tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89908600842684188902024-02-07T08:44:05.066+05:30Caught In The WiresSaryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-44152168127995355902011-03-26T23:26:00.009+05:302011-03-27T00:15:47.998+05:30Perfect Spring Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLua1aZBQzboiZHW0j9IqSYdjbfKSao_pVDt7UXuMvOxKzD9MAEzyKvsCWQUX_qukwB1bUz3JbCXet-GeTeV7ZSfWncWB14Le07Nz54_K-kdvpo9EYL9mdOCMplKqWp3hU1Cpas-7-h8c/s1600/218430549knLPYw_ph.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588456372063995602" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 210px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLua1aZBQzboiZHW0j9IqSYdjbfKSao_pVDt7UXuMvOxKzD9MAEzyKvsCWQUX_qukwB1bUz3JbCXet-GeTeV7ZSfWncWB14Le07Nz54_K-kdvpo9EYL9mdOCMplKqWp3hU1Cpas-7-h8c/s200/218430549knLPYw_ph.jpg" border="0" /></a> '<em>Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWfzlTbPoDhk57suoh01jg7Eu1leJHbtWc8ymrJyK9B7O8QHQsC7wAqEN2GpGhf9jRVFhu2fAL66WqAIu5X-gZNS3OMaWD-c8FdinfUn4A3EKExxni4r6tdHnm1VEZrAh9gxWjjSNZDyE/s1600/218430549knLPYw_ph.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDy_XHOh2-qwHV9wiPwbDWn1lV_1irB-84TpkF3DxqbAvbsMpNIu8RoKHKsvG9dGQke8CmCra0c78eO-w2RyLKpCfMB8rnpRqDI2CPXboUdIl99sZXzKmgJde7h-gfD9hMFHQCOMIJtI8/s1600/spring_season-70-1.jpg"><em></em></a></em><br /><div><div><div><div><em>Fair Venus' train, appear,</em><br /></div><div><em>Disclose the long-expecting flowers,</em><br /></div><div><em>And wake the purple year!</em> </div><div><em>The Attic warbler pours her throat,</em></div><div><em>Responsive to the cuckoo's note,</em></div><div><em>The untaught harmony of spring:</em></div><div><em>While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,</em></div><div><em>Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky</em></div><div><em>Their gathered fragrance fling.'<br /></em></div><div><em></em></div><div><em></em>Thomas Gray (Ode to Spring)<br /><br />Such would be a perfect spring day. Or may be even better. As it turned out, for today for me was an unblemished day. Living in the present moment I lived my teenage years once again. Ideal beginning: caught up on an okeyish English rom-com with some old friends and their old friends. Came home to the smiles, hugs and kisses from my son. Went flea market shopping and picked up great stuff with mom-in-law. Took my little monkey to the park and then for a drive. And for the first time in the last three years or may be more, called up a friend impromptu and landed at her place and recieved the warmest welcome. Chatted inanely, played with my little monster, bitched a little and ate chocolate cake! For once, my teeny weeny tot slept in time. Not one argument with hubby the entire day. It can’t get better than that, can it?<br /><br />For the harsh weather of life that we endure, honest & effortless days like this are the spring!</div></div></div></div>Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-70959295361171328392011-03-19T00:00:00.001+05:302011-03-19T00:05:18.011+05:30Dark TruthsSitting at the window, she was taking in the fresh breeze as much as she could. Fifteen stories above one could still feel the freshness in the air, away from all the mayhem and chaos of the world gone mad. She sat there staring into nothingness. It was a pitch-dark night. The moon and the stars had decided not to show up, and she was grateful for that. She was lost within herself and the darkness that had enveloped the whole world.<br /><br />‘What are you looking at?’ he asked, slipping in beside her on the windowsill trying to figure out her object of attention. His efforts, though, were in vain, for she was looking no where. She <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">didn</span>’t respond, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">didn</span>’t even turn her head, as if she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">didn</span>’t even want to acknowledge his presence. He felt irritated and annoyed. No, he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">didn</span>’t. This woman had always been a mystery to him. The present scenario presented an opportunity for him to unravel the secrets that lurked beneath her calm composure. He asked her again, nudging her elbow, ‘hey, what are you looking for, out there in the dark?’ She came out of her trance. Looking deep into his eyes, she said, ‘I am searching for the darkness.’ He <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">couldn</span>’t help, but chuckled, ‘in the dark?’ Sternly, she turned and glanced at him. If looks could kill, he would have been at her feet. Nevertheless, it made him shut up.<br /><br />‘The dark is so beautiful. It just takes everything in; all the sorrow and sadness in the world’ she said. He <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">didn</span>’t utter a word. Just stood there listening. Ignoring him, she continued, ‘it is not the time of the devil and the damned, it’s the time when one and all shed their makeover and let the real self takeover. It’s time when each and every reveals itself in its purest form. As the blackness of the night shadows everything, love, only true and pure surges. No lies, no pretences, no <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">fakeness</span> prevails.’ No more was she taking to him. In fact she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">wasn</span>’t even talking to herself. She was just pouring herself out. ‘Only darkness is real. It is not tainted. It’s pure unlike the light that is a blend of seven colours. You cannot add anything or take anything away from it. When darkness prevails, so does the law of equality. It is the light that teaches us to differentiate- whites from blacks, rich from poor. Light discriminates. Night is not the hour of the Satan; it’s the time of God. It is the time, when love creates life- when a man and a woman stand together as equals, to rotate the wheel of life for life to continue.’ Abruptly she stopped speaking, still staring into nothingness, taking in the purity and truth of the very moment. He <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">didn</span>’t dare move; frozen then and there, right in his shoes. His gaze could drill through the floor. He <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">didn</span>’t have the courage to look at her, may be at himself.<br /><br />He was her lover, though only for the night. As morning descended, he would go back home to his wife, his family- the uncomfortable but comforting lie. She, his mistress, of a lower caste would keep waiting for another night; meanwhile numerous nights would pass by, before he would come again- in the blanket of the night.Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-11834315766811392382011-03-17T20:38:00.002+05:302011-03-17T20:50:53.486+05:30Tears of Joy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwFLIhhaDpE6c8OgwsOLncr-mU8WbkzNL4_gRJASX0vpb6xNm7cSsGzoXgl10O7vAtkjljd6dGv5zOywuxOpU3tk5omOV4uB5qbhqnta29KAHMv59rQ-_65vbx7xPwLR6lARCiXwPUrM/s1600/BeautifulDewDrops311.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwFLIhhaDpE6c8OgwsOLncr-mU8WbkzNL4_gRJASX0vpb6xNm7cSsGzoXgl10O7vAtkjljd6dGv5zOywuxOpU3tk5omOV4uB5qbhqnta29KAHMv59rQ-_65vbx7xPwLR6lARCiXwPUrM/s200/BeautifulDewDrops311.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585069114719407186" border="0" /></a><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><span lang="EN-IN">Absolute helplessness was what I experienced today after a long time. A series of events were to reach culmination, mind you, ‘were’ and then I hit the wall. No door, no window, not even a crack. All thanks to, the ‘sarkari mulazim’ (what kinda mulazims are these people, who boss around all day?) at the passport office, Chandigarh. After weeks of running around and a lot of under the table payments to get birth certificate, verification certificate, endless affidavit and finally an appointment at the passport office, it all fell flat, for lack of one signature. To no avail, I pleaded to the sarkari mulazim (who was busy dreaming of lunch) to consider my case as urgent in nature. Subjected to an indifferent attitude and a determined NO, I just plonked on the chair.</span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IN"> The helplessness, futility and absurdity of the situation got better of me. I felt a wetness of my cheeks, and realised I was crying; a phenomenon that had almost become alien to me. <span style=""> </span>Managing a baby, a long distance relationship and a host of other relationships, an almost-in-tatters job, and an effort to keep my thought process alive, emotions had moved to the back burner. Odd, as it may seem, even in this crazily frustrating situation I welcomed these tears. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IN">For sitting dejected outside the passport office, I had reconnected to my old self.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></p>Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-28526909712511421742011-03-16T11:59:00.003+05:302011-03-16T12:12:45.355+05:30The Butterfly Effect<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7HEocOItVT6CEzlQzssSMy39Kiw6H40qCx11cNpO_vUjGLXEddlDJeNzHBWI35HWSRjwanZTzOvaewXQASFlhtfu4rJvfwcihL3cggBIK3OMzLFJ03ziIXUxQE29xdsEM6rZfJX0dMxU/s1600/butterflyeffect.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584564447199235298" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 172px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7HEocOItVT6CEzlQzssSMy39Kiw6H40qCx11cNpO_vUjGLXEddlDJeNzHBWI35HWSRjwanZTzOvaewXQASFlhtfu4rJvfwcihL3cggBIK3OMzLFJ03ziIXUxQE29xdsEM6rZfJX0dMxU/s200/butterflyeffect.jpg" border="0" /></a> ‘Butterfly Effect’ states that a small change at one place in a complex system can have large effects elsewhere. A butterfly flaps its wings in a far away place creating tiny ripples that begin a flow of cause and effect energy that eventually creates a hurricane force wind. Something on similar lines took place with me while interacting with a friend; well, not to the magnitude of torrential rain showers in my life, while he blinked his eyes elsewhere.