Author: Kasturika

I tell stories - of people, places, and ideas - through words and visuals.
Designer by profession, Writer by passion, and Storyteller by accident (or is that a cosmic conspiracy?)
Digital Nomad, Slightly Eccentric

Categories
Musings Stories

Rebellion


As the year draws to an end, most people have been trying to summarize the events of the year gone by. Arguably, revolts and revolutions have been the most significant part of the year. A common thread connects WikiLeaks, revolts in several African and middle-east countries, the Occupy Wall Street Movement, and closer home, heightening protests against corruption. Perhaps Mother Earth too is getting frustrated after such prolonged abuse. Rebellion, it seems is in every human’s blood.

Keeping in spirit with the theme of the year, here is a piece of frustration shared by several women who travel by public transport in the Capital…

The Delhi Metro is one of many things a resident of the city is proud of. State of the art technology, on-time performance, and (gasp!) cleanliness. So when the first compartment of the train was reserved for ladies, it was another hurrah moment.

With jam-packed trains, the first compartment of the train provided a huge relief for women against a rather unruly and unsafe public. While it provided a sense of security, there was still something disturbing.

Very often, men would enter the compartment and stand at the divider between the first coach and the rest of the train. If a lady wished to enter the first coach, she had to move past a wall of men. It was virtually impossible to get past this human barricade without a huge struggle. Very often, the whole train would be empty, and only the second coach of the train would be over-crowded.

One morning, things got out of control. The ladies’ coach was brimming with men. Women spoke in hushed voices, speaking about the crowd. But no one seemed to object openly. And then a girl screamed. She pleaded and wailed to move past a huge group of people. No one yielded. Some hooligans in the crowd began hooting when a few women made some noise. They refused to move away, even when told to do so.

And then something amazing happened. A couple of women blocked the gate to the entrance of the coach and shouted. ‘This train will not move till the women’s coach has men in it’. The doors of the metro train are programmed to open automatically when there is an obstruction.Taking advantage of this, the ladies held up the train.

Even after this move, men refused to budge, even shamelessly smiling at the ladies. Then a few ladies, getting frustrated began manually pushing men out. Most of the men complained saying there was no space in the train. But a few minutes later, we came to know that they had magically found some space in other parts of the same train!

Soon order was restored and the train was allowed to move. A few ladies, unknown to each other, formed an instant union and coordinated with each other to get rid of the men in the compartment. It was heartening to see such unity among women, who are willing to step up and fight for themselves. No knight in shining armour needed. But how did we get into this mess in the first place?

In a way, we are responsible for it. When men started entering the compartment, no one said anything. Only when it reached a tipping point did something happen. And even then, it was only a handful of women who managed to get the courage to do something about the situation, while the majority just stood watching.

From the very beginning, girls are told to learn to adjust to their surroundings. Sacrifice and selflessness are virtues that are the hallmark of a lady. It is all very well. But then subconsciously, the feeling of inferiority, and subservience is instilled into them. And most often, women themselves propagate such ‘values’. It is most unlady-like to do certain things. There are unwritten, yet deeply entrenched rules regarding the behaviour of a lady. Yet, the behaviour of the other half (the majority, to be more precise) is unchecked.

Women themselves have brought upon this situation. By allowing people to trample over us, we cannot really complain. But it is time we stepped up and stopped being bullied. If a lady is not offered the courtesy and shown the respect she deserves, there is absolutely no reason for her to still act lady-like (read meek and docile).

Gandhiji was an advocate for empowerment of women. During the freedom struggle, men and women fought beside each other. When Ms Indira Gandhi was assasinated, it was looked upon in horror. ‘Stree hatya!’, they said. The worst crime that can ever be committed. How then, did India reach this low? If we look back at the lessons from our historic texts, one cord that is common to all is this: The land where a woman is disrespected, is doomed.

Categories
Stories

Pigeons – part II – The adventurous one


More pigeons!

Pigeons are practical creatures. And for them, life carries on. By autumn, they were back and had apparently decided to start afresh. They began building another nest. Once again we watched them follow their strict regimen of using the specially demarcated in and out gates. This is how we assumed they were the same pigeons which had built a nest earlier.

Once again she laid eggs. We hoped that this time the nest was better constructed and waited in anticipation for the eggs to hatch. And sure enough, this time, there were two little bundles of joy.

