tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369184174993240812024-02-19T08:49:12.606-08:00The Ramblings of Just Another GirlThe non-organised but probably readable ramblings of Amri Chadha, the Design Principal of architectural design studio 'The Right Brain Collective' ( www.therightbraincollective.in ) by day, and planet saviour/storyteller/dreamweaver by night.Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-48252122626485976132014-03-29T05:11:00.002-07:002015-12-13T22:32:32.564-08:00The Stunt I Pulled<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">First things first, I suck as a blogger.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Not as a writer, mind you. But blogger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">I violated perhaps the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">most</i>
fundamental rule of blogging; that of not being regular.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Most’</i> fundamental
because apparently, little else about the blogging culture is. One needs little
more than a valid email address and a coherent chain of thoughts to start
blogging, although in the current scheme of things, even the latter stands to
question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Anyway, I do owe my inner child an apology for not being
(more) indulgent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">So basically, about 3 months ago, what can probably be
called the most stressful period of my life, started with little warning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">The house was undergoing massive renovation and revamping,
and for better or for worse, I found myself at the steering wheel of this
rickety ship, caught in a storm with gale force winds; a ship that has been
threatening to keel over to either side and be blown to smithereens ever since.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">I’m designing. Choosing. Buying. Fighting. Mediating.
Managing. Everythinging. Ugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Almost all changes being incorporated in this renovation are
functional and practical, and helping the house perform better, in some way or
the other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Except for one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">At whim, I broke a wall of my room and made this large sit-out
window, shattering all general notions of privacy and security. Bam!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">A lot of questions were asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Eyebrows raised at the free-wheeling expenditure. The idea
of this unshakeable monolithic glass piece as a window to a young woman’s
bedroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">“How will we haul the glass up? Clean <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kaise karenge?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">“The neighbour’s servants will spend more time on their
balconies now, you see, just to catch a glimpse.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">“Waterproofing! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Baarish
mein seelan?”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Yeh toh peechey wali
gali ki side hai!”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">“What is the need?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">I pulled together my troops and devised strategies for
everything. Everything! Pushed through with the decision with all my might (and stubbornness).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">What is the need, indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">*Sigh*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">It’s done, now. And every day, for the past month, I have
woken up to swaying eucalyptus trees; the sight of monkeys scurrying around in
the abandoned, inaccessible overgrown and ripe green DDA land, my room flooded
with morning light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Sometimes at night, I spot owls in the trees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">When it rains, I can hear the wind in the leaves and dense
thickets; it reminds me of the mountains I so love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">I've even constructed a low seat to make it laze-with-a-book-worthy (though I haven't run that mattress errand, yet).</span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">It is my one, constant, never-disappointing source of happiness.
:)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Sometimes, it's so good to just tap that instinct and stick with it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Thank God I'm an Architect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">P.s. The glass did get hauled up; it has a corner hatch for
ventilation; it gets cleaned with ease every day, and not a drop of water has
percolated into the plaster; bless those Western Disturbances.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">And the neighbour’s servants?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Roller blinds, bitches.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-5980582816760886312013-06-19T04:49:00.001-07:002015-12-13T22:20:29.060-08:00Like Walls Drawing Closer<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The world has never ceased to amaze me, for all its glory in its various aspects and planes of existence. Meeting new people, having new experiences, living out of a suitcase (at least for some time every year), that is the dream.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fortunately, I have been born with the means to put down a country or two on my passport every alternate year, which has expanded my view of life, and my exposure ever so much. This also means that I possess a political neutrality, a balanced outlook and a general level of adaptability.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This past month, I've spent most of my time exploring China, Mongolia and Russia with the family... parts of the world not familiar to the average US-UK-Aus hopping tourist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Right now, I sit in a tiny Soviet era serviced apartment in Irkutsk, Russia, compelled to write my heart out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My first brushes with Communism.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A totally different experience.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I feel choked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There's a coldness about Russia that is not in the frigid climate. It's in people's eyes and expressions of cold disregard. It's in the boarded up gray buildings and the deserted roads and even in the dogs that don't respond to your whistling. Like a post-apocalyptic world. Communism may have made its exit 20 odd years ago but it's left a slew of dead oppressed lifestyles in its wake.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm sure all of Russia is not thus, and I look forward to Moscow and St. Petersburg, the outposts of Russian Tourism, where the post-Soviet youngsters enthusiastically throng the bars and actually talk to you, or so I've heard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'll try to give you an idea of how the USSR must've felt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My apartment leaves me with this lingering feeling: I have nothing to look forward to in life. It's all choreographed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Very direct. Very depressing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That being said, I'm not depressed, just thankful that I'll be outta here and on my way westward tomorrow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I encountered Communism in a very different way in China, which is still Communist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Firstly because I couldn't understand jack shit. At least in Russia, the script is kinda sorta maybe familiar (even if it's just 10 familiar alphabets so you know that 'Супермаркет' above a store reads 'Supermarket').</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then, to my distress, I found out that YouTube and Facebook are banned in China. Also, anything, and I mean ANYTHING I wanted to google about the Tianenmen Square massacre came up as a failed page-load... As if a deliberate attempt to wipe out from history their one credible struggle for democracy. When I went to Tianenmen Square, I wanted to know where the 'Tank Man' incident had occurred. The guide's eyes widened in a kind of shock that I must admit reminded me of Harry Potter's utterance of Voldemort's real name and the reaction it provoked. My guide looked around to make sure nobody had heard. He quoted 'Chairman Mao' a little too loudly in his next sentence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(For the uninitiated, the 'Tianenmen Square massacre' and 'Tank Man' are must-googles)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">English publications in Beijing were hard to come by, and in a country where the media is largely infamously state controlled, I picked up a few English dailies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was full of news about China... It felt like a pathetic means of brainwashing. Like a big show. Not one page about the neighbours, not one section about the world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Randomly, I went on to the webpages of some renown world news networks just to be up to date. An article caught my eye.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A gruesome picture of a man crumpled under a steamroller, his pulverized brains visible.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From rural China. Apparently he had protested when the government chose to acquire his agricultural lands. The Chinese authorities had ordered the execution.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of course that news never made it to the Chinese daily in English.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Chinese are like sheep. Truly. Gullible and very nice to make sign language with. And very clueless about what they are denied daily. It's almost sad.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Not surprisingly, I've made a lot of friends this month. Ha! A Finnish photographer, a group of gay Brit 30 something hippies, a Mongolian kid studying in Bulgaria, two Dutch girls and a bunch of travelling Aussies. My Dad found himself a bunch of Uzbeks who laugh and love with a lot of throaty belly shaking.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Note how I don't have a Chinese OR a Russian friend.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For all its flaws, India definitely has more sustainable political growth, but for the red tape. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But hey, at least we're not Communist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*Grimaces through her smile*</span></div>
Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-80688651103314102082013-05-29T14:26:00.000-07:002015-12-13T22:21:01.573-08:00Find A Boat.<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">It's cyclic. And you think you're important.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But billions have come and billions have gone and somewhere, somebody must've tried to live the life I'm living, or had the dreams I dream everyday.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">People don't make history. History makes people. And they too diminish as time flies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's all cyclic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The point is to go through it, one second at a time, and do what you're gonna do anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So really.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think we spend too much time dwelling on nonsense.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We'll all become something anyway, be with someone anyway, and even if it doesn't turn out the way we imagined, which in all probability it won't, we'll be okay anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After a point, the things that scare you right now will not scare you. There will be newer things to be scared about.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There will always be something to be scared about. That's how you value stability.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After a point, the things that make you happy now, will cease to make you happy and you'll consider things you would never consider now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Life is in flux. Constantly, everyday, bazillions of little factors you have no control over, work their way towards determining your future.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So why worry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Don't be paranoid. Don't be a control freak. Enjoy your choices as you make them. Honour your commitments as you make them. Your decisions are yours. Their repercussions are yours. Do your thing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Remember the words 'sorry', 'please', 'thank you' and 'I love you.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Don't mean them without saying and don't say them without meaning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">More importantly, remember the people you say them to, and remember the people who say them to you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Life is a river. It'll flow as it will. People tell you to find a rock. Your rock of stability.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Don't find a rock.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You'll sink.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Find a boat. It's more adaptable. And it floats.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Find a boat.</span></div>
Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-62557538911562884142013-04-01T11:50:00.000-07:002015-12-13T22:21:25.465-08:00Deconstructing 'Classy'<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;">Back with a bang, again, guys. Feels good. :)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;">I have recently encountered people and situations (at close quarters, too) which prompt me into asking a few vital questions.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;">What is classy? </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;">Is it that bag from Fendi? A BMW in the driveway? The classicists must be shaking their heads in disapproval. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Maybe it's tied to the phenomenon of the 'nouveau riche' (people who come to amass wealth within their own generations, making them prone to being 'flashy', given their sudden exposure and access to 'upmarket' goodies)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But this ties class and finesse closely with economics. So what about accomplished masters of the arts (dance, music, the works) who always seem to be impeccably turned out and live modest, tasteful, simple lives? What about men in uniform; the Armyman with his evening peg of blended Scotch, and his tastefulness reflecting in the clink of the ice with the glass? He's not loaded. But oh my, he's classy. Maybe discipline and principle entail class.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then again, perhaps it's in the ancestry. The history of your 'purakhs'. But how long do you ride on that lineage wave before the good breeding trickles out of the bloodline and is quickly replaced by money and misplaced arrogance?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I give it 1.5 generations from when the bloodline peaked. (!!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Crap. We seem to be at crossroads with this deconstruction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In my view, I closely associate with a number of people who I consider 'classy' and it has precious little to do with their money. Some are classy and financially 'humble' and others classy in spite of the crores they sit on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">An eclectic mix. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Taste, and finesse don't show because of money. They show in spite of it, my loves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Call me elitist but ostentatious displays of wealth (and how much we, as a people, put by them) strike me as vulgar.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Money is but an essential commodity. A rationalization of the barter system. Of course, it augments aspiration. And aspirations are a must to keep people from stagnating. The goal however, is to rise above your purchasing power and enrich yourself with experiences. Broaden your horizons. Put your money into books, drama, travel, the likes. Try and absorb what's happening around you. It's the first crucial step to breaking free. Un-shackle your mindset, without abusing your upbringing and values.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Personally speaking, there's great perspective to be gained in knowing that you have access to 1st A/C train tickets but find yourself in the Sleeper compartment by a strange twist of fate. And it doesn't bruise your sense of self. You grow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Over time, your experience, adaptability and dexterity in dealing with situations across a spectrum of possibilities become the ultimate exhibit of your class.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And your varied exposure will manifest in a refined, selective, personalized expression- your home, your get-up, the friends you make, but most most most importantly in how you carry yourself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With dignity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In other words:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Money may buy love (in stating that, a hopeless romantic just conceded defeat. :( )</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Money may perhaps even buy class (though I'm a strong detractor of that statement).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But money will never buy that deadly cocktail of confidence, humility and dignity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Stay classy, bitches.</span></div>
Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-50118079456841218262013-02-03T02:08:00.001-08:002015-12-13T22:28:57.421-08:00Out with the Old<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Friends,fans and stalkers, let's be honest.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There's no dearth of life-inspirational stuff on your Facebook home feeds or your Tumblrs, and for those of you that dig a little deeper, on the rest of the internet.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But for the most part, life sucks. It takes a helluva lotta compromise and nail chewing to strike that all-elusive balance between hyperventilation and ignorance, especially when you seem to not be going anywhere, from where you stand.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then there are those times when you wish you had a fast forward button. Most mid-semester bits, pan out thus, for me. So you'd think, into my 10th semester in architecture school, I'd be fairly well equipped to deal with these... 'bleh phases' (as I fondly call them).</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But here I am, as despondent and uninspired, demotivated and procrastination-prone as ever… on a vicious hunt for meaningful experiences.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My day? Submission-Class-Gym-Sitcoms with my sister-Work-Sleep-Submission-Class-Gym-Sitcoms with my sister-Sub… you get the picture.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bleh. I was considering a bhang outing. Or running away. Seriously.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was time to do something. ANYTHING. Soooo I embarked on a journey, charting many a time and place (I love this dramatic verbal shit I do), spanning many…ahem… possible solutions to my despondent state.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Possible Solution 1:</span></span><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif;">I skyped with my best friend in France, trying to get him to inject some life into my dead veins.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Outcome: Perspective gained. I felt significantly lesser lost, cheery too. Love you, Kins.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Possible Solution 2:</span></span><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif;">I tried whiskey, oh yes sir. A good 4 pegs to drown my bleh-ness, last friday. Sat with one of my oldest friends, pondering about life and its intricacies, with Angus and Julia Stone droning on in the back.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Outcome: Perspective gained. I felt like life wasn't a rut, really. That I love the people I love and the people that love me, love me regardless. Ah, whiskey. :)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Impossible but Bang-on Solution 3:</span></span><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif;">Faaaaak! I cleaned my life!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Before you guys jump, it's hyper-important to know that parents are ALWAYS ALWAYS right. Even if it all sounds wrong when they say it to you. The Universe finds a way to make them the 'Heroes', no shit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here's what happened.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ever since I bought my new laptop, Dad had been pestering me to format my 4- year old one for his office. On a dreary Saturday evening, I decided to just do it and get it done with.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But.. I couldn't find the charger. Not a great situation to be in. I searched hell and high water and turned up with nothing.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So began a slow process of emptying every drawer, every cupboard, every dresser of its contents. The last 5 years of my life lay unravelled and mixed up and piled on the floor. </span></span><span style="font-family: '"trebuchet ms"', sans-serif;">What an eyesore. I eventually found the wretched charger, which wasn't even in my room in the first place.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But fact of the matter is, the last 5 years were.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My bed contained drawers piled high with submissions I didn't have the heart to throw, interspersed with tidbits from my personal life, I'd forgotten, on purpose, perhaps.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was sleeping on the past.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As I went about my business of sorting, my mind was on a parallel plane of time-travel.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The first to go were the scrap models, and the sheets I'd laboured on. Oh how my tummy knotted. Semester-by-semester, I threw it all away, into the recycling bin. I'd kept them thinking, they need to be kept, I worked so hard on them. But the truth is, today, tomorrow or 30 years later, their utility will still be scrap. Bummer, life.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Next, I cleaned up my dresser- the makeup and the jewellery.. giving the ones I'm too old to sport, to the maid and her kids. Earring after earring, necklace after necklace, handbags too, from my teen years; I packed them into little boxes and passed them on to her. The delight on her face can't be captured in words, but it totally made up for the knotting tummy.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The half-used stationery, bought solely in excitement at the prospect of buying new stationery, was given to the servants' children, who mouthed wide eyed 'thank yous' of awe. How little it all meant to me eventually, and, how much it means to them! I felt good.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I tore off used pages from at least 14 drawing books and gave the bound clean pages to the drivers' and utensil cleaners' kids. Found some old library books I'm sure I'll have to pay a bomb of a fine on. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif;">The miscellaneous things- a pair of drumsticks, mountaineering Captain's gloves, school flag. It brought years and emotions rushing back.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was fascinating.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Slowly… the mess thinned, the drawers emptied, and then I came to the most gratifying part of the exercise. Also, perhaps, the most fraught with risk.