<br /><br />Though, something he mentioned in passing, made me sit up n think. Having read my blog for the first time, he found it ‘morbidity encapsulated’. I have always acknowledged the fact that I am a 'once in a blue moon' writer. His remark, however, made me realise that I’m a miserable writer (not that I write miserably, but I write only when I’m miserable), which explains the negativity, hostility and cynicism emanating from almost every piece I’ve written.<br /><br />Well, it explains, why I really couldn’t make a career in writing business – one, I couldn’t be that miserable all the time and two, nobody would want to take a pessimism pill that often. Another revelation which came to fore was that miserable writing is more like a safety valve for me. The minute the emotional build up crosses the danger level mark, it is all spewed out on paper (or Microsoft word, as the case may be). Unconsciously, yet a self developed, cathartic system.<br /><br />The last I wrote was in the year 2009, almost two years ago. Though it had been pricking me awhile, that I haven’t penned a master piece for long, it just struck me that probably I haven’t been melancholic, depressed, distressed or unhappy in a long time. Is that such a bad thing to happen?<br /><br />It is not. But, then to not write is not too great either.<br /><br />All my words come from the heart, though routed via the brain. May be it’s time I just look into my heart more often, and turn that emergency exit into a window.<br /><br />Thanks for being the butterfly ;)Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-30438538211474979212011-03-16T02:32:00.007+05:302011-03-16T02:59:16.931+05:30Tea Zealots<div align="justify">Sometimes I wonder how people can fill pages after pages, with a ceaseless flow of words. For I am absolutely alien to this phenomenon. It takes me forever to scribble even a few lines- not that I keep pondering over what I write forever. It’s just that I write once in an eon(metaphorically, of course, or it would fit if u take Pluto's time frame) - when I do it takes only a few minutes to spill it all out- something like erupting of a volcano, once it starts, there’s no stopping.<br /><br />As hilarious or as absurd it may seem, I guess people are damn quick- way too quick for my standards. They are able to spin off tales in no time, like instant coffee. Blink! And its ready. Doesn’t take time to prepare - INSTANT!<br /><br />As far as I am concerned, and other few who suffer as I do, writing is more like brewing tea. The tea leaves afloat, patiently simmering over a quiet fire, till the time the flavour and the colour have been rightfully extracted. Takes time, but is worth it…<br /><br />The only hope that keeps a tea brewer like me going is that in this time-less world of coffee lovers exist a few tea zealots. And its for them that I exist and survive.<br /><br />To the Tea Zealots!</div>Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-70266926703151229582010-02-03T13:43:00.008+05:302011-03-16T03:08:51.983+05:30Deliverance<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjND95r1aLyRyohXNO63FDlGUPJY43tpLMJKveJvPnhXMmO6Oeu-AF2GG7wJnFH2cXKsuC64fXazyCAxT5CMooWLPEYXmgYxqwPImAlE-9HpTW7Wq1KS9q21-d3NKFYhvdwme-YvhKAvbY/s1600-h/Deliverance.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433995170593527074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 133px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjND95r1aLyRyohXNO63FDlGUPJY43tpLMJKveJvPnhXMmO6Oeu-AF2GG7wJnFH2cXKsuC64fXazyCAxT5CMooWLPEYXmgYxqwPImAlE-9HpTW7Wq1KS9q21-d3NKFYhvdwme-YvhKAvbY/s200/Deliverance.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">wasn</span>’t just rain, it was a thundershower. And it had been going on for days bringing life to a stand still. Nobody in right mind could think of stepping out. The Met department had lived up to its reputation and had failed miserably in not predicting this onslaught and was equally helpless in being able to tell when it shall stop. It seemed God was suddenly gripped with this unshakable feeling of cleaning up the mortal’s planet, not only of the visible, conspicuous rubbish and garbage but also to wash away the dirt and the darkness resident within.<br /><br />Whatever his reasons, rain for her had made everything beautiful. When everybody around was cursing the weather, she could not thank him enough. Not that she was particularly fond of him but in the present circumstances, she actually obliged him by thanking him. It was more like telling him, ‘Dude, you should have done this ages ago, but thanks anyway’.<br /><br />The rain enthused, for her, a life force into everything it touched. She had been witnessing this process, from her window, from the very moment the first drops had come down. The Window- the place she loved the most in her life. It was a huge, wall-size window that looked out to the whole valley below. Curling up to the window with a mug of hot coffee and a book, she could spend a lifetime there. Today the book had been replaced. Sitting there comfortably with the inevitable mug of coffee, in a blanket, for with everything else the rain had brought down the temperatures too, her unwavering attention was assigned to the rain. The leaves had turned greener, the mud a deeper shade of brown, the river down gushing stronger than ever.