It took us some time to realise that they had entered this world. But once they began squeaking in their high pitched voices, there was no ignoring them. Everyday we would stand at the edge of the balcony, as far as the railing would allow us, to catch a glimpse of yellow bare chicks. They would sit fairly still like well behaved children while their parents would go and fetch some food. But at the sight of either parent, they would get excited. Jumping up and down, pecking away at their mother, the two of them would scream and demand their share of the food.

It had become a daily ritual. Each of us would go to the edge and watch as the little ones grew a little larger. Every day at the dining table, the topic of discussion would be the progress made by the little ones. How, with each passing day, they were becoming more energetic, more noisy. “I saw them walking today ”. “Yes! You noticed how much she has to run these days? As soon as she arrives, the little ones run after her”. “It was so cute! The mother running away from her kids!”. “I think they can’t wait to fly”.

One morning, when we made our usual trip to the edge of the balcony, we found one of the little ones had got stuck. Maybe its excitement got out of hand and while running around, its leg got trapped. The leg was caught between the wooden block and the frame supporting the artificial roof.

It was struggling to lift itself up. It was flapping its small wings and squeaking, clearly putting in its best efforts to climb out. But it was still too small. The mother was sitting next to it. We went inside and hoped that it would find a way to climb out of the mess it had got itself in. We felt uneasy. Every few minutes, we would go and check. But it was still stuck. It was still giving its best shot, but in vain.

Our uneasiness grew. The mother was still sitting there. Was she bothered at all? Or did she have no clue as to how to help the chick? How could she not try to rescue it? Had she given up hope? Whether or not she had these thoughts, we can never tell. But the uneasiness was too much for us.

By afternoon, we had decided to do something. The plan was to use a walking stick to reach up and shift the surfboard just a little bit so that its leg would be able to come out.

My father volunteered to nudge the board as my mother and I watched. Just as he was reaching up with the stick, both of us screamed as we simultaneously realised that maybe it could go horribly wrong and that the board would shift much more and the little one could potentially fall. My mother rushed to grab a pillow. But it was a little too late. Our fears became a reality. The mother flew away. The chick came crashing down.

We stood there for a few seconds in shock at what we thought was a dead bird.

We waited for what seemed like an eternity. Then we saw some movement. It was getting up and dragging itself. It was struggling to balance itself.

That was our first real close look at the chick. It was so small, so fragile, so cute, and so scared. It looked immensely adorable as it tried to move. But none of us felt happy. It was in pain. Perhaps the fall had damaged something. We watched for a little while longer. We were not sure what to do next.

The tension at that point was absolutely incredible. Here was a chick, in a rather helpless state. And we were sure that its mother would not come near the chick because of its proximity to us. We feared that it may not survive the injuries that it could have possibly sustained.

Not knowing what to do, I searched for information on how to care for little birds. Most resources suggested that birds were designed to survive falls and that many times the birds would deliberately throw out the chicks so that they would learn to fend for themselves. I also learned that it is best not to interfere in their lives, for they may become dependent on humans, and learn not to fear them. And this would be rather dangerous for them.

But this one was not kicked out. Perhaps it was too small to fend for itself. So, ignoring all the advise, we spread some boiled rice near the chick. It moved away and refused to eat. We pushed the rice closer to it, but it kept moving away. Clearly it only wanted to be fed by its mother.

Afternoon soon turned into night and the chick had not eaten for almost the whole day. The chick seemed to become tired. It had not eaten much, and was constantly trying to hide from us. It was scared of us and desperately shrieking. It wanted its mother.

My brother was home from work and on hearing the entire course of events, came up with a plan. He took a handful of wheat flour and tried to force the bird to eat. I lifted the chick and held it as gently as I could. It was fidgeting and trying to free itself. It was pecking at the my brother’s hands. But we had no clue if it was eating at all. Its beak was closed and the pecking seemed more of an assault. We tried to feed it a few more times, but it all seemed fruitless.

Before going to sleep we took one more look. It had taken shelter near the rocking chair. The parents were perched at the nest. It was a little cold outside, so we decided to bring it inside.

We kept it on a pillow. And, to prevent it from moving about, we kept a hollow cane “moda” on top of it.