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Diaries. Collages. Old relationship- keepsakes. Things I didn't have the time to make a decision about, when these decisions get made. They were just hurriedly pushed to the back of a dresser, and consequently my memory.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I sat and read. For a long time. I used to be this person. I used to think like this. I had these feelings. I was this brave. I was this vulnerable. I was this resilient.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I looked back and all the dots connected. I wasn't stagnant, I wasn't even stagnating when I thought I was. I was growing and growing and each day and each feeling was of consequence… It made me who I am.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">These things were to be treasured. </span></span><span style="font-family: '"trebuchet ms"', sans-serif;">A lot has changed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then I tossed them. The diaries, the keepsakes, everything.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This too shall pass.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I felt so peaceful. So new. Fresh.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's time to make space for some new diaries, some new keepsakes, and as they mount, which I think/hope they will, to make space in my heart and mind and environment for the next stage, whatever it may bring.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm going to graduate, bitches. I'm at the cusp, yes. Excited, and in love.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Out with the old.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">P.s. The parents DO get it right. Go clean your room!!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-39505455159078638302012-12-11T07:25:00.002-08:002012-12-11T07:25:51.274-08:00Just a Dream.<br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">The moon was high over the lake. Vishal and I sat nervously over the edge of the cliff, 300 feet above.<br />It wasn't your typical cliff, more like a grassy lip on the side of a big mountain.<br />"Do you think they'll find us here?" I hug my knees to my chest.<br />"I can hear them... Shh" Vishal hisses.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">A tense minute later, the crunch of twigs. Someone's above us, beating at the bushes to see clearer.<br />The crunching stops.<br />Vishal touches my arm to alert me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I suck in my breath till my spleen hurts. I think I'm going to be sick.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">They come at us every night. Every night we abandon our shelter, our home, and run and hide in the wild on this mountain. I have no idea who they are. I have been running from them since as far back as I remember.<br />We're supposed to run. We all are.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">It is said that they come from that wrecked mansion on top of the hill that no one goes to.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Vishal says we'll go there tonight. When they've stopped wandering. And hunting. We'll go there tonight.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">The crunching starts again. It gets distant. And then suddenly I can't hear it anymore. I heave and gasp with relief, as oxygen floods my lungs. Vishal smiles. It's time to go.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">We clamber up through the bramble, trying to be as silent as possible. On flatter ground now, it suddenly made sense to run.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I looked at Vishal, and I knew he was thinking the same thing.<br />Spines erect, we bolted.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">We ran through the high grasses without knowing what's on the other side. We ran till we were out of breath. We ran till we had the irrepressible urge to giggle.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I spotted the mansion up ahead, its top sailing over the grasses. The excitement was mounting. The adrenaline killing me. I turned to Vishal.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I turned to Vishal. Who was not there.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Panic.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">My instincts urged me to drop to the ground before anything else. In the dark of the night, my torso hit the rough ground with a soft thud.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">They took him. Oh my god they took my friend. I'm so angry inside. So scared.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">So curious. Anger makes me brave.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I crawl on towards the mansion. My nails filling with mud as I drag myself forward without a sound.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I can hear my own rough breathing. What is this hell? How does it end?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">The mansion is so close I can see its rough stone walls, solid and eternal.<br />Just as suddenly, there was no ground under me. I fell into a room lit by a sharp tubelight.<br />I hit the ground, ribs first.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Excruciating pain. My eyes scan the room, struggling to focus. A man sits on a table, picking at a glass bowl, filling it with mud, using a hammer to lightly assist the balance of the bowl.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">"Run!!" I scream. "Run quickly! They're coming!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">He doesn't even move. He can't hear me! Why can't he hear me? Why doesn't he run?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">A thought strikes me.<br />Wait. Am I inside the mansion?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I scan the room a second time. There's a fireplace-like opening.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I scuttle over and peek inside. It's a very narrow flight of steps. But there's light at the end. I think I can make it. There's no headroom. I have to lie down and scramble up.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I'm scared. What if they're waiting for me at the other end? I could be walking right into a trap.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I get nearer to the light and peek out slowly.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">It's shocking. It's so shocking. What is this?<br />There's nobody at the other end waiting to kill me. No blades, no sharp lights, no blood or raw flesh.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">It seems I've climbed up into the plush living room of a king. Its a large room. There are plush cushions here and there. The curtain drapes are gold and unending. I sweep my gaze swiftly across the long room.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">And then I see him. He's sitting with his back to me, wearing a bedroom gown. He's old. He doesn't notice me.<br />But I'm scared of him. I don't want him to turn around.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">He starts to turn to look at me. Fear strikes deep, and I turn in the other direction and run before he sees me. Or I him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I run out of the long oak doors, down many hallways, past many empty rooms. I run till I see a wooden staircase with a gold plate pointing up to the library.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I pause. Unsure. I slowly climb up the steps and peep into the large room.<br />Half the room is exposed to a large courtyard.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">It's daylight? Morning? When did that happen? I feel faint.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">What is going on?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">There's a table, dimly lit by the morning light, next to the bookshelves.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Two women sit at that table, eating, making pleasant conversation. I feel safer knowing it's day. I inch closer to them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I know one of them. It's Protyasha.<br />What is she doing here?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Nothing fits. Nothing fits. Who is that other woman? I think I've seen her!</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I can't control myself anymore.<br />I run to the table and sit, my eyes full of questions. Relief, too. But questions.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Protyasha cheerily hugs me. And then the other woman hugs me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">"Vishal wasn't well, they said. He was missing home."<br />"What?!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I hear a car back up into the courtyard. I turn towards the courtyard. A door opens, and Vishal is carried out on a stretcher.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I can't watch anymore. What did they do to him?<br />Suddenly the man from that first underground room enters the library. He proceeds to clear away the plates.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">My head is aching. Protyasha says he's the butler. How can he be the butler? Where are the killers? Who was that man in the dressing gown? What is this place?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Then the doctor walks in. He's not in his dressing gown anymore. I feel giddy.<br />There are so many people around me now. I think they've just woken up.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I want light. I want to look at light. I look at the Courtyard. I hope Vishal is ohkay.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Then I see it.<br />I see the sign. Or part of it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">'--me for schizophrenia'</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Pain. So much pain.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 15.454545021057129px; margin-top: 10px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">"It's alright, Amri." A soothing voice.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 15.454545021057129px; margin-top: 10px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I turn to the woman next to Protyasha.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 15.454545021057129px; margin-top: 10px;">
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Mamma.</span></span></div>
Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-1643487893659767342012-05-05T06:09:00.001-07:002013-07-05T08:26:35.831-07:00Why I love rain.<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because it washes everything away. Dust, filth, pollutants, SPM, negativity.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because the green never looks so fluorescent.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because before the lightening crashes, the swirling energy of 'all hell about to break loose' makes it look like the atmosphere is holding its breath.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because in quenching the parched earth, its coming signifies fulfilled hopes and wishes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because of the smell of the earth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because when it begins to rain, EVERYTHING exposed is in disarray for a moment, showing how nature is still all powerful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because it's a whiff of a breath of mountain freshness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because of the way Delhi's sandstone monuments, the wisely planned Islamic greens and the gray colour of the sky just form an amazing colour palette.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because there is no traffic on the roads and I can race with the wind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because it's romantic. It's always been romantic. To be rain kissed. I've never been rain kissed. Have you?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because there is a certain kind of music I only play when it rains.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because I like the wind in my hair.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because my parents never stopped me dancing in the rain as a child.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because of the way the water trickles down from the edges of window chhajjas.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because a sudden change in the energy of the atmosphere charges me up and wipes my own slate clean, regardless of how the day went, giving me the courage to not give a fuck.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because when you let go, when you forget your problems, your inhibitions, your fears, your clothes, your hair, your kajal, and step out to be one with nature as the heavens pour and rejoice, you are truly, truly... liberated.</span>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-26727749865133422922012-04-24T02:23:00.003-07:002012-04-24T02:27:46.823-07:00Moment<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Even a person lacking the most