<br /><br />Unblinking she was gazing at the plum-size water droplets striking the window with brutal force and then meekly trickling down the glass. There were moments when she actually felt the drops would shatter the glass and make their way through. She had been sitting there for days now; from the very day the clouds had decided to burst open their bellies. All through she was admiring the determination of the otherwise harmless water to breakthrough and tear apart everything. And she so wanted it to happen- for it would be her salvation. She wanted the rain to come break the barrier and wash her away, gush through her life and with it take away the bitterness, the pain, the fears , the scars, the memories and the baggage that lied within her depths.<br /><br /><br />But at the end of five days, she was tired of waiting. The anticipation was killing her. Somewhere a feeling of betrayal was rising in her- like a bride on the wedding day, when the groom failed to turn up. Every single tick of the clock making the wait more painful.<br /><br />Suddenly, she threw off everything, stepped into her floaters and ran. For her patience had ran out. If it would not come to her, she’ll go. Desperately and hurriedly she dashed out of the house, turning a deaf ear to her mother’s beckoning. Tears streaming down she ran and ran through the rain. Letting it pierce her body, and would let it, till it makes its way through her entire being.<br /><br />Unthinkingly she reached the point, where she always did - to run away from reality, pain, unforgiving truths. The place she turned to - to hide. Huddled away from the world, under the hovering branches of the banyan tree, right at the foot of the hill where the river bent. But today, she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">wasn</span>’t hiding; rather she was embracing it all with open arms – with the doors to her soul open. She <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">didn</span>’t cuddle up in the roots of the tree, she walked right into the rivers raging turbulent waters. For she knew this was the moment to experience the absolute truth, a fleeting moment of being one with the ultimate reality. To walk the gap that bridges the existing and the existed.<br /><br />In the depths of the river, she found her deliverance.Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-61129045779881696632010-02-03T13:33:00.005+05:302010-02-03T14:19:32.726+05:30The Question<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisnZS5-mKfLIUF96PXFbo0mua2eeMbgVHtVu2fQHOtHzb-Dqh3JGPm4_MrCr1Fygyihrt89XbiB9FaFU7iaWH9Dn7VODKcEQL59o2PMYSHvwSHWDy2tweQCSjoCgu4zPvATEpHCB8jIGc/s1600-h/Hope.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisnZS5-mKfLIUF96PXFbo0mua2eeMbgVHtVu2fQHOtHzb-Dqh3JGPm4_MrCr1Fygyihrt89XbiB9FaFU7iaWH9Dn7VODKcEQL59o2PMYSHvwSHWDy2tweQCSjoCgu4zPvATEpHCB8jIGc/s200/Hope.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433936642315406514" /></a><br />It was winter. A winter that none had seen in the past decade. You could see your own breath and if you stood out in the open, it might have just frozen. And it was in this harsh winter, was a girl born early in the morning. The world had not yet come to life, when this little one breathed its first breath; and ominous it was - the birth. The clouds burst open, and it rained as if with a vengeance. Either it was God crying for having to part with that soul, or may be He was venting His anger for creating this one. <br /><br />There was no rejoice or happiness; nobody to celebrate the continuity of life - for she was a girl. What was wanted, needed, required, wished for was a son. The brunt for birthing the wrong gender, was borne by none else than the mother. Nobody cared. They had all gone, grieving. She only had a frail blanket to keep her and the unwanted protected, from the harshness of the words and the winter. Howbeit, she couldn’t suppress the joy of creating life, even though it wasn’t a son. She knew not what to do, feel or say. Lying in her bed, she stared at the sky, searching for Him, and for an answer - had she never been born, how would a son today? And if her daughter wasn’t born today, how would a son tomorrow?Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-19214739320261678792009-07-10T15:49:00.000+05:302009-07-10T15:50:06.273+05:30NumbHave you ever felt the way I feel...<br /><br />Numb… there are people around me, just next to me, their voices like a noise in the background, they a blur vision.<br /><br />My emotions are in a whirlpool, but I cannot feel any. I know its there, like a needle piercing the skin. You know it’s getting into you, you can see it happening, but no matter how hard you try, you just can’t feel it. I am craving to feel the pain... more importantly feel.