The next morning we put it outside again and asked the cleaner to be careful. We tried to stay as far away as we could.

At lunch, we were discussing conspiracy theories about the parents not being bothered about the chick. “Maybe they knew that it would not survive, so did not bother to waste time on the chick”. “Maybe that chick has a defect in its leg. You noticed how it was limping?”. “The parents would know better than us, right? I think they have come to terms with reality. Very practical.” We had almost come to terms with what we thought was the “reality”. Then my father announced, “One of the parents was sitting on the floor near the chick this morning”.

So the parents were still concerned about the chick. That day the chick became a little more sure of itself. It began moving about a lot more. It seemed to be curious to see the world, moving in a rather excited manner. It would try to look under the junk lying around. As its confidence grew, it seemed to have no care in the world. It seemed to enjoy the open space. It wanted to explore its new found freedom.

We were a little relieved but even more apprehensive now. We were the ones who were cautious. Every time we thought about entering our balcony, we would look for the chick, so that we would not accidentally step on it.

But it still refused to eat anything that we had to offer. Clearly its instincts were still intact. It would still try to walk away from us.

The next day, we decided that it would not be safe for the chick to be on the floor. It needed to be taken care of by its parents. We located a high table and my father climbed up. I handed him the chick and as he raised his hand, the mother flew away, and he put the chick back up on the surfboard.

We waited for the mother to be back. And when she came back, everything seemed to be normal.

In the next few weeks, we saw the chicks transform into adults. The yellow flesh began growing grey feathers. The neck became a little longer and before we knew it, they were beginning to spread their wings.

Taking small steps, they first flew from the surfboard to another frame. Then they made their way to the clothes-line. They did not seem to be scared. They would sit on the swing or the clothesline and if we went near, they would not even bother to move. When they flew out, we would have to duck out of their way to avoid collision!

Soon they began to fly outside and stopped coming back.

The parents, however, decided to stick around. In the absence of the young ones, the balcony was a quieter place. But the older pigeons were still a source of entertainment for us. Watching them would always liven up a boring day.

A ‘moda’ is a piece of furniture made of cane or bamboo.

Categories
Stories

Pigeons – part I


Sometime in March of last year, I wrote a very long account of our encounters with a certain species called ‘pigeons’. Since it was rather long, I decided to split it up… Hope you enjoy…

A sheet of fibre glass and an awning supported by an iron frame cover the largest open space of our 2nd floor house – the balcony. And like every city balcony, ours also has its fair share of visitors in all shapes and sizes. From lizards and ants to squirrels and pigeons.

Most visitors keep to themselves. But pigeons are rather friendly.

During summers, whenever we water the flowerpots in our balcony, they make it a point to sit around a small puddle of water on the floor. They wet their wings, dip their beaks in the water, rub their necks, shake their heads… It all looks like some funky dance routine.

The birds are a lot like spoilt children. And like children, there are times when they start making noise and throwing tantrums. “You are sitting so comfortably within your concrete den while we are outside in this harsh weather. Have you no concern for us?” Well, at least that’s what we imagine them to be saying. More often than not, we try to pacify them by spreading bread crumbs on the outer railing. Most of the time, they wait for us to step inside, before attacking the crumbs. But there are times when they shed their inhibitions and very boldly take food away even before we finish laying the platter.

We would often see pigeons sitting in a nest in our neighbour’s balcony. And I have always wondered what it would be like to have a nest in our balcony. As children, we’ve seen nature programmes on television. How eggs hatch, how absolutely adorable the chicks are, how the parent feeds the chicks and how the young ones take their first step and tumble around. Seeing that happen, in reality, would be so wonderful.

When we moved into our house, construction workers left behind all sorts of scrap material. And our balcony had become part junk-yard and part garden. We had some problem with space, so blocks of wood and some surfboards were propped up on the frame of the fibre glass. We intended to clear up the mess – little by little. But before that, something else happened.

They say be careful what you wish for – you might just get it!

And that is what happened. Our neighbours moved out, and with them, so did the pigeons. In summer, they were in our balcony. And our blocks of wood and surfboards were enough for them. The birds began building a nest on the little space that they got. Before we knew it, the pigeons not only had a makeshift nest, but also an egg.