basic exposure to the philosophies of life and the world would have heard,
paused and pondered about 'living life in the moment.'</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">To shut your mind off, and put all your senses, full blast, into
absorbing everything around you in the greatest possible detail, along with
what you feel as a reaction, without the influence of what can be or what could
have been, is a superhuman task.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">The saddest part of it all, infact is that the more we grow up,
mature, age, the more we lose this remarkable ability, having been tempered by
life's ups and downs to regret, fear and procrastinate.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">The truth, although, is very simple.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">It's the moments that we do manage to 'live in' that we hold
within us forever.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Cut to May 2004.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">A little-known, rocky, raging, typical Himalayan river, the
Tons. I'm in a raft with my Dad, my sister, my brother and the rafting camp
coordinator, Nalin Uncle.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">The setting: Virgin pine forests around us, the roaring blue
Tons, the atmosphere thunderously holding its monsoony breath as we go
screaming past rapid after rapid, body surfing in the calm stretches of the
river, the still-innocent 13 year old me scared of crocs biting my behind,
underwater.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">As we approach the next stretch of rapids, with my stomach in my
mouth because they're getting tougher and tougher, I see my 5 year old brother
holding on to the rope ring line in the front of the raft.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">We go blasting down the next stretch, and he squeals with the
thrill as his legs go flying in the air, hands still holding onto the line for
dear life.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">I smile.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">There's a song in my head.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">'<i>Chale jaise hawayei</i>n' from the movie<span class="apple-converted-space"><i> </i></span><i>Main hoon na</i>. We'd
bought the cassette (yes, those) right before heading outta home and had been
singing along with all the songs as we'd driven up to the rafting camp in this
little heaven, a small place called Mori, 2 days ago.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Suddenly, more rapids.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Crazy rapids.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">My brother sticks his paddle into the river, it jams between 2
rocks and snags underwater.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">My brother:</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">"Oh! Usne pakda!"</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Nalin uncle and Dad roar with laughter at his childish fear of
'things lurking underwater'.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Screaming and bouncing, we cross the last rapid, into the calm
stretch flowing into our camp.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">The river diverges and I break into a song as our raft
approaches meadows and I see mom waving at us from in front of our tent.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">"<i>Chalein jaise hawayein sanan sanan</i>"</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">My sister joins me and we take one last jump in the river, the
cool monsoon wind in our faces, hell be damned.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">..........</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">I surface.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">From my moment. It's a secret place in my head that makes me
happy no matter what I do, or where I am.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Just like millions of other moments locked away in the recesses
of my memory, accessible to me and only me at my own will.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Untampered, unviolated, vials of happiness.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">I think I'm incapable of generating the same, of even comparable
intensity, anymore. Maturity has taken its toll. I'm human after all.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">I'm lucky. Extremely so.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Because mostly, as we perceive it, the world is a hostile place.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">But there're still some things that are sacred.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Some instances at which you say,</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">"This, I keep."</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">And those, I kept.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Thus, I’ve lived.</span></div>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-7836142437030727672011-07-11T21:19:00.000-07:002011-07-11T23:19:46.600-07:00No So(a)p Saga This!I jumped onto my couch and flipped on the TV, bringing to life a bazillion liquid crystals, all whirring to display, collectively, a frame out of a further billion frames, to help me pass a lazy Sunday afternoon.<div><br /></div><div>I checked my usual list of channels: Star World, AXN, Zee Cafe and the groupies of that category; HBO and Star movies (with a fleeting glance at the 'i' of some cooler sounding movies in MGM, etc), jumping thereon to the News channels with a customary stop at CNN IBN, CNN and BBC in that order, and then on to Discovery/ Nat Geo/ Fox History to check for interesting things. </div><div><br /></div><div>Meh.</div><div><br /></div><div>My channel scan complete, with nothing holding my attention for more than 2.3 nanoseconds, I glided over to a channel I wouldn't be caught dead watching, but can admit to having seen by 'accident'. Ha! Ohkay. Now. So... ahem... yes, I found myself watching a daily soap on 'Colors', (I won't STILL say which one, but that maybe because I ended up watching more than one :P).</div><div><br /></div><div>Settling on a bunch of cushions, I watched for a long time, having some idea of the various storylines and plots, courtesy my grandparents and mum, without whose respective 'companies', my dinner is incomplete. But what does it matter, the story never changes drastically, and remains generally on the same page for most soaps, give or take a few twists and turns.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I sat and was sucked into this world of heavy jewellery, complex relationships and kanjivarams, I realized how the very kernel of the daily soap feeds off the desire of the average Indian (yes honey, if you're not signing movie contracts or cricket sponsorship deals on a Sunday afternoon, then you ARE an average Indian) for a stable 'umbrella', along with all the compounded complexities that come with 'joint families' and community living.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's quite cool, given the current trend towards 'nuclearizing' the modern family (which by the way, is a damn awesome sitcom on Star World, and totally NOT about '<i>hum do humaare do</i>'), that soap-makers still gift-wrap family values and togetherness and present it to the increasingly restless Indian. It's a dreamy getaway for more than half of India, post office hours, where family values still work; and relationships stand the test of time. And it IS a very feel-good feeling. Not so much for me, because I tend to see beyond what's on the screen, but still.</div><div><br /></div><div>I actually connect with that train of thought, because I've grown up in an umbrella family.</div><div>And thank heavens for that. I have more cousins, <i>chachas, tayas, buas, maasis, maamis</i> than I can count, and definitely more than I can love, but I still adore each one of them all the same. Each a character, each making my life interesting on a daily basis.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because growing up in a large group of people is always such a tussle, one learns to be accommodating, adaptive and flexible along the way. You may have vested interests, but you have a keen sense of judgement and an eye for the 'greater good'. </div><div><br /></div><div>Given, there may be 10 opinions where there should be none (oooh <i>woh ladka theek nahee hai...</i>), but you grow up a warmer, socially adept and broad minded person.</div><div><br /></div><div>Things I and Saas-Bahu sagas agree on:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. There is nothing like family when you're neck deep in trouble.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. There is nothing like a marriage in a huge family. Oh my GOD, I live the years in between them just hoping and praying for the next one to come sooner.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. There are always, always ALWAYS things you won't tell your best friends, things you won't tell your siblings, things you won't tell your parents, but WILL tell your cousins. Muhahaha!</div><div><br /></div><div>4. You get money when they visit you. You get money on general festivals. You get money on all the brother-sister festivals. On your birthdays, exam results, and on every randomly spontaneous dance you do at a family party (if you do it well, that is. No Dadaji waves big notes around your head if you're not impressive and you didn't invite atleast one of the 3rd Gen on the Floor)</div><div><br /></div><div>5. When one of the babies of the family takes a liking to you, there isn't a joy purer.</div><div><br /></div><div>6. Sharing clothes, hand-me-downs, sharing jewellery, books, shot-glasses; it's ALL part of the package. And we ALL do it, no matter how well off we are.</div><div><br /></div><div>7. Family vacations abroad!</div><div>Secret: Everyone detests a train of Indians descending upon Point A, in XYZ city in *#* country.</div><div>Bigger Secret: We don't care! We love it, and if you let go of your pretensions, you can join in the fun too! And people have. We've made an entire ship of people want to click pictures with us. :P</div><div><br /></div><div>8. There's always someone to go to the movies with ;)</div><div><br /></div><div>9. You ALWAYS get permission when you're with cousins.</div><div><br /></div><div>10. Nothing is inappropriate. And you can ONLY bitch about family to cousins :P</div><div><br /></div><div>And a bazillion other points. Three of my closest cousins actually went back to their 'home country' (bleh, Internet Security 101), 2 days ago. And I couldn't shake that sinking feeling. I hate it. I probably wont see them for another 1 or 2 years, unless someone gets married really soon.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I do want to practice co-ordinated Bhangra moves with those guys for a wedding. So badly.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I want to spend endless nights 'stealing from the kitchen' and talking about random things, holed up in a blanket, looking like a preposterous little golliwog (I can, mind you, with my hair, for those of you who've seen me)</div><div><br /></div><div>Air-guitaring. Tickle-bombs. Sour-punk.</div><div>Stale jokes. Bad jokes.</div><div>And random pokes.</div><div>And pillowfights. And drunken nights.</div><div><br /></div><div>*Self-contented Sigh*</div><div><br /></div><div>I love my family :) . They may suck at various degenerative levels. </div><div><br /></div><div>But they rock my world!! \m/</div>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-7217405445853250352011-05-23T02:46:00.000-07:002011-05-23T03:41:25.124-07:00The Red Light Man<p class="MsoNormal">Sitting in that auto with my mother and sister on either side of me, I spotted him today, the red light man. He was holding this wooden board with those obnoxious little wobbly flowers that everyone seems to love to perch on their dashboards nowadays. And then he passed out of my line of vision.