<br /><br />Till few days back, I thought it was pain that made me feel real... flesh and blood, but that too has gone. I feel. No I don’t feel, more like a zombie, living but not alive. There was a time when I wanted to be like this, above all and beyond all. But now that I am here, I have my doubts.<br /><br />Isn’t this human nature, never to be satisfied with what you have? We all talk of contentment but its not there. And I think it’s good. If all were content and satisfied, the world would come to a halt. So who draws a line- to be satisfied or to crave, to feel or not to feel?<br /><br />I craved for 'not to feel', and now the desire 'to feel' has become stronger than the craving. I am not wandering, I know where I am and where I have come, but where to now? I want to go on - where and towards what I don’t know. Perhaps this is life. Embarking upon an endless journey, experiencing what you get and not knowing what more is to come.<br /><br />This fact, however, doesn't dull that curiosity to know- What next?Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-49541450812810312332009-07-10T15:32:00.001+05:302009-07-10T15:32:38.878+05:30Ping-pong-PingTHINK!!!<br />Everyday at school I was told to do so.<br />Whack! comes a slap from my mom...<br />can't you think and do something.<br />Whack! comes another one.... do something,<br />come out of the dream world & stop thinking.<br /><br />#!*@???<br /><br />To think or not to think, is what I am thinking.<br />That was childhood, now I am an adult.<br /><br />Profession demands it, relationship doesn't.<br /><br />If I don’t think, I can’t do a thing (ah! it rhymes)<br />Yes, I aspire to be an ad person, a journalist, a movie maker…<br />So if today I don’t think, <br />all these things will go dong-ding.<br /><br />If I think, my relationship goes out of sync (ah! ah! it rhymes again)<br />"you think too much", is all I get to hear.<br />I have no plans to live life alone<br />so I have to shut my mind up<br />for my relationship to be always full of zing!<br /><br />Now what are you thinking???<br />Do I really think or just waste ink<br />writing on whether....<br />to think or not to think!!!Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-33840715611023336322009-07-10T15:27:00.000+05:302009-07-10T15:28:12.980+05:30Life Encompassing Cocoons<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CADMINI%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C02%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">I have been born and brought up in this city. It became so much a part of me and my system that I failed to realize and discover it as a separate entity. and then one day, just out of my routine life, something inside me kicked real hard and I woke up to a new world altogether. The surprising part is that everything was the same- the buildings, the lanes, the furniture, the people but suddenly all of it had taken a new meaning. It all became real. The background I had been living with all my life came to the foreground, and this perspective gave a new meaning to my life. It was such an amazing feeling... like a small budding leaf realising that there is this big, huge tree it is a part of. Not only did I start to live my life with a new gust but also of everybody around me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I stayed like this for a while and throughout there was an effort on my part to awaken others too, to this truth... that we all are on the same continuum... and we are just a part of the process. However, not so soon I realised that people are just not bothered. It doesn't matter to them. They are very comfortable and at ease with leading a life of passive existence, in cocoons they have unknowingly built around themselves. The cocoons that act as barriers to the truth. Living in an illusion that the world begins and ends within that small little chamber. We, me n them, share the same environment, and ironically it was I who was labeled unrealistic, a romantic.
<br />
<br />I fought all this for till I realised all my efforts were in vain. And gradually I too built a cocoon around myself, limiting and defining my world with a boundary. The very boundary I had defied had refused to accept. Deep inside I did feel guilty at times, I felt I was cheating myself, like the rest. But then I realised that it’s not myself but them I am cheating, depriving them of the reality I hide within, because they don’t deserve to know.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br />At the end of the day I too am in a cocoon, you may say, but honey here is life breathing within... unlike the rest.