Birdwatching became our new pastime and a regular dinner-table conversation. During the day one pigeon would sit on the egg (We assumed it to be the mother) while the other would bring sticks to complete the incomplete nest. Their nest was always a work-in-progress. Some sticks would fall down, and the pigeon would continuously keep working to mend the gap.

They must have been superstitious, for they never picked up the sticks that had fallen down. It was almost as if they thought, “It fell down. It is bad. We need a good stick that will not fall”.

There was a tiny gap between the awning and the sheet of fibre glass. While bringing the sticks, the pigeon would use that tiny gap to enter the balcony. There were open skies just beyond the awning. But it would not use that to enter. The larger open space was used strictly for exiting. It would then return with another stick, held firmly in its beak. Again it would enter using the small gap – not the larger open space. It was as if it had designated the two spaces as in and out. The in gate would not be used for flying out and the out gate would not be used for entering.

This ritual continued for many days and we loved to observe their daily routine. We simply could not wait for the egg to hatch.

But fate had other plans.

That little space was not enough to support the nest. And the egg that she had laid came crashing down.

There was an unbearable stench. The broken egg and its lifeless contents were cleared away and after sometime, the stench had reduced. But our disappointment and heartbreak would take a lot more than cleaning, to get over. It is hard for us to know whether they had the kind of emotions that we had. They expressed their grief by simply flying away.

For many days we felt their absence. They would occasionally visit, but they did not attempt to build another nest. Perhaps memories haunted them…

Categories
Stories

Rain


‘The advice I like to give young artists, or really anybody who’ll listen to me, is not to wait around for inspiration. Inspiration is for amateurs; the rest of us just show up and get to work.’ – Chuck Close

If I were a professional writer, I would have said I’ve got the writer’s block. But I’d rather put it down to a lack of inspiration. After all, amateurs need inspiration! Here’s a little piece I wrote some time back, when I was inspired to write. It is the only piece of fiction I have managed to write so far. Hope you enjoy!

2 May 2010, Sunday

I was sitting at my desk, getting frustrated over a problem regarding my work, when my niece stormed into the room.

“How can you be sitting here cramped up in this little space? Look at the weather outside!”

“Oh damn! There goes my concentration! I almost had it figured out!”, I cried out.

“Serves you right! You keep cribbing about everything. Now look at the weather. It is just so amazing, and you are ignoring it! Take a break will you!”, she retorted.

I knew it would be pointless to argue with her. She would beat me hands down. So I sighed and gave in.
“I suppose I could take five minutes off”
“Much better! Now stop being grumpy.”

She grabbed my hand and led me to our verandah.

Our verandah was a place unlike any other. It was the largest room in the house, and it provided a beautiful view of the forest which was a little distance from the residential complex. It was what I called a slice of heaven. It was my escape – from work, from the desk and most importantly, from people.

The verandah was, as always, beautiful. But today, it was even more radiant. I leaned on the railing and looked up. The sky was heavy with low-lying dark clouds. The trees were gently swaying to the rhythm of the wind. The air was full of the intoxicating fragrance of moist earth. I took a deep breath and sank into the chair.

In an instant, I forgot all about my work. I had been transported into another world.
“There are hot pakoras in the kitchen. Available only on first-come, first-served basis! Hurry up, or there won’t be any left.” And my niece disappeared, leaving me with the elements. I was grateful to her for bringing me out, and I was happy, that I did not have to share this space with anyone.

I closed my eyes and felt the cool breeze on my face. It was not long before little drops of water came crashing down, like pet dogs rushing to owners to lick them. As the first drops struck me, a chill ran down my spine. I felt like I was on a dangerous adventure. I was afraid, of what, I do not know. And I was thrilled. Only a few drops of water had released a range of emotions. I sat there, mesmerised, oblivious of my surroundings.

Little drops became larger, and the breeze gained velocity. I took shelter under the roof. But I could still feel the raindrops. I felt like I was meeting old friends in a coffee shop. Longing to meet them, screaming with joy on seeing them, but sad that the moment will not last for long.

I lost track of time. For a long time, I only heard the breeze and felt the rain. Until someone splashed a glass of water on my face.

“What’s wrong with you? Your boss is on the phone. We’ve been calling out for so long. Didn’t you hear?”

