to – but that’s expected since this is my first such keypad.

The Nokia website also touts the E63, praising it’s messaging abilities, and all for a good cause. The dedicated messaging button makes life even easier for novices like me and I love it!

The Symbian 60 OS works fast and is very responsive. There is hardly any time lag between pressing a button and waiting for the function to start. And that’s awesome.

As expected of any Nokia phone, phone quality and reception is good. The loudspeaker though not the best, does hold up good.

However, coming from an N series device, I do miss the dedicated volume keys at the side – the E63 doesn’t have them. The camera is pretty ok but you can’t really expect much from a 2MP camera, can you? But the lack of even a basic image editor quirked me. Nothing there except rotate. Sad.

Well as for the QuickOffice, I’ve typed this entire piece on the document creator there using my phone’s QWERTY keypad. And coupled with the predictive text, life got much easier! 🙂

My final comment would be that if your criteria matches with mine (stated above), then the Nokia E63 comes highly recommended. It’s the perfect low-end business phone to start with, much like jumping from digital compact cameras to DSLR’s.

There’s a strange word going around. What they call The Rumour…

I think it wasn’t meant to mean what it does, The Rumour. But blame it on the abundant creativity of the people, tireless as they were, to weave those luscious tales out of their busy, rumour-creating spindles. Each craftsman very proud of his skill, and affectionate of their produce. As if they were the finest of silks.

That’s the tough part.

The easy bit would be to spread the word around. An ear is all it takes, they say, and soon the world is talking about it. Probably evolving as it, The Rumour, passes from one potential rumour-spindle to another, with a few bits added here and a few other removed for those gripping, gaping, dramatic effects that we so love.

The Rumour, if well crafted, always manages to induce shrieks of joy, surprised leaps, and inadvertent questions.

Who cares what’s at stake. As long as there’s a juicy steak to feast on, do we even bother about the slaughtered animal?

Throughout my life, I have seen narrow-shouldered men, without a single exception, committing innumerable stupid acts, brutalizing their fellows and perverting souls by all means. They call the motive for their actions fame. Seeing these spectacles, I wanted to laugh like the others but I found that strange imitation impossible. I took a knife with a sharp steel cutting-edge on its blade and I slit my flesh where the lips join. For a moment I believed I had achieved my object. I looked in a mirror at this mouth disfigured by an act of my own will. It was a mistake! The blood flowing from the two wounds prevented me from discerning whether the laugh really was the same as others’. But after comparing them for a few moments I saw clearly that my laugh did not resemble that of human beings, i.e. I was not laughing at all. I have seen men, ugly men with their eyes sunk in dark sockets, surpassing the hardness of rock, the rigidity of cast steel, the insolence of youth, the senseless rage of criminals, the falseness of the hypocrite, the most extraordinary actors, the strenght of character of priests, beings whose real character is the most impenetrable, colder than anything else in heaven or on earth; I have seen them wearing out moralists who have attempted to discover their heart, and seen them bring upon themselves implacable anger from on high. I have seen them all now, the strongest fist raised towards heaven, like a child already disobedient towards its mother, probably incited by some spirit from hell, eyes full of the bitterest remorse, but at the same time of hatred: glacially silent, not daring to utter the vast ungrateful meditations hidden in their breasts, because those meditations were so full of injustice and horror; I have seen them grieve the God of mercy in his compassion; and again at every moment of the day, from their earliest childhood right up to the end of their old age, I have seen them uttering unbelievable anathemata, void of all common sense, against everything which breathes, against themselves, and against Providence; prostituting women and children, thus dishonoring the parts of the body consecrated to modesty. Then, the waters of the seas rise up, engulfing ships in their bottomless depths; hurricanes and earthquakes level houses; plague and all kinds of disease decimate families. But men do not realize this. I have seen them blushing, or turning pale for shame at their conduct on this earth – rarely. Tempests, sisters of hurricanes; bluish firmament, whose beauty I refuse to acknowledge; hypocritical sea, image of my own heart; earth, who hold mysteries hidden in your breast; the whole universe; God, who created it with such magnificence, it is thee I invoke: show me a man who is good… But at the same time increase my strength tenfold: for at the sight of such a monster, I may die of astonishment: men have died of less…

Please give me another chance
We can make things the same
Bring those days back again
All I need is just one chance

All the wonderful moments spent together
We could keep holding on forever
The moments spent in sun and rain
We can bring them back all again

I love you with all my heart
What I just cant do is part
Let us bring back our lost time
I promise everything will be fine

Let me hold you again
I’ll take away all your pain
All I ask is for another chance
Just look at me and give me a chance

You can trust me all right
I promise you never again will we fight
Forget the harsh words and come out of the dark moods
Show me your lovely smile
That same one at least for a while
Don’t break my heart
It’ll tear me apart
I can never ever leave you
‘Cos darling I truly love you

There’s a vacuum in every heart
But you’ll not find that in mine
‘Cos in every bit and every part
You’ll find your portrait shine

You can’t be so unkind
Walking away leaving me behind
Trust me again
Give me your hand
Deep inside I feel the pain
Of a broken heart that needs to be mend
Its only you who can heal
And change the way I feel

I know I’ve hurt you and made your heart pain too
Give me another chance
I’ll take away the darkness from your life

My heart aches if you cry
Please wipe those tears dry
Let this dark night get over
And let a new morning enter our lives
I want to show you how much I care
I want you back at any cost
Our love cannot be come the past

Please o please let me try again
I can take away all your pain
All i ask is one more chance
Just a chance… A mere chance…

Who am I ??

I do not know what to title this post as…..

I have found out, over the past several years, that one of the hardest things to do is to be honest with myself. And even writing this out is so difficult…

Nonsense, in fact, is a very difficult thing- it lasts, but a while!!

A fair realization of the incredible degree of diversity I follow, appeals! – For me, it’s all the experiences that I’ve been through, the good and the bad, the happy and the sad, the laughter and the tears, the friends and the jerks, the black and the white… everything; – Struggling to be restored to the place where it belongs!! I’d like to know more stuff, but probably can’t be bothered to find out.

Important? Yes! Critical? Absolutely. I would go so far as to say that…

Once a man has changed the relationship between himself and his environment, he cannot return to the blissful ignorance he left. Motion, of necessity, involves a change in perspective. Theories, for me, are judged by the coherence they lend to our natural experience and the simplicity with which they do so… For, if you can control the meaning of words, you can control the people who must use the words.

And all of it is alive with the hideous vitality of things that have organized themselves amid disorganization. I’m a proactive daydreamer, inactive achiever. Trilingual, Metrosexual, Polyphonic- and all of it bottoms up!

My head is in the clouds, but my feet are well grounded. I love to dance. Laughter is definitely the elixir that cures all ills.

And for those who fall in love every Monday, and those who don’t, and those who might – One of the most dangerous things you can ask for when it comes to love, is a warranty card!!

It’s been a long time since I saw the moon…

I have felt happy today….an emotion that was deprived of me for so many days…. Deprivation from the pen and paper had been way too long…..I had to write….and what better than to revitalize my blogging activities….Writers need their time i thought…..But wrong i was…..The ball’s been rolled….and there’s no looking back now…Times that were had their share of my mind and matter….Been to hell and back in these three months…MBA’s a tough master….no wonder they pay their asses for us….I hope that i am able to continue to hone my writing skills along with my skills to handle sleep deprivation….

Not easy, but can be done….

Life doesn’t give you many chances….

It slides, It tackles and loves to take u down when you least expect it too…

Jeers and sneers when u hit the dirt….

Many can’t get back and wither in the dust….

Some have to courage to stand up back again, brush up the dust and give it back…