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I had just found my portkey to time travel. I flew back to a time some twelve years ago, when school was about silly games like ‘lock- and-key’ and ‘ghost-in-the-graveyard’, and children running out of grey metal gates towards the waiting cool of an air conditioned car. I plonked myself in the front seat and turned on the radio, 102.6 FM, the only one we had back then. At the Ashram red light, my face lit up as I saw the nice, knobbly old man selling magazines. Like always, he came right up to our window and made faces at me. I laughed, rolled down my window and shook his hand, and told him that I was going home from school. Then the lights changed and I waved my byes to him.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Dissolve. That memory and the picture dissolved.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Cut to seven years later. For whatever reasons, time, etc, I hadn’t seen the red light man in many years. A little part of me, at the odd time, fearing the worst, prayed for him, and with all my heart I wished him luck and happiness. Then one day, at the Ashram red light again, I saw him. My heart jumped, an initial yelp of joy. But by then, my mind had undergone a certain mental conditioning, as the initial yelp was muffled under observation, apprehension and hesitation.<br />How old he had grown, his jaw stuck out, the teeth were missing. My heart went out to him. He was selling water bottles, from car to car, in the blistering heat. I half wanted him to come to my window and half not, not knowing how I would react. It had been so long, I felt a sense of having betrayed him (and my childish innocence) and moved on.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />He stopped at my window.<br />I looked at him, with a deadpan expression, trying to silence the little girl who wanted to scream, “it’s me! From back then! Do you remember?”<br />Our eyes met over my clenched jaw, he held my gaze for a fleeting moment and I thought I saw a flicker of recognition. My lips almost turned upward and I was on the verge of flashing him a beaming smile, when he turned away.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">He turned and went to the next car. My heart sank.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Why in that fleeting moment, did I feel that he waited for me to meet him halfway? Why was I so reserved? Because he was a man at a red light and I was a young girl in a car? I felt a deep sense of shame, an innate repulsion for myself.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Today, I sat in the auto, and saw him again... feeble and bent with age, yet resilient, selling his wares from car to car, a life force that refused to give up. And I felt nothing except respect for this man. No desire to try to appeal to his memory, nothing. I asked my sister if she remembered him, (I don’t even know his name); she said she was surprised because she was thinking about him too.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Perhaps he was like this with all the children he met at red lights. Perhaps they’d openly recognize him till date. Not like me. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Would he remember me? Perhaps not. And why should he? I was nothing and am nothing special.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">But I will remember him. Him in the sponsored T-shirt of whichever company was paying him. He who embraced the harshness of life and entertained little children.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">That knobbly faced smile that knew no boundaries.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The Red Light Man who made faces at an uncorrupted me.</span></p>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-67827117698166136372011-05-10T10:00:00.001-07:002011-05-10T10:06:02.203-07:00Evolve<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; " >I was sitting on my couch, watching TV, flipping through the channels aimlessly, mindlessly. Finally stopped on a news channel. A very unclear video...probably from the VGA camera of a bystander's mobile phone, was showing the Taliban gun down a couple in Pakistan.<br /><br />The Taliban gunned down a couple for wanting to be together.<br /><br />I was mortified.<br />What has gone wrong with the world?<br />Are we so steeped in our mindset towards 'religion' that we fail to recognize the basis of it all?<br />The most basic emotion? The emotion that ideally drives religion?The emotion that drives humanity?<br />Love?<br /><br />Religion has made sadists of men. God is no longer the focus of religion. Everything but Him, unfortunately is. A few wise men, ages ago, thought of a common good, a common ideal. They meant no harm, and charted their own courses towards Him. Soon their knowledge attracted followers, and soon there were sects. Of course those Wise men couldn't live forever. And there were no heirs to THAT kind of 'knowledge' without dispute. So, the sects developed. People, too scared to shun the common ideal, started choosing. And then they had children. And their children had children. All the while, down generations and generations of men, religion was tweaked to suit one's own needs and desires. Advice became rules. And still more rules came into play. And people kept choosing. Not knowing, that a few more generations down the line, things will start happening.The very first Wise Men would turn in their graves, knowing that their ideal of the common good, was so mercilessly cut up; and today, stands defeated by human foolishness.<br /><br />We're killing each other. Because of how different our respective 'wise men' were from each other. But weren't they supposed to be? They were human too. Their respective 'religions' have taken on their characteristics. And the common good? It still reverbrates in the hearts of those very first souls that seeked truth and God.<br /><br />Love God. Love humans. Love life.<br />It's a beautiful world.</span>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-20560498788793648892011-04-29T10:23:00.000-07:002011-04-29T10:30:21.734-07:00Candid Can-doHaha... I amuse myself with absurd titles.<br /><br />So basically a lot has changed since I last ‘blogged’. I’ve travelled a bit, lost some, won some, given up on my old goals, found out that planning is NOT better than dreaming, and I think I’ve grown up. Maybe gone back to being a child by letting go of the lines and boundaries I drew around myself. It’s a nice place to be actually, where I am now. I’m happy.<br /><br />I credit myself with this absolutely creepy (but nice) ability of waking up one random morning with a fresh, clean slate, having pushed that refresh button and cleaned up the desktop of my life. Changing my frame of mind is like changing the wallpaper of my desktop: it sits there in the background quietly watching everything that goes on, but at a very basic level dictates the mood of the desktop. One morning, poof, new background, new rules, and the game has changed yet AGAIN.<br /><br />There are certain experiences that one needs to go through, good or bad, just to know what it is to have been through them. This world is one crazy roller coaster; I’m bound in my seat and gagged by my apprehension. But I’m strapped in nevertheless. My mind is a perfect globule of gravity defying liquid, ready to be messed with. A buzzing live-wire, I AM ‘Potential Energy’, holding my breath, watching... waiting for my moment of kinetic release.<br /><br />I sit at the precipice of a teacup called life, ready to take the plunge and drown if I must.<br /><br />I’m not scared. <br />Are YOU?Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-71992507880895026032010-12-25T12:01:00.000-08:002010-12-25T12:46:56.222-08:00Dumpling DelightWhen you're scanning through Masterchef recipes, and you're really really not doing much with your life at that point, you don't mind going for technique intensive recipes, as long as you have all the ingredients, or, they are within walkable distance of your house. You actually kinda enjoy it.<div><br /></div><div>And so I woke up early today in the morning, dropped off my brother for his cricket practice at school, and popped the lid of my laptop open to the Masterchef recipes page. Since my judging panel is composed of just my one demanding and fussy but awesome sister, I ran my list of cook-able recipes by her and lo and behold she chose:</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.masterchef.com.au/green-tea-chicken-dumplings-with-chilli-oil-orange-and-ginger-vinegar.htm">GREEN TEA CHICKEN DUMPLINGS WITH CHILLI OIL, ORANGE, AND GINGER VINEGAR</a></div><div><br /></div><div>No kidding. Once you've gotten over the name, I'll get down to explaining how I gave up on sleep and rest to make these beauties. Most of the morning and all afternoon!</div><div><br /></div><div>Let me say this to people who make perfect dumplings first: R.E.S.P.E.C.T.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is no dearth of things that can go wrong.</div><div><br /></div><div>By now I'm almost perfect at kneading any kind of dough on demand so the green tea dough was cheesecake (pun so not intended). The stuffing was an entirely different story. I had to mince my chicken myself: wash it, boil it, rip strips off the bone and shred it in the grinder. Learning experience! Post that, the stuffing came together really well.</div><div><br /></div><div>The chilli oil and ginger and orange vinegar were intriguing: I didn't know you could do that! I was so proud when I smelled the delicious and so very appetizing aroma of my chilli oil post-infusion.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now the parts where the little disasters started happening.</div><div><br /></div><div>Disaster no. 1: I HATE actually physically rolling the dough to paper thinness and stuffing it.</div><div>I had to make 24 little circles rolled to paper thinness and spoon fine stuffing into it. Can you imagine the patience required for that?</div><div><br /></div><div>So I got lazy and took a leisurely break in the middle and watched some TV, to the super-annoyed looks of the kitchen staff. :P</div><div><br /></div><div>Disaster no. 2 : The recipe required me to golden-brown the dumplings before steaming them in a fry-pan. I went a wee bit-overboard on the golden browning and for some reason I now had 4 little fried dumplings (did them in batches THANKFULLY). Then I tried steaming them for damage control (also just to adhere to the recipe) and now the fried bits actually peeled off and stuck to the pan. I had some yummy-ugly looking stuff right there. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yowzer.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was displaying all signs of distress and abandoning ship when one of the staff was like hey, this happens, just think clearly and do what you think is best.</div><div><br /></div><div>So we formed a party of 3, with one person making little dough balls of appropriate size, the other rolling them to paper thinness, and a third spooning in the stuffing and sealing the dumpling.</div><div><br /></div><div>To my joy, what had lingered all morning, was done in 20 minutes :D</div><div><br /></div><div>Now for the actual cooking. I pretty much said: ohkay screw the pan, bring me a pot of hot water, a metal strainer mesh and a big pot-lid.</div><div><br /></div><div>I threw the dumplings into the mesh hung over boiling water, and sealed their fate with the lid.</div><div><br /></div><div>35 minutes later, they were done.</div><div><br /></div><div>To my surprise (not so much actually, now that I think about it), my last minute gamble had worked. The dumplings looked tender and pretty and nothing seemed to have exploded under the lid(yes those are my culinary fears).</div><div><br /></div><div>So I pulled out a glass dish, set the dumplings about beautifully, poured the orange and ginger vinegar around them, leaving pretty long strips of ginger on top of each dumpling.</div><div>Then I spooned the bulky part of the chilli oil onto each dumpling.</div><div><br /></div><div>The combination of both sauces unleashed some beautiful smells and I went about proudly serving the dumplings to family. :)</div><div><br /></div><div>I feel like cooking dessert tomorrow. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hmmm... Masterchef into thy hands, I commend my spirit.</div><div>*raises toast*</div><div>To Green Tea Chicken Dumplings with .... oh bah whatever. </div><div><br /></div><div>:P</div>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-76144053140545354272010-12-24T19:09:00.000-08:002010-12-24T20:02:11.208-08:00Taking on MasterchefIn architecture school, you pretty much HAVE to stay up entire nights working on your design, most nights of the week, especially in third year. More often than not, what you end up slaving upon throughout the night is an execution of design ideas: drafting, drawing, rendering, formatting, model making et al. <div><br /></div><div>Well, beyond the designing stage, it's basically not mentally engaging, which means I can have the television running in the background. And thank God I do. Because I discovered shows I know I wouldn't ever have thought twice about during the day. Also, God bless the 1:00 am re-run of Masterchef Australia; it has changed the way I look at food. </div><div><br /></div><div>:)</div><div><br /></div><div>Cooking has always been an art, but true application of culinary genius, in preparation AND presentation never hit me till about 2 months ago, when this whole Masterchef ordeal started.</div><div>From a pinch of ground rosemary, to a careless dash of liquidy meringue, by jove I was hooked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Never did cooking look so creative, never did I see endless possibility in ingredients and their various permutations and combinations. Ordinary food became boring and looked lovelessly cooked, as I gazed longingly at the forms and colours of food swimming in front of my eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>A year or so ago, I saw 'Julie and Julia' with the amazing Meryl Streep playing the amazing-er Julia Child. Basically it's about a young woman (Amy Adams as 'Julie') who takes on recipes from Julia Child's cookbook on French cooking and blogs about her progress through 524 recipes in a record 365 days.</div><div><br /></div><div>First off, I have no such intentions, OR inclinations. But I DO want to cook for the sheer joy of it.</div><div>So the semester has ended, and I need to indulge my creative side, AND my sister (a victim of the CBSE 12th Board Exams).</div><div><br /></div><div>So yesterday, I tried my hand at my first Masterchef recipe (click to go to the recipe):</div><div><a href="http://www.masterchef.com.au/hot-salami-pizza.htm">HOT SALAMI PIZZA</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Let me state right at the beginning that I know what most Pizza chains in the world do wrong in their pizza: the base.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've been to Naples, the birthplace of pizza, and TRUST me the base is supposed to be more like <i>naan</i> than the insanely thick oven-browned bread that we are used to.</div><div><br /></div><div>So there I sat, on the kitchen floor, kneading pizza base dough, throwing in much more than just flour (the base has it's own flavour), then rolling it out to 3-4 mm thick circular elastic awesomeness. I did try the chef pizza base hand-spin, but I sucked :P</div><div><br /></div><div>Everything else, from the tomato-base sauce to the grated mozzarella progressed smoothly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Some things in the cooking technique changed, obviously, like I didn't have a ceramic tile to cook my pizza on, so I used my limited baking knowledge to butter and flour steel plates to cook my pizza in. And I switched parsley with basil, well, just because it's my favourite food ingredient :P</div><div><br /></div><div>'Complete' is a good word for how I felt when I pulled those plates out of the oven.</div><div>'Happy' is a good word for how my sister felt when I 'plated up' and put the pizza in front of her.</div><div>'Proud' is a good word for how my grandmother felt.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted to click a picture, but my parents have run off on a vacation with my camera. Sorry!</div><div><br /></div><div>AND...</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you Masterchef! Partners in crime, you and I ;)</div>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-5830651279951669842010-11-26T22:23:00.000-08:002010-11-26T22:25:54.925-08:00An ArchitectView Ar. Peter Zumthor and Ar. Romi Khosla <a href="https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&pid=explorer&chrome=true&srcid=0B8TpBgr9CENWZDdkNGNiMTQtNmYwYy00NTU4LTkwNDMtNzM4YWMxNjFkYWEx&hl=en">here</a>.<div>Theory of Design Project.</div>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-21074934397509469002010-10-25T23:02:00.000-07:002010-10-25T23:12:08.883-07:00Madrid, for Theory of SettlementsThe Evolution of Madrid, Spain, by Amri Chadha, SPA Delhi, A/2044/2008, for Theory of Settlements, 5th Semester, 2010. Click <a href="https://docs.google.com/fileview?id=0B8TpBgr9CENWOGYwODVkZTYtOWQyOC00MzA0LWIyMGQtYjgyNzMxNDhjM2E2&hl=en">HERE.</a><div><br /></div><div>https://docs.google.com/fileview?id=0B8TpBgr9CENWOGYwODVkZTYtOWQyOC00MzA0LWIyMGQtYjgyNzMxNDhjM2E2&hl=en</div>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-81484398681443130342010-09-03T11:23:00.001-07:002010-09-10T00:21:34.660-07:00Invisible Cities Sketches<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39x5S43LH66dGUK9BgyGtbjXknutW9KslI8pO7IWwtT4cRXbvPqKpb749i4YS2U8di55Xa5lYmYxA4DK1GTwPvPn8Wgy766tTVVmRbE3R4He5PghQjIq-C4rN_YCoN17TSSPHrM4CteU1/s1600/invo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39x5S43LH66dGUK9BgyGtbjXknutW9KslI8pO7IWwtT4cRXbvPqKpb749i4YS2U8di55Xa5lYmYxA4DK1GTwPvPn8Wgy766tTVVmRbE3R4He5PghQjIq-C4rN_YCoN17TSSPHrM4CteU1/s400/invo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515180999486294450" /></a><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><u><br /></u></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39x5S43LH66dGUK9BgyGtbjXknutW9KslI8pO7IWwtT4cRXbvPqKpb749i4YS2U8di55Xa5lYmYxA4DK1GTwPvPn8Wgy766tTVVmRbE3R4He5PghQjIq-C4rN_YCoN17TSSPHrM4CteU1/s1600/invo.jpg"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Argia</i>, Cities & The Dead 4</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOTP5lNaUtwMi9Ghq_VKw_6hk8CLbVDqiOnJCj116CUcfM1AK0McJKqHKkXANNQujRm39WgcjmAjYVT6fIhEGpNd2kFggoeaMoyqObgKIWWVWxY9-UR1Ye5ZM19Ygpz-5K5EOYrkEVfoNw/s1600/00.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOTP5lNaUtwMi9Ghq_VKw_6hk8CLbVDqiOnJCj116CUcfM1AK0McJKqHKkXANNQujRm39WgcjmAjYVT6fIhEGpNd2kFggoeaMoyqObgKIWWVWxY9-UR1Ye5ZM19Ygpz-5K5EOYrkEVfoNw/s400/00.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514522656156152386" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></u></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Zora</i>, Cities & Memory 4</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-1456318231022696442010-09-03T08:36:00.000-07:002010-09-03T08:44:48.639-07:00Urbanism<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWhvnpIK8XFko9FaEIiu-xIcThBdcSwuM_jR7x_UniBLpMcAaUtVcTl9fA5VixzK7saJsviQS2D9_cRSh2kcakodJ4aT5SaKKhLmpCYTXN1BVQVjCv6F5bgvM-V6P6eY7zDmXghaHsxyw/s1600/DSC01072.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 342px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWhvnpIK8XFko9FaEIiu-xIcThBdcSwuM_jR7x_UniBLpMcAaUtVcTl9fA5VixzK7saJsviQS2D9_cRSh2kcakodJ4aT5SaKKhLmpCYTXN1BVQVjCv6F5bgvM-V6P6eY7zDmXghaHsxyw/s400/DSC01072.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512712175228432930" /></a><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Job Opportunities...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Infrastructure...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Services...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Connectivity...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Branded Necessities...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Loneliness??</i></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWhvnpIK8XFko9FaEIiu-xIcThBdcSwuM_jR7x_UniBLpMcAaUtVcTl9fA5VixzK7saJsviQS2D9_cRSh2kcakodJ4aT5SaKKhLmpCYTXN1BVQVjCv6F5bgvM-V6P6eY7zDmXghaHsxyw/s1600/DSC01072.JPG"></a><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWhvnpIK8XFko9FaEIiu-xIcThBdcSwuM_jR7x_UniBLpMcAaUtVcTl9fA5VixzK7saJsviQS2D9_cRSh2kcakodJ4aT5SaKKhLmpCYTXN1BVQVjCv6F5bgvM-V6P6eY7zDmXghaHsxyw/s1600/DSC01072.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-34621563072024350322010-09-03T03:07:00.000-07:002010-09-03T04:20:44.161-07:00Transcending Time and Space<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8e7DtlxH-4wRWvrw16nSTH6mFLgNwLxmTJ0j5nuSz-McY0hl5hG8eVE0wUGvtSrbpCC_2zVL8vkPJnab-kz208_lnfbkYpGFDeEEQwU8_u56qc778Dlj7siI4s51KoowxVs_04M7-fxmo/s1600/invisible_cities_flat_cover.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8e7DtlxH-4wRWvrw16nSTH6mFLgNwLxmTJ0j5nuSz-McY0hl5hG8eVE0wUGvtSrbpCC_2zVL8vkPJnab-kz208_lnfbkYpGFDeEEQwU8_u56qc778Dlj7siI4s51KoowxVs_04M7-fxmo/s320/invisible_cities_flat_cover.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512637951992474930" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u>INVISIBLE CITIES- Italo Calvino</u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;">(Copyright <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Arial;font-size:small;">© 1972 </span>Giulio Einaudi Editore</div><div style="text-align: center;">English Translation Copyright <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Arial;font-size:small;">© 1974 </span>Harcourt, Inc.)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">KUBLAI: <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We have proved that if </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">we </i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">were here, we would not be.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span lang="EN-GB">POLO: And here, in fact, we are.’</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">And thus is captured, the essence of ‘Invisible Cities’, by Italo Calvino.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">As one leafs through the first few pages of this book, one finds the conventional notion of a ‘book’, shattered. Fiction within non-fiction; what was, shrouded by what cannot be, as you try to make the book speak to you in YOUR language, peeling off layer by layer, as though in pursuit of an unattainable goal.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">As references to planes and airports; San Francisco, New York and Los Angeles crop up in this 13<sup>th</sup> Century setting based on the interactions between an emperor and his explorer, one really marvels at how the author has treated this same setting as a portal to times and places long gone, to times and places that may or may not come, and most prominently to times and places that CANNOT BE.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The whole narrative is a spin off from human nature, its complications and eccentricities, and how the same is expressed through the built environment.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">For example, two parallel perceptions of the same city of Despina, which sits on a lip of desert jutting into the sea, include a sailor gazing onto the city, comparing it to a camel rising from the desert, and a camel rider gazing onto the city, comparing it to a ship looming on the horizon. It’s like looking at two sides of the same coin.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Then again there are cities which push the limits of human imagination and perception. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The city of Argia is made completely of void spaces and mud, the city of Octavia is hanging between two mountains and Ersilia is 'survived by' literal threads of human relationships.</p><p class="MsoNormal">There are certain points in the book where the author plays with the natural human train of thought, where his style of writing leads you on to believe that the city of Sophronia is made of two halves, one permanent and the other temporary. One is made of houses, offices, mills and courts; and the other comprises ferris wheels, carousels, rides and motorists. Yet you see, with every season, the houses, offices, mills and courts come down and move with the permanent city, the one of ferris wheels, carousels, rides and motorists.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The book moves through the darkest of human emotions, to the lightest of human aspirations, using as a medium the cities it explores, or rather Marco Polo explores, in the quest of human satisfaction in relation with space, which also, surprisingly, when I re-read this very sentence, comes across as a dubious claim.