Categories
Hobbies Stories

The Lamps Are Lit

Welcoming the Goddess
Welcoming the Goddess

The dust has finally settled – quite literally. Here are the sights (no sounds, since we’ve gone cracker-free) from this year’s Diwali.

Deepavali (Diwali) is a time when people celebrate. Reasons and ways of celebrating vary.

Lighting the stairs
Lighting the stairs

But the lights are the main features of the festival. In the place where I live, the festivities begin only in the evening, whereas in the place where our ancestors lived, the festivities are over even before the day begins. Its complicated, and I’ll save that for another post.

Decorative Earthen Lamp
Decorative Earthen Lamp

So while the whole society around us celebrates, we have nothing to do. A feeling of loneliness, and isolation, inevitably begins to creep in. Something I term festive blues (okay, there may be others who’ll claim to have termed it thus).

This year, to fight the festive blues, I decided watch our neighbours making a rangoli outside their house.

Traditional Peacock Lamp
A Traditional Brass Peacock Lamp

Again, in the place I live in, rangolis are made only on very special occasions, and are a form of recreation. In the culture we belong to, new rangolis are made daily. So when we see people making a big deal about rangolis, I really can’t understand it.

Small Decorative Clay Lamp
Small Decorative Clay Lamp

Since our rangoli had been made early morning, there wasn’t much to do. So yet again, I picked up the very intimidating camera and captured some sights of this diwali.

* * * * * *

Fighting against darkness
Fighting against darkness

If you intend visiting India during Diwali, it could either be the best, or the worst experience of your life. All the bazaars are flooded with the most beautiful lamps and idols and what not. All houses are decorated with lights – both electric as well as oil lamps/candles. And since The Goddess of Wealth, Lakshmi, enters only clean houses, all houses are squeaky clean and colourful rangolis are drawn. Of course, all the shops are crowded and everything is expensive. So you have to have great bargaining skills. And if you don’t like crackers or loud noises, well, then nothing can protect you against them!

Pots of flame
Pots of Flame

Cheers!

PS. The photos here are free for anyone wanting to use them for non-commercial purposes. A link would be appreciated 🙂

‘The Lamp Is Lit’ is a book authored by Ruskin Bond.

Lighting up the path
Lighting up the path
Welcoming the Goddess
Welcoming the Goddess
Categories
Stories

A Game Apart


My brother and I attended an event, and it was a great experience. Writing about it, has, however, been rather challenging. This post is an attempt to write about the pleasant time we had, but I found myself hitting the backspace key more often that I would have liked. I hope this post conveys the message I intend it too!

A little over a year back, we attended a rugby 7’s match. It was during the Commonwealth Games. As far as I can remember, we had to buy tickets, wait in long queues, undergo heavy security checking, had to ‘deposit’ any coins we had, and were not allowed to carry video cameras. The ground was lush green, there were two giant screens, and there was excitement in the air. We managed to get good seats and saw international athletes play at close range. We had a wonderful experience.

Fast forward to this afternoon. We went for a rugby match.

The Venue : A Local Ground

Entry was free, there were no security checks, we could sit wherever we wanted, and after the match we could even enter the field.

About two years back, the ground was barren, slums lined its perimeter, and there were at least two large wild pigs. But today, the grass was green and the slums were out of sight (I’m sure there are still a few left, though I couldn’t see them). The ground had nets, goal posts and chalk markings. There was even a temporary stand for the audience. The local ground was no longer just a piece of land, it was a full fledged sports complex. The transformation wasn’t overnite. And it was a pleasant surprise.

The Event : All India Club Sevens Championship

Yes, that’s correct. It was a national event, with teams from all over the country participating! There were no journalists covering the event, no glamourous stars. There was one official photographer, who happened to be a player for the host team’s full rugby squad.

The experience of today’s match was quite different to the international match we witnessed last year. But the modest surrroundings and the low-profile nature of the event did not take anything away from the competition. The quality of the games was very high. The ambience was definitely not as noisy as a high profile international event, but there was good humour all around, and a small section of the crowd cheered the local team.

The presence of international players added some colour to the tournament (no pun intended), and the ‘local’ hero, Pierre stole the event as he danced with some of the kids at the end of the match.
Players going to meet the Coach
As for me, I had the opportunity of standing in the middle of the ground after the match, as the players were moving off the field, towards their coach. It was the kind of view only a person wielding a camera, can have the privilege of experiencing in a professional match.

