tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88484392024-03-23T23:33:15.243+05:30cerebral-concoctionsthoughts.reflections.musings.rants.soliloquies.Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.comBlogger100125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-70711777535664167642014-03-22T16:35:00.002+05:302014-03-22T16:45:46.892+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #45818e; font-size: large;">Of opened chests and unseen emails...</span><br />
<br />
There was a time not-so-long ago<br />
when an old man would die<br />
loved ones would cry<br />
neighbours would sigh<br />
and time would pass by...<br />
And after days or weeks<br />
as thought appropriate<br />
the house would have a visitor -<br />
a lawyer, friend or associate<br />
who would sit surrounded<br />
by wide open eyes and hopeful hearts<br />
wondering how the dead man's possessions<br />
would be divided into parts.<br />
And when all of it was said and done,<br />
stuff would be moved, stuff would be sold<br />
Some curious soul would find and open<br />
a locked wooden chest covered in mould.<br />
Lo and behold, diaries & letters,<br />
moth-eaten photos with unknown faces,<br />
cards sent on christmas and birthdays<br />
and postcards from faraway places.<br />
The family would sit together<br />
excited, curious or even aghast<br />
letters read, diaries violated,<br />
all's fair in piecing together a dead man's past.<br />
Summertime flings. War-time lovers<br />
Philosophizing pals and holidaying friends<br />
Reflections on life, Confessions in ink<br />
Breaking Ties and Making amends.<br />
And there in full glory,<br />
through faded photos and musty paper<br />
bits and pieces of many a caper<br />
the dead man would come alive<br />
as a devil-may-care fifteen year old<br />
Or a strapping young lad at twenty-five.<br />
<br />
And now I wonder<br />
when I die<br />
as a grumpy old lady at ninety<br />
or a little younger at seventy-five,<br />
People will cry<br />
People will sigh<br />
Time will pass by<br />
Months will fly.<br />
No lawyer will visit<br />
With a letter in hand<br />
No chests will be opened<br />
No diaries will be scanned.<br />
A couple of hard disks will be found<br />
and even some DVDs lying around<br />
But wading through TBs of photos and videos<br />
would seem a choice unsound.<br />
Maybe a Find would be done<br />
on exciting, curious strings<br />
'biggest mistake of my life'<br />
'crazy night' or 'college flings'.<br />
And when it would yield no results<br />
memories would be overwritten<br />
or renegaded to the back of a drawer<br />
to be unreadably time-bitten.<br />
Maybe a curious soul will search on my name<br />
and find bytes of me shared over time<br />
photos, reviews, statuses and thoughts<br />
or blog poems that badly rhyme.<br />
But undiscovered will they lie -<br />
the drafts in my blog<br />
the emails in my Inbox<br />
the notes to self and recipes<br />
stowed away in Google Docs.<br />
None will find the emails<br />
A friend and I wrote to each other<br />
seeking meaning from the world<br />
and solace from one another<br />
Unseen will lie my chats and emails<br />
about the beautiful places I travelled to<br />
So when I am dead and gone<br />
My experiences will be gone too.<br />
None will see the story I wrote<br />
about the child and his paper boat<br />
or the one about the funny ghost<br />
For I felt they were too naive to post<br />
And there they will lie till eternity<br />
or till the digital world would last<br />
Unseen, unfound, all alone<br />
the little 1s and 0s of a dead woman's past.<br />
<br /></div>
Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-51508254479154956112014-03-06T09:14:00.000+05:302014-03-06T09:48:09.783+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="color: #45818e; font-size: large;">Wisdom in Diapers</span></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #76a5af; font-size: large;">5 life-lessons I learnt from my 1-year-old son</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last month my son turned one. When I take him out for a
stroll or go visiting, I always get asked ‘oh he is one already….so does he
walk, talk, do random-thing-that-babies-are-supposed-to-do? What all has he
learnt?’ As I was sitting and going through his photos last evening, wondering
how fast time has flown (and how stubbornly the pregnancy fat has stayed put),
I realized that this little bundle of baby fat, itching-to-bite milk teeth and
bum-in-diapers has taught me so much more about life than I have taught him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know I will never get asked ‘oh he is one already…..what
all has he taught you?’ So here’s the answer to that non-existent question.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. As a child I
never shied away from asking for anything (whether a second helping of cake at
a birthday party or some more comic books from my parents). But over time,
society, age (sob!) and a constructed sense of etiquette taught me that asking
is rude/indecent/greedy and a whole set of other adjectives. But Little Fellow
has just been around for a year, doesn’t know what society is and cannot even
spell or say etiquette. So he asks. When in want or need, he asks!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Propped in his pram, he goes for a stroll everyday. Everyday
he passes by groups of old ‘grandpas’ and ‘grandmas’ sitting on the benches. He
doesn’t even know them, but he grins at them, calls out to them in his
baby-speak, wiggles his little finger to beckon them over and then with
outstretched hands demands that they free him from the clutches of the pram and
walk around with him in their arms. Every single day some grandpa or grandma
obliges and achy-wobbly knees apart, carries him around. (while I go about
wheeling an empty pram!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My lesson: Ask and you may get, don’t ask and you will never
get! So just go ahead and ask for it!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Little
fellow has just learnt how to walk. He walks around the house, his legs spread
slightly apart, wobbling like on a slightly tipsy Friday night. It was quite
entertaining to watch him go through the entire process of learning how to
walk. First, he would just try to lift his upper body from a sitting position.