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Looking back at the narrative, I would say it was a fairly inconclusive account of human imagination interspersed with the imagined perceptions of two very important people from Medieval History.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Reading the book was like taking a holy dip in the river of imagination, wherein it flowed long before you came along and will certainly flow long after your time, and how your little immersion will not affect the river, but will definitely change you for life.</p><p class="MsoNormal">For me, the book did not finish with the last page, and even though I spent an exhaustive 40 hours reading it, I daresay, it had not even begun...</p>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-562295462433332892010-08-05T12:00:00.000-07:002010-08-05T19:43:29.144-07:00Paradise lost<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhidZzOAlM3Uvtgxg5JyEAfi1xEGKq8wp-d8Cz_B48NUm41-u2cXgA0vKvcNExlOuP7qAsLPo7mX6VB8eJk8Rphya8jl4Ct1pLtOmWVL-GUjBp609KWBsiHGwx7ewgf_CkJh7hlQXcykfl0/s1600/barot2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhidZzOAlM3Uvtgxg5JyEAfi1xEGKq8wp-d8Cz_B48NUm41-u2cXgA0vKvcNExlOuP7qAsLPo7mX6VB8eJk8Rphya8jl4Ct1pLtOmWVL-GUjBp609KWBsiHGwx7ewgf_CkJh7hlQXcykfl0/s400/barot2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502003372215083506" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i>PWD Guest House, Barot, Himachal Pradesh</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">I squinted as my eyes popped open, one chilly May morning, back in 1996. I turned around to wake up my sister, then hopped out of bed to go irritate my parents. I couldn't help it. I was six.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">They brushed me away and thus snubbed, I slipped on my <i> chappals</i> and bounded outside into the fresh air. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Ah.... Barot...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The above picture can never do justice to the Barot of my memories, simply because this picture is not my own but a more recent one. The PWD guest house then, was set a short trek away from the town, a steep climbing path up the road, which led to the crest of the hill. When one climbed atop, a clearing would come into view, with the green-wooden slatted cottage sitting plumb in the middle, against the backdrop of a mountainside dotted with leeches and daisies. In front, was a single tree, whose solid branches I remember trying to climb on and off many times.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It was pristine, I remember everything as if it were yesterday. Me wheeling my sister around the house in a wheelbarrow, us playing catch-n-catch around Dad's freshly washed, unrolled turban drying on a huge span of grass, my mother giving us a good <i> tel-maalish</i> before splashing us with ice-cold, mountain spring water. I don't remember the bedrooms much, but the bathrooms were scarily fascinating. Every rare bug on your green window sill, next to exposed metal pipes, which in turn only added to your fear of the deathly cold water, as you shivered in anticipation, on a plastic stool too cold for your backside.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I remember trying to climb up the mountainside of daisies and leeches, running races with my sister, and at the end, collapsing in a heap and sticking my foot into the ground, trying to heap mud over it to build little castles, and giving them the finishing touch by sticking daisies in them. I remember trying to draw my foot out carefully without letting it collapse, and then grimacing when it did.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Many times, the whole family would bundle down the path to the town, which intrigued me because it had things other mountainous towns from my knowledge then, didn't. Like a fish farm. Or the river-sized trough of gushing water over a turbine. Only upon googling now did find out that it was a state Hydel power project on the Uhl river, and the fish farms were derived and operating on the fish from the reservoir. What I remember from then is a dread in my heart, standing on a bridge over the river-sized trough, watching at the falling water, and trying to imagine what would happen if someone fell over. What if that someone was a family member? I closed my eyes and wished back my thoughts as I ran across the bridge to where the rest of them were, my father leaning down to explain to me the concept of turbines and electricity generation. Whatever my understanding then, I remember thinking, 'Great, falling in the water is not good enough, now we get to die of shock too.'</div><div style="text-align: left;">The fish farms were a different story altogether. Rows upon rows of water channels, with silver glinting in it everywhere you looked. I would bend over and try to touch, but a quick look from my mother would stop me. The black water, the man with the long cleaning brush, the glint of silver in the water and my mother's look. Memories work in strange ways.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Often, we would plan a trek up and out from the guest house, crossing streams and cooking next to the river, with cowdung as fuel and a few pots, pans and matchsticks. The rice was sticky, and the curry being cooked watery and spicy, but it felt good to eat, probably because it seemed to have come out of nowhere, in the wild. I'm struggling to recall whether the curry had fish in it or not, and I can't be sure, but I'm being completely honest here.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I know we went down to the small market set across the hydel project and the fish farms, but I can't really remember anything of it. Packets full of bread and eggs, maybe. Then again, maybe not.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sometimes, the days would be spent soaking up the sun, sitting under the single tree in the yard, as our mother tried coaching us about our pending homework and my sister messed around with her alphabets. My dad stretched out on the ground, sleeping with abandon, a small part of the whites of his eyes showing, giving me and my sister reason to snigger.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Oh, Barot. I can't not think back to simpler times without my eyes misting over. When life was easy, vacation periods coincided, when we were innocent, stupid, and shamelessly happy. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I wrote this whole monologue in one go, and I know what flowed from my fingertips were not words, but carefully stashed away memories, of a small insignificant place long ago... of a paradise lost.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDHiGfzfwuOnVOtzyhxL6Z5Fb9zDj9qHAU_Fb4F_odlbazh2g8TcPRNu5PjRXhgvhlhlwoqnVF2jBkldBDt1Vt0JNaAbM6Ve0QQAo-jE5KIK8VR1cEdQEQ3gO-qPnghz7pRU4KzI56jUe/s1600/barot1.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDHiGfzfwuOnVOtzyhxL6Z5Fb9zDj9qHAU_Fb4F_odlbazh2g8TcPRNu5PjRXhgvhlhlwoqnVF2jBkldBDt1Vt0JNaAbM6Ve0QQAo-jE5KIK8VR1cEdQEQ3gO-qPnghz7pRU4KzI56jUe/s320/barot1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502119956337913474" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> Barot, Himachal Pradesh</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDHiGfzfwuOnVOtzyhxL6Z5Fb9zDj9qHAU_Fb4F_odlbazh2g8TcPRNu5PjRXhgvhlhlwoqnVF2jBkldBDt1Vt0JNaAbM6Ve0QQAo-jE5KIK8VR1cEdQEQ3gO-qPnghz7pRU4KzI56jUe/s1600/barot1.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj2tDhgwuwEB1whW_UBvnEde-TCOjXeWi-DbDW81Nar1N5Euagh0gMPRo14USQt9WXy7uaWatOTxqq2EmWbtSvb6loVuKc-dd8by6BkfLBw71Qtt-pTpwrvQ8YYnQrVjeDbOmxbq6LxVMd/s1600/barot3.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj2tDhgwuwEB1whW_UBvnEde-TCOjXeWi-DbDW81Nar1N5Euagh0gMPRo14USQt9WXy7uaWatOTxqq2EmWbtSvb6loVuKc-dd8by6BkfLBw71Qtt-pTpwrvQ8YYnQrVjeDbOmxbq6LxVMd/s320/barot3.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502120191728202978" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> Fish Farms, Barot</i></div>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-49717012277435509112010-08-05T06:45:00.000-07:002010-08-05T10:42:54.196-07:00A Thousand Splendid Suns<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmVCiJqxnLzzHNRY2d7ijhBYE5ZimlpGR7zdyTOst3U-MtCfpAre2KiBpLjO5Bmyjpc0PCJFhfTbq2UW8SzU3GW9hNcBekUxKGeffcdBD5nA90oMbByI1CwfrFbuTcaXHgcrM-TUpzvyV/s1600/blog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 208px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmVCiJqxnLzzHNRY2d7ijhBYE5ZimlpGR7zdyTOst3U-MtCfpAre2KiBpLjO5Bmyjpc0PCJFhfTbq2UW8SzU3GW9hNcBekUxKGeffcdBD5nA90oMbByI1CwfrFbuTcaXHgcrM-TUpzvyV/s320/blog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501922533167371234" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b>A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS- Khaled Hosseini</b></div><div style="text-align: center;">(Bloomsbury Publishing, 2007)</div><div style="text-align: center;">-------------------------------</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>'One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.'</i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And so the 17th century Persian Poet Saib-e-Tabrizi immortalized the spirit of Kabul forever.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Prejudiced and judgmental to a fault, I happened to pick up '<i>A Thousand Splendid Suns'</i> at a time when the out-sourcing of terrorism (and terrorists) from Islamic States into the West was at its peak. I flopped on my bed, swimming in all my preconceived notions, and turned to the first page of the book.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And then I started reading.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Before I knew it, I was sucked into the magical world spun by Hosseini, landing bang in the middle of the narrative of a woman in Pre-Taliban Afghanistan...of her trials, her tribulations, the stories of the lives that revolved around her, that came before, with and after her time.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The book starts off in 1959 Afghanistan, with Mariam, the protagonist, as an outcast living on the edge of the city of Herat, a hustling-bustling melting pot of Persian culture, art and literature. Herat, with its towering minarets from Queen Gauhar Shad, green wheat fields, plump grape orchards and crowded, vaulted bazaars would be the setting of the first 15 years of the protagonist's life, yet she would never come around to experiencing it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">For Mariam was confined to her ghetto, set a hill and a stream away from this cultural paradise, a one room <i>kolba </i>made of sun dried bricks, plastered with mud and straw, housing two cots, a table, two chairs and wooden shelves around a single window. Outside, among a few other things, a chicken coop and a trough for feeding sheep. That and the endless green. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A 'bastard child', she tried escaping to her real father's house, spending a night getting rejected at the doorstep of his mansion, only to be brought back home to find her mother swinging lifelessly from the branches of a tree outside the <i>kolba</i>, not having had the strength to stomach the apparent abandonment.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Soon after, Mariam's well-off but socially insecure father took her in, and put her in an alien world, a prison of marble statues, expensive vases, richly colored tapestries and carpeted hallways, from which she was rarely allowed to step out, for 'honourable' reasons. All that before he married her off to an apparently 'rich', abusive shoemaker, thirty years her senior.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And THAT is how Kabul happens to this story.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As a reader moves through the various phases of Mariam's married life, Kabul's changing face and seasons serve as a suitable backdrop. When Mariam first comes to the city, Kabul betrays its big-city self, with its bursting populace, big cars, grey administrative buildings, crowded markets, lipsticked and skirted women, with all the steely resolve of a city in progress. </div><div style="text-align: left;">This same city transforms itself during the month of Ramadan, taking on a sort of golden hue by night, since it is mostly dead during the day. Sweetmeat sellers with delicious wares piled up in carts, men and women dressed in their finest, lights decorating the facade of anything and everything, and firecrackers lighting up the sky, as the city pours into the streets and crowded markets for <i>iftar</i> together.