And it was the pleasure that I could experience today, standing next to my brother. Now where else can one get that!

Rugby is a minor sport in India. For a long time, it was only associated with a Hindi Cinema Actor (who was formerly the captain of the National Team). India currently ranks 75, out of 95 teams in the IRB World rankings.

The state of the sport in the country is best left for professionals to explain. From an ordinary person’s view though, I hope the tide is turning.

While I don’t have much knowledge about rugby, it seems that the sport is beginning to receive some attention. Although there wasn’t any media coverage, the event was sponsored by Harley-davidson motorcycles, United Colors of Benetton, Fox Traveller, and Kingfisher.

The tournament here made me curious enough to find out a little about rugby in India, and it felt good to know that sponsors are beginning to step forward, and the game is developing at the grass-roots level.

Photograph by R. Karthik.

Categories
Hobbies

Happy Deepavali!

Happy Deepavali
Happy Deepavali

Another Deepavali (Diwali), another card! Also, a poster I made exactly a year ago… but forgot about!

Happy Deepavali!

I got the background wooden texture from here.
The lamp in the card is actually a sketch I made recently (after a break of 10 months, I finally picked up the pencil). I hope to post the sketch soon.

Celebrate a cracker-free Diwali

This is a poster I made last year. The background image (which I really liked so much, I just threw in a bunch of words to make it a poster) is by Anshu. I’d forgotten about it when I was uploading to the gallery (and it wasn’t very original either). This time around, I decided to upload it.

Wishing everyone a very Happy and Cracker-free Diwali 🙂
Cheers!

Categories
Stories

Free Bird


I owe inspiration for this post to Saronai.

I started this blog on the 19th of February… It happened to be the day our late grandmother (father’s mother) was born… Like all little children, I loved our grandmother. We called her Delhi pati (as opposed to my mother’s mother, whom we call Madras pati, whom, I may add, I love equally).

Pati came to live with us when we moved to Delhi, and I had the privilege of sharing a room with her. Pati had a very amazing life story. Due to the nature of our grandfather’s work, she spent a lot of time in Burma (now Myanmar). She lived through some of the most important phases of our history…

Married off at the age of 16, Pati didn’t study much… She could read and write fluently in Tamil but not much in English or Hindi… She had a special interest in politics and could recognise fragments of words from the English newspaper we subscribed to. She would point to it and ask us to explain what it was about. She would tell us stories about the War, about our Independence, about Nehru and Jinnah. I neither had an interest, nor did I understand any of it… I always thought she was being nostalgic about the past and wanted to let it out. I wish I had paid more attention, and asked more about our history. I’m sure it would have been more interesting to hear it from her perspective.

At night she used to narrate stories – some mythological, some folk and perhaps even some that she made up – to put me to sleep. She would begin the story, and before it would have reached even the middle, I would have been fast asleep… As a result, I don’t remember any of those stories…

My mother told me about Pati’s children. Her first-born died within a year, in a train. Fearing public outcry, they hid the death of the baby girl throughout the journey. Thereafter she gave birth to six children. I was told that she would have given birth to twins too… Once a thief broke into their house and threatened to kill her with a knife… Out of shock, she miscarried.

I have seen all, but one of my father’s siblings… One of my father’s brothers disappeared at a young age… He was thirty… He had gone for a picnic with his friends to a lake. She had packed a huge bag of home-made potato chips for them… But he never returned. Nor was his body ever found. Till her last breath, Pati hoped her son was safe somewhere and would return one day…

She had once suffered very serious burns and her skin had been damaged badly. She told us that the burnt area had to be grafted  with skin taken from her thighs. It would burn badly when they did that. They had no anaesthetics.

My memory of Pati is hazy now. It’s both surprising, and sad. I had always thought I would have very vivid memories of her. There is one thing that I remember very well… She always had a smile on her face. In everything that she told us, there was never any sign of bitterness or hatred… She was like a child. Her innocence still intact. Despite all that she had been through, she seemed very happy and content.

But she would often say, ‘In my next life, I will study… I will not get married… I want to be a free bird…’

Categories
Hobbies Musings

Beads!

She strings sea shells...