Then came the standing up phase. He would stand, he would lose balance, he
would fall, he would get up again..and again…and again. It didn’t take him long
to figure out that sticking out the bum is a good way to avoid falling on your
face or hitting your head. It was his ‘safe landing’ trick. Even now when he is
walking, at the slightest hint of losing balance, he sticks out his bum as far
as he can…and then comfortably lands on it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My lesson: Try and try till you succeed; but as you keep
trying, also learn how to fail safe and land on your bum.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. My husband
and I both have a full-time job. So it is my parents who take care of Little
Fellow at home. Ever since the first synapses in his brain kicked in, he
started forming a map in his head of each one of us and what we can do for him.
So anytime he is hungry or sleepy, he walks over straight to mom and starts
tugging at her clothes. If he wants to be taken out for a stroll, dad it is. My
husband is his go-to-guy when he wants to play. And I am the cuddly-wuddly bit
(sigh!). Little Fellow also has a little equation worked out in his head for
visitors. Women = hold you, kiss you, put you on the lap and sit on the sofa
yapping away all evening. Men = hold you, throw you up in the air and catch
you, take you around, let you play with keys….you get the drift. So when we
have guests, he immediately locates the man in the group and goes to him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My lesson: People are awesome to have around. Understand
what they are there in your life for. Play to their strengths and your
interests.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. ‘Rules are
meant to be broken’ is something that I have both heard and said oft enough. An
old-school professor of mine once said during an examination ‘ copy if you
must, but be smart enough not to get caught doing it’. My professor would have
been super proud of my son.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He seems to have grown a new-found love for all little
specks of dust, dirt, food or just about anything else that he finds on the
floor. As he crawls or walks around, anything that stands out on the off-white
tiles goes straight into his mouth. After doing the ‘baby please…pretty please’
nice mom thingie (with no success at all), I resorted to good old
mommy’s-big-eyes-and-serious-face act. So now he knows its a rule. No eating
stuff from the floor. Now comes the best part. When he finds something AND he
knows I am looking, he comes over and obediently hands over the little speck to
me. BUT, if I am not looking (and he checks that from the corner of his eye), it
goes straight into his mouth.<br />
<i><br />My lesson: If you are breaking rules, you better be
super-smart about it!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5. When he does
something entirely unacceptable (like trying to put his finger, or my phone,
into my cup of hot tea), I raise my voice a bit and do a pretend shouting,
hoping that it will dissuade him from doing it ever again. How he responds to
it is really interesting. Step #1: He shouts back at me in an equally loud
voice. If I still have my big-eye-serious-look on, Step #2: He starts grinning
and laughing, testing if I will budge (which, sadly for me, works many times)
If not, Step #3: He comes over, hugs me and plants a big slobbery wet kiss on
my cheek. (a surefire success). And if after all of this, I am still hell-bent
on being a no-nonsense-mom, Step #5: He starts bawling. He shuffles around
these steps depending on my mood and the intensity of what he just did. Usually
by Step 2 or 3, I am a molten mom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My lesson: There is no ‘one’ way to deal with a situation.