</p> Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-54595983545598643242009-07-10T15:06:00.000+05:302009-07-10T15:07:28.227+05:30Another Brick In The Wall<span style="font-family: times new roman;">I often get nostalgic. Remembering the old times is the only source of happiness for me. And it is not out of choice, but for the lack of it. I was constructed thirty years ago. Oh! I am sorry I forgot to introduce myself. I am an average ten storey high building. Back then, life was simple and beautiful. I was young and full of life. People knew me, I was known. It was not only me, but everything surrounding me. Mornings you were woken up by the cock’s full-throated wake up call, and evenings were full of children’s laughter and bird’s chirping. There was serenity and peace. However only change is constant, and nearly twenty years back changes started to take place. They were sign of progress. I wasn’t single anymore. By and by others had started moving in. I was a little jealous initially - I was not used to sharing my space with anybody. But it was great to have companions to share my joys and sorrows with.<br /><br />Time flies by, and before I could realize, everything around me had undergone a metamorphosis. Earlier I had sulked about letting anybody moving in, but now I couldn’t even feel that. Suddenly, all my space had been taken away; virtually there was no room for me to breathe. There were buildings all around me. The lawns were nowhere to be seen. Blaring horns greeted the morning and the sounds from daily living, now elevated to the level of noise, welcomed the night. Cars had come up in place of children. In all this chaos I missed out on my companions too. And just then, I felt like a stranger in my own territory, my own life. I had lost my individuality and myself. Nobody remembered me. I had become one of the lots, another brick in the wall. There was such a pouring in of people I failed to recognize my own from the crowd. I ceased to live and started to exist. Buildings after buildings had crammed into my space and I had been unable to recognize this. What I had thought of as progress, had actually taken my life into the regressive mode.<br /><br />This is my sad but true tale. And if you haven’t yet woken up to the fact, unfortunately yours too.</span>Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-21708769658618681062009-06-11T18:17:00.001+05:302009-06-12T12:35:20.769+05:30A Love-Hate RelationshipSimla - The Queen of Hills. The beauty of theses hills was such that it pulled out an entire government towards itself every summer. The British have long gone, but the attraction towards this lady has carried on. To the extent that to cash on this very beauty, somewhere the beauty itself got marred. Instead of trees, an endless expanse of walls, doors and windows greets you. And except for the winding roads and parking woes, little else reminds you that you’re in the hills. The flood of tourists that throng its streets take away the quiet charm that once lured the Brits. All this and much more on these lines make me detest this city.<br /><br />Ironically, a love stronger than this hatred exists in me, which draws me in. I curse one and all, the moment I enter the city limits, but once tucked in my room cosily, there is no better feeling. The endless abuse meted out to the hills here has failed to take away the peace that they bring.<br /><br />Leave out The Mall; there still exist a few quiet roads that are best experienced on foot. These are beautiful walks and a wonderful way to explore this erstwhile summer capital of the British India. The light plays hide and seek as you walk through the deodars and the oaks. Perfect remedy to heal the soul.<br /><br />Buildings from the time of the British still exude an old-world charm that is difficult to ignore. Even amidst the concrete jungle, they stand apart, on their own, with an elegance that can only be termed <em>Royal</em>. They stand in all their regality, reminding of an era gone by that shall not return. I call them ‘Time Machines’, for they bring the present to a stand still, and are the only one’s that can turn the clock’s hand to the left, giving you a taste of a world lost in time. Urging you to feel it in your bones and forcing you to imagine and experience what it must have felt like then. And lo! You are transported back in time to see the city in a different light, a light a hundred years old – minus the claustrophobic, lifeless concrete, add verdant hills; minus the pollution, and add the freshness and chill in the wind; minus the crowds, and add the calmness; minus the hate, and add the love.<br /><br />And that is when I love this city like no other.<br /><br />The latest Bollywood track plays. Something is not right. The puzzlement is over as the reverie is broken. It’s a mobile ringing. And lo! You are back in Shimla 2009.<br /><br />And that is when I hate this city like no other!Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-25895992815347177822008-07-08T20:19:00.000+05:302008-07-08T20:23:02.808+05:30CAUGHT IN THE WIRES<p>Caught in the wires... caught, tied, trapped in the wires... they tug and pull from all directions tightening their grip with every passing moment. With a life of their own, they will not let go till there is surrender<br />All started with a harmless length of wire. It was a trap, a meticulously laid out trap. And once caught, there was no looking back. It grows on till it’s an addiction. Till sometime ago, it's existence was confined to the background. Never interfering daily living, the presence wasn’t even felt.