I love my gypsy-like, bead bracelet. I love it so much, I’m dedicating an entire blog page and several photographs to it!

A few days back I was fiddling around with a bead necklace… err… bracelet… Its just a really long piece of thread with lots of tiny beads.

We belong together!

All the beads are unique in their own way… Some are broken, some have cracks, some which have holes in weird places, and some which have strange shapes. In short, its made up of rejected stuff a.k.a junk!

A few of us in college had gone to a local market and we found a hawker selling these, dirt cheap…

Up close and personal

One look at those beads, and it was hard to resist… I immediately wrapped it around my wrist.

I loved it!

And then it broke – what else could you expect from a piece of junk.

In search of the next bead

But then, I loved it so much! So I repaired it, adding a few other beads from another broken bracelet.

Since then, the bracelet has been my constant companion. Wherever I have gone, its been with me. I’ve lost count of the number of times its broken. And the number of times

She strings sea shells...

its been repaired. But every time it’s been repaired, a little bit has been added to it – a few forgotten beads lying in the corner of the cupboard, beads that had fallen out of old dresses, and beads that had even been ripped out of fancy wedding invitations!

Standing out of the crowd

Not all of them were old, some were new, like sea shells, bright seeds collected during one of our holidays…

Panchayat

There is nothing orderly, symmetrical, or perfect about the bracelet, yet, to me, it looks beautiful…

As it was being repaired for the umpteenth time, I decided to photograph the imperfect, pretty little beads. I’d borrowed my brother’scamera. I don’t know much, except that it had a special lens, which had a fixed focal length. I clicked a few times, and the result was horrible! That was enough to scare me.

Odd one out

If the camera wasn’t intimidating enough, I realised I had no clue how to go about taking the pictures. So I just switched to the auto mode and let the camera decide everything else!

Galaxy

All the photographs here were taken by the camera! Hope you enjoy the photographs.

Cheers!

Imperfectly perfect!

Since I rely on material distributed over the internet, it is only appropriate that I do the same… The photographs here may be used for non-commercial purposes. A simple credit would be appreciated 🙂

Categories
Stories

Don’t study!!


As little kids, we’re always told by our parents to study… Well, almost always. When I was small, my parents never really had much trouble with me as far as studying was concerned. But once every year, they had to tell me NOT to study!

Navratri is celebrated every year, sometime around October… Although it is celebrated at least twice a year, the one culminating in Dusshera is celebrated with the most enthusiasm. Navratri literally means nine nights. During this festival, various forms of Goddess Durga are worshipped.

Technically speaking, puja (religious ritual) is performed on each day of the festival. But I’ll fast forward to the ninth day. On the ninth day of this festival, we worship Goddess Saraswati, the Goddess of learning and knowledge. In any field, there is always scope for learning. And knowledge can be gained in any form. So all those items from which we can gain knowledge and wisdom are collected and a dias is formed. An idol of the Goddess is placed atop this dias and a puja is conducted. In the north, a similar puja is performed on Vasant Panchami.

A special Rangoli (decorative design) is made, incense sticks are lit, special dishes are prepared and offered to the Goddess…

As little kids, we used to look forward to Navratri – a welcome break from school, special dishes, the festive atmosphere around the entire city. But we had a another reason to be excited…

On this very special ninth day of the puja, it was absolutely compulsory for us not to study! Yes that’s right! We were told not to study. Now which kid wouldn’t want that? 🙂

We wondered why, on the day the Goddess of learning is worshipped, we were told not to learn… Nevertheless, it was a very exciting thought… how nice it would be if we didn’t have to study…

But when the day actually arrived, with nothing to do – we weren’t allowed to read, or engage in any activity related to art or use musical instruments, we weren’t even allowed to work on the computer or watch tv – the day was extremely boring! To not learn, then seemed a terrible thing indeed…

It is said that the Goddess herself offers her blessings to everything that is placed in the dias, so we must not study and wait for the puja to conclude and then study. But more importantly, by not allowing us to do anything, it was a lesson in itself… Life would be incomplete, and worthless without knowledge…

On the tenth day, the puja was concluded. We were told to pick up our books soon after bath and told to read something new… It signified a fresh start… We were once again told to study with interest (pun intended)…

On this year’s Saraswati puja, my mother and I spent the whole day cleaning the house 🙂