Be creative in how you approach problems. Try anything and everything!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-57596908883128804302012-04-17T16:41:00.002+05:302012-04-17T16:44:20.244+05:30Yellow Strawberries<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ec3rWr8yyR0/T41N7TRLNeI/AAAAAAAADYs/_Rez6SU4c1Y/s1600/Photo1006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ec3rWr8yyR0/T41N7TRLNeI/AAAAAAAADYs/_Rez6SU4c1Y/s320/Photo1006.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
One wayward wintery day<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
with the snow falling in chubby cherries, </div>
my heart took a sudden fancy<br />
for canary yellow strawberries.<br />
You fool, I said, strawberries are red<br />
as red as blood can be,<br />
pretty sure yellow there are none<br />
not definitely the shade of canary.<br />
But my heart did not listen, <br />
that lubdubing hulk of a stubborn fellow,<br />
it insisted that I try to find<br />
strawberries in canary yellow.<br />
<br />
Gloved, suited, coated and booted<br />
racing through a flurry of flakes,<br />
I made my way to the shed outside<br />
home to oddballs and keepsakes.<br />
There on the shelf lay a can of paint<br />
and yellow it was too,<br />
not as yellow as a canary can be<br />
but to humour a fool it would do.<br />
<br />
I brushed the strawberry layer on layer<br />
with lemony dollops of yellow,<br />
the more I brushed, the more it turned<br />
an orangey hue of mellow.<br />
I shot at it with a spray gun<br />
a million yellowy speckles,<br />
but red it was and orange it stayed<br />
in solidarity with demony obstacles.<br />
I tried and tried till there was<br />
just a brushful of yellow in the can,<br />
and suddenly I knew what to do,<br />
like a flash in the proverbial pan.<br />
<br />
I knew it was there somewhere<br />
plunger, needle et al,<br />
a souvenir of my tetanus shot<br />
way back from an '80s fall.<br />
With the point glistening in the dark<br />
I ruptured the red fruit skin,<br />
and sucked through the needle<br />
a syringeful of red from within. <br />
I drew out red juice from its heart<br />
like a vampire on a full moon night,<br />
I pulled, I drew, I sucked and I pulled<br />
till there remained nothing but white.<br />
<br />
With the red gone, the berry so white<br />
thus spake color theory,<br />
orange it will not be, it has to be yellow<br />
a couple of shades afar from canary.<br />
I pierced its heart, yet again<br />
with the needle a menacing bright,<br />
I spurted yellow into the strawberry<br />
an inside-out vampire on a full moon night.<br />
I waited for it to turn a yellowy hue<br />
as the snow piled into the night,<br />
but red it was, pale it turned<br />
and it stayed a lifeless white.<br />
<br />
That night the snowflakes swirled and fell<br />
like a million crowds making wanton merries,<br />
and my heart provoked, rebuked and smirked<br />
at my failed hunt for yellow strawberries.<br />
Why, I asked, did it not turn yellow<br />
when I tried and tried so much,<br />
red and yellow make orange I know<br />
but white and yellow should be yellow as such.<br />
You fool, laughed my fat-bottomed heart,<br />
my whim was like the snow,<br />
It lets you walk a million miles<br />
but leaves no trace of where you go.<br />
You think you took just its color<br />
when every drop of red you stole,<br />
but how would a strawberry turn canary<br />
when you robbed it of its soul?</div>Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-827594157280157022012-03-12T14:35:00.000+05:302012-03-12T14:35:24.431+05:30thought bubbles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
something I wrote ages ago...<br />
<br />
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">There
was a blind boy who would sit by the plant in his garden talking to it, listening
to the bird on the plant respond to his words with its own sweet song and
thinking that it was the plant that was conversing with him in its own floral
language. And then one day the bird flew away. The boy talked days and nights
to the plant just to be met with a stony silence and a deaf ear. Not even a
whimper or a bark from the bark. And he spent his entire life thinking that
plants are strange moody beings….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">There
was a girl whose only wish was to sit in a bus…a double decker bus…more
specifically, the upper berth of a double decker bus with both the window and
her hair all open…the cool breeze caressing her face…her favourite music
playing through the earphones….smiling away to herself…looking at the world
outside just move by her window….and going across the world….from town to city
to village annd back over and over again….just her, her window, her music, her
bus and any and everything inside it….But she never did so….for she did not know what
she would do if the bus were to ever run out of fuel….or she were to run out of