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Hosseini's Kabul is a joyful place, a potpourri of people from all walks of life, with ethnically diverse backgrounds, co-existing with other people and the elements. Kites, pots, pans, cycle tyres, public <i>tandoors</i>, et al. Here, poets and artists teamed with ordinary men over cups of cardamom tea in roadside cafes. Here, the wise and the foolish, ate together and made merry together. People were kind, people would share, and people were happy. Kabul was alive.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Mariam's street itself is an expression of the people of Kabul trying to make the best of what they have. Public wells, shared cooking spaces, gossiping women, and blossoming friendships in the shadow of bad administration, worse amenities and the worst, abusive husbands.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This of course, was the pre-war scenario.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When the Taliban finally descended upon the streets, it was mob rule at best.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Rockets bombing friends next door, houses collapsing, as the skies outside lit up in garish shades of orange and yellow, with flashes of blinding light and deafening roars at all odd hours of the night. Kabul was a changed place, the spirit of a city raped. Bodies piled upon bodies, as the people took sides between the government and the Taliban, some choosing to stay on and die, some leaving for safer skies. The infrastructure collapsed, as the streets became the death zone, with occasional fires in mountains of rubble. Death and disease were as prominent as Kalashnikov-toting, bearded Taliban leaders with suffocating rules, patrolling the streets in jeeps.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The civil strife reached it's ugliest lows when people accused of flouting senseless laws were publicly prosecuted, either shot, or stoned to death in stadiums, in front of thousands of other people. During the war, these public executions served as perhaps the only way of gathering communally, exchanging news, and inquiring about family.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The main characters of the story then choose to leave Kabul for safer lands in Pakistan, where they live and work, albeit half heartedly, for their hearts and minds are still in Kabul. Their story meets its just end when they return to Kabul and are a part of a new wave of reform sweeping through the country, slowly prodding it back onto its feet again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This story is as much about Kabul, and the author's longing, for its dining halls piled high with meats, for the joy resonating through its hallways, for its centuries old Pashtun- Uzbek ethnic mix of culture, for the call for <i>azaan </i>as the sun rises, for the din on Id in its marketplaces, and for the people who lived, and died in it, long long ago...</div>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-18953891856895021012010-08-04T07:35:00.000-07:002010-08-04T07:37:41.027-07:00At your service<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13EYN63r6eWReccQFz-YHiOXoIcERU7heJoSF4OzYX76nKM8SByOYY46f-Y7qJc7IeQDRC44hzZh195dsDPV8NWwwmsdbMCwfq4jVQ-voIYgKno1lD8EhN9cPZuxhWEhtX75-G80u4sK8/s1600/advertis.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 277px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13EYN63r6eWReccQFz-YHiOXoIcERU7heJoSF4OzYX76nKM8SByOYY46f-Y7qJc7IeQDRC44hzZh195dsDPV8NWwwmsdbMCwfq4jVQ-voIYgKno1lD8EhN9cPZuxhWEhtX75-G80u4sK8/s400/advertis.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501563734535956722" /></a>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-30862252694998466132010-08-03T08:01:00.000-07:002010-08-03T12:34:35.310-07:00This too shall pass<div style="text-align: center;"><u>OBITUARY</u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><u><br /></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>AMRI CHADHA</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b> </b><i>Architect, Visionary</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>(1990-2032)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">One of the world's first advocates of blue architecture, Amri Chadha, designer of the modern underwater cities of Hudronia and Glascliff, passed away at the age of 42 yesterday in an unfortunate accident, descending the summit of peak Lhotse in Nepal.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A two-time Everester, Ms. Chadha was loved and respected by one and all in the disciplines of architecture, marine engineering and mountaineering. She completed her Bachelor's degree in architecture from School of Planning and Architecture, New Delhi and went on to pursue a Master's in Urban design from Harvard Graduate School of Design, Cambridge, MI.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">An avid nature lover, Ms. Chadha worked on many urban renewal projects, commercial complexes and residential assignments, in many parts of the world, stressing on sustainability and the environment. In her early 30s, she began developing prototypes for aquatic cities and is known to have subjected herself to under-sea pressures and currents through extensive deep-sea diving along trenches in the Pacific. In 2025, her blueprints for the twin cities of Hudronia and Glascliff in the Polynesian region of the Pacific were accepted and commissioned by the UN.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Ms. Chadha is survived by her husband and two daughters.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Services shall be held this Friday at the family home at the Aldhedge Estate, Geneva, and her ashes will be scattered over the Pacific by air, as per her own wishes on Sunday.</div>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-28569504392191278732010-07-31T04:06:00.000-07:002010-07-31T04:37:29.066-07:00Blogger- HappyAnd then she said 'Blog'.<br /><br />I am truly very very happy today. For the sole reason that our 3rd Year Theory of Settlements class requires us to 'Blog' our assignments. Gives me a reason to keep coming back to the wonderful feel of little keys tapping beneath my fingers at lightning speed as I try to pour my heart out through my fingertips yet again. Not that I couldn't do it earlier, but as much as I love writing, I realized I turned to it only under the influence of an emotional overdrive.<br /><br />So the great Amri then realized that every time she felt like writing on her blog, it must be due to something that she left sitting on her conscience or something equally obnoxious, and that always psychologically deterred her from taking to the keys again.<br /><br />Weird, I know. <br /><br />But when my TOS faculty popped the idea, my joy REALLY knew no bounds. Oh JOYYYY I could write about what I felt about various parts of my coursework (can be pretty damn interesting, mind you)! Part of me is also happy that my college, guilty of imparting ancient wisdom through ridiculously obsolete processes, is FINALLY taking a step forward and leaping off the mountain of curricular regimen. Or at least WE are.<br /><br />Another little part of me is excited to see what my friends and classmates will put up as part of their personal selves on the blog. Blogging, I feel, takes socializing a step further and lets you peep into another's world through his or her eyes. <br /><br />I look forward to this very obvious intrusion into my colleagues' minds and psyches. Let's make this an enjoyable violation, friends. Muhahahahaha :P<br /><br />But then you always knew I was a voyeur.<br /><br />Oh but WAIT!!!!...<br /><br />SO ARE YOU.<br />:DAmri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236918417499324081.post-72158550184666610572009-09-29T12:05:00.000-07:002009-09-29T12:17:44.030-07:00Arrows<p class="MsoNormal">So I’m back. It’s been way too long, and till a few days back I didn’t know what was frustrating me.</p><p class="MsoNormal">This.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Must WRITE. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s my ‘mommy-gene’ working up. My mum’s an author, just so you know. :P</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was just wondering: How many of us have ever, ‘not taken offence’ at something that was meant to be offensive and specifically targeted at us? How many times have YOU (let’s leave me out of the picture for a bit) just, ‘let it pass’? Has it ever occurred to you, thereafter, how it reflected upon your character?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Chances are, you’re a little too busy with your life, or maybe a little too sane…to sometimes, just sometimes, sit back and figure things out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s not easy. It’s not easy at all.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s funny at the same time. More often than not, I tend to find myself at the receiving end of someone’s ire… the odd offensive statement hurled in such distaste that I find it hard to react. In fact I think, I’ve made a sort-of habit, of not reacting to offensive statements.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Not that it doesn’t hurt.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Picture throwing a red hot knife into a solid block of butter. It’s something like that. I don’t think butter hurts the way I do, but hey let’s stick to the temperament. It melts my defences, silences me, and leaves me reaction-less.A million counter-attacks dart to my mind but I don’t react. It’s probably because I’m so stung. Or maybe something else.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Later, when a pall of gloom descends upon both parties, friends or family they may be, and we sit in our respective corners to brood, a thought springs to my mind.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Am I so low-esteemed as to let such things pass? Let people get away with hurting me the way they do? What is this? Why do I not hurt them back the way they do? Say something as offensive, probably more?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The answers often lie in the questions we ask ourselves. And it doesn’t take Einstein to figure them out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Simply put, because I am just BETTER.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Laugh all you want. But just try and be the bigger person in an argument and you will know. Have the satisfaction of knowing that by not reacting, you actually helped the volatile situation gain stability. The fact that you had the capacity to take offence, and yet did not, you exercised a super-human choice. Feel good. You had the will to overcome your own urges to scream the life out of the person across you.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">How weak they must be to give in to those urges like that.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">How sorrowful their disposition, that for a fraction of a second, they let the beast take over, and they said something that they never fully intended. It leaves them in a position to ‘beg’ for forgiveness. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">But you never took offence. Even if it hurt. Inside, it rebounded against the walls of your conscience and dissolved. You forgive them. Time and again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Forgiveness is an attribute of the strong.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Walk in the streets, knowing that every person you come across, has suffered a moment of weakness, of personal trauma so great, it’s incomprehensible. They’ve wanted to lash out, and if they haven’t, then they are what YOU should be.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Hold your own against the littlest temptation of losing your composure. It makes a lot of sense, and see how the moral high ground will work for you.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">To every person who ever said a mean thing to me and thought they won the argument:</p> <p class="MsoNormal">You might’ve won the battle.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">BUT YOU LOST THE WAR.</p>Amri Chadhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336974540300860901noreply@blogger.com1