<br />And that’s when came the revenge. Even with the technology upgrading and updating itself with every stroke of the clock’s hands, it couldn’t win the war against wires. All efforts to make a wireless world have been in vain. The irony is that it doesn’t seem so. Take a closer look. The more is the effort to eradicate their identity, the more they are needed in the effort to do so. When the fight for wireless was not on, at least the being was wire free. An average individual would today have a minimum of 12 wires governing the routine. Cell phone charger, hands free, mobile data cable, car mobile charger, i pod charger, i pod headphones, laptop charger, laptop data cables, laptop LAN cables, digital camera wires, camera data cables etc n the list goes on... </p><p><br />The wireless wired world (www) is a stem off of the world wide web (www) and the wires are continually weaving the web, waiting for the victim to fall into it for it all to end.<br /><br /><br /> </p>Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-83293374144880821492008-07-08T20:14:00.000+05:302008-07-08T20:18:14.305+05:30LOVE???HURT. PAIN. TEARS. ANGER. REVENGE. SELF. - what really “love” is all about.<br />Unconditional Love??? Doesn’t exist. It’s all about self.<br />I love you. Because- you are what I expect you to be.<br />I care for you. Because- you care for me.<br />I can’t live without you. Only if you perform your role well enough.<br />You are my world. Till the time it’s what I want it to be.<br />Contrary to the worldly concept of love, there doesn’t exist a more selfish emotion.<br />Selfish. Period.Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-45442860472170585272008-07-08T00:34:00.000+05:302008-07-08T00:40:12.061+05:30WishIt’s one of those days where u for once wish that u could go back in time n just once, only and only once you can go back and change one tiny moment, take that fraction of a second back from time... pray that that specific point in time can be changed forever.<br />As tiny as that, as insignificantly small in its inherent value but potent enough to destroy all that is around. A spark from a cigarette bringing the whole house down, a tiny atom destroying an entire city, a mutation finishing an entire species, an ignorance wiping an entire civilisation..<br />The burden of that great a magnitude resting on an if, only and only on an IF... a monosyllabic two-letter word. Hanging on a cliff by a weak creeper, drowning in the sea save for a twig, the last log burning on a winter night, struggling for breath save for the ventilator, clinging to life but for that one single moment. And that is the moment when the creeper gives away, the twig floats away, the ventilator is switched off.<br />Life is over.<br />That’s a blessing. The hope in that moment is worse- hoping for tide to change, hoping to fight against time, turning back the wheel of fortune or misfortune.<br />And I am suspended in that moment. Waiting for the clock to move its hands and tell me its half past noon. Half past noon, the moment of hope or of none. When i shall be either delivered or be doomed.<br />Till then, I live or struggle to live with the noose tightening around my neck. Killing time. Or may be the other way round.Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8990860084268418890.post-49402220349090404862008-07-08T00:31:00.000+05:302008-07-08T00:33:59.433+05:30Re-BirthI am back, as much as I wish I could say with a bang, nevertheless I am back... feels weird, typing alphabet after alphabet, stringing them together, in a comprehendible, meaningful order... that’s the game, comprehendible meaningful order- I could just close my eyes n hit the keys jfkjfsjdk,gfewjfg; know what I am trying to say..<br />What makes a great writer, the one who can put the right alphabets in the right order and then on the right words, and then the right sentences and so on... till it becomes a masterpiece, an object of admiration, another proof of the creative abilities she/he possesses...<br />Great is a little too much to aspire for, but as of now a writer is what i am trying to be... why trying??? Isn’t it true that either you are one or you are not... the degree of creative genius aside... true it is, but after suffering a writer’s block for over eight months that’s all i can aim for..<br />Stringing the foresaid words, believe me, only these many are making me feel alive, real, true.. i think i can feel again.. It’s a sudden rush of blood supply to a part wherein it had been cut off, or your sleepy foot feeling sensation again, or more appropriately air gushing into lungs after one has been asphyxiated...<br />To living, to breathing, to writing.Saryu Bansalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10587779506038954874noreply@blogger.com1