songs….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-33074839522547443602012-01-25T15:28:00.001+05:302012-01-25T15:29:48.477+05:30Unfinished Business<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Well, its been ages since I have come face-to-face with my blog. And we aren't even estranged! So finally, after having been accused(!) of lethargy, laziness, disloyalty to blogosphere in face of zippier social networking and microblogging sites and running out of 'creative steam', I decided to take some 'action'. And since I almost always write about childhood, lost joys from the 80's and 90's and more miscellaneous blasts from the past, I decided to run through my old posts for some inspiration. But then, who wants inspiration when you can have salvation! So, to cut a short story shorter, I have decided to publish all those unfinished drafts lying abandoned among their much-complete, reasonably-commented over cousins in my blog dashboard. Open-ended stories that leave a lot to the reader's imagination are a rage nowadays. Open-ended films too! So why not open-ended blog posts, right?<br />
<br />
I have skipped the drafts that ended much before you could even say 'draa...'. They would have been too open-ended, even for a well-endowed imagination.<br />
I hope I have redeemed myself with this post and I shall not henceforth be accused of mind-block, writers-block or any such vagaries. QED.<br />
<br />
<i>15th October 2011 | Untitled</i><br />
There was a 'right way' to put the audio cassette into its cover,<br />
There was a place for stamps and 'stick-em-stones' in the top drawer,<br />
There was a trick if the floppy disk got stuck inside,<br />
There was a carrier for a bum-hurting bicycle ride,<br />
There was a secret stash for summertime ice candies on sticks,<br />
There were stars, 'v.v. goods' and neat red crosses and ticks,<br />
There were peep-holed numbers on the phone that turned into a tizzy,<br />
There were yarn-spinning, tale-telling neighbors who never got too busy,<br />
There was one channel to watch morning, noon and night,<br />
There was a wooden ruler for every hand in a class fight,<br />
There was a fountain pen and a blotting paper too,<br />
There was a home-made concoction for the annual bout of flu,<br />
There was a pen friend in a difficult-to-spell place,<br />
There was a tailor who made frilly 'umbrella' dresses with lace<br />
There was always one more person to squeeze into the backseat,<br />
There was a glass of 'Rasna' when you walk in from the heat,<br />
-------------<br />
<br />
<i>15th October 2011 | Untitled</i><br />
There he was, a raggedy old man,<br />
with a toothless grin and parchment skin,<br />
breath rasping and whistling with the wind,<br />
reed thin bones rattling within.<br />
<br />
Holding a bowl close to his heart,<br />
He walked to where we stood,<br />
Tasting raindrops as they trickled down our faces,<br />
Feeling the clingy wetness of a newborn brood.<br />
<br />
"Look my children....loooookkkkkk"<br />
His palm uncovered the bowl just a tad bit<br />
"Look how they lie in there....<br />
Oh, look how perfectly they fit"<br />
<br />
Smothered smile, hurried hush,<br />
Heads nodded in a collective whole,<br />
Ten eyes inspecting the invisible contents,<br />
of a weather-worn bowl<br />
<br />
"They were quite big once,<br />
Oh yes, needing a sack that too,<br />
I couldn't get them to sit still,<br />
as much as I tried to...<br />
They would leap and jump,<br />
from day to night,<br />
-------------------<br />
<br />
<i>11th April 2010 | Untitled</i><br />
Like the breeze that blows across the meadow<br />
Silently stirring, casting no shadow<br />
I walk alone along the street<br />
Whistling in tune with my feet<br />
Like the wind through a crack in the window<br />
<br />
Like the sea touching every shore<br />
Letting go and asking no more<br />
I walk amidst the summer dresses<br />
My face caressing the wind-blown tresses<br />
Of perfect strangers I met not 'fore<br />
<br />
Like a frivolous bee<br />
On a springtime amorous spree<br />
I devour the scents of the bazaar<br />
The mundane with the bizarre<br />
Feeling insanely happy and free<br />
<br />
Like rain on a parched land<br />
Satiating the hungry sand<br />
I let the city fill me<br />
With all I can smell, hear, touch and see<br />
I let it hold my hand<br />
And take me where it wants<br />
To sights unseen and familiar haunts<br />
-----------------<br />
<br />
<i>16th November 2009 | Untitled</i><br />
Its been quite a while since this location has seen some activity. Just like the good old ODIs and test matches losing out to their fancier sibling 20-20, blogging is also fast relegating its place to the pesky 'what are you doing?' and the naughty 'what's on your mind?' of the www world.<br />
everything in a jiffy...hail the quickie !!! But let me not digress and stick to my original plan for this post. Actually this post is a celebration of a phenomenon that dug its feet in the ground and is braving the onslaught of the 'fast and the furious' craze that is sweeping the world. Ladies and gentlemen, presenting to you Bollywood. You may be in and out of a McDonalds with a full belly in 5 minutes...but you still got to keep that $$$ glued to the seat for 3 whole hours to watch the split-second softening of the father's face on the train station as he lets go of his daughter's hand to send her to her beloved to walk (in this case, ride) into the sunset. No shortcuts here...no brutal edits. Just good old stories taking their own sweet time to crawl from that white screen with lots of text on it to those defining bold words THE END.<br />
Stalking and watching the girl from behind the college wall. 3 months. Getting to know the girl's name. + 2 months. Writing your first love letter. + 1 month. Discovering your family's longstanding feud with the girl's family. - 25 years. Fighting goons, hired policemen and emotional blackmail alike. + 3 months. Holding the girl of your dreams in your arms as the police takes away the repentant cruel uncle and his hired goondas and the flowers and kissing birds cover the screen. Priceless. Laying the foundation for a sequel. + 9 months. See? Whoever proposed that the world is moving towards a faster life has jolly well left Bolly out of his calculations.<br />
<br />
Yeah yeah....I know my account of Bollywood is outdated by atleast 10 years. The kissing birds, holding hands, family feuds are so passe...they died with the late 80s or maybe the mid 90s...but hey<br />
----------</div>Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-57748415487724258092011-04-09T23:27:00.000+05:302011-04-09T23:27:47.549+05:30Inevitable<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Just how long<br />
can you hold a flight<br />
by its wings<br />
in the hope that <br />
the passion in those feathers<br />
would soon flutter and die...<br />
Just how long <br />
can you cup a bud<br />
in your two hands<br />
praying that it would<br />
never embrace the world<br />
with its blossoming eyes...<br />
Just how long<br />
can you cage freedom<br />
behind bars<br />
with the audacity to believe<br />
that the spirit is no stronger<br />
than the metal that encircles it<br />
Just how long<br />
can you tether to reality<br />
the wild child of imagination<br />
grudging it the giggles<br />
and squiggles of laughter<br />
of its make-believe world.<br />
Just how long<br />
can you put your arms<br />
tight around a moment<br />
lest it run away<br />
in the blink of an eye<br />
and be lost forever<br />
Just how long<br />
can you push back tomorrow<br />
willing it to return<br />
to the land of its origin<br />
and never be the reality<br />
that you wake up to.</div>Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-87491750087463433982011-02-19T19:10:00.002+05:302011-02-19T19:10:50.355+05:30Rabbithole...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Aren't humans boring<br />
and terribly non-exciting<br />
working for a living, <br />
pushing and fighting<br />
burying a dream or two<br />
every passing day<br />
one has got to be real<br />
feet on the ground, they say!<br />
<br />
And that is why, my friend,<br />
I write of butterflies<br />
masters of their will<br />
creatures of the skies<br />
free to soar and dip<br />
and then rise again<br />
gliding on wingfuls<br />
of sunshine and rain<br />
<br />
Aren't adults a mess<br />
with thousand thoughts<br />
and a million minds<br />
calling the shots<br />
divided loyalties<br />
and fragmented hearts<br />
like actors on a stage<br />
playing their parts<br />
<br />
And that is why, my friend,<br />
I write of children<br />
with minds and hearts as pure<br />
as dew in morning sun<br />
feeling thinking and <br />
living in totality<br />
knowing not what is<br />
an alternate reality<br />
<br />
Aren't humans mundane<br />
with limbs that walk and hold<br />
eyes that see no far<br />
and fingers that simply fold<br />
limited in nerve and sinew<br />
and the length of our bones<br />
fenced in by our frames<br />
shackled by our skintones<br />
<br />
And that is why, my friend,<br />
I write of magical elves<br />
wish granting fairies<br />
and babbling bookshelves<br />
figments of imagination<br />
on a flight of freedom<br />
residing on the ramparts<br />
of our so-called wisdom<br />
<br />
Isn't it wonderful, my friend<br />
to be able to escape<br />
the smallness of our being<br />
the monotony of our lifetape<br />
turn words into wings<br />
and fly with the butterflies<br />
gurgle with the children<br />
and experience magical highs<br />
Words are but rabbitholes<br />
in the fence of our lives, my friend<br />
escape routes to a world<br />
far from a reality that we cannot mend.<br />
</div>Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-91239564142594089302011-02-18T18:46:00.002+05:302011-02-18T18:46:35.800+05:30existence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I am the silence in your conversations<br />
I am the blink of your eye<br />
I am your moment of solitude<br />
I am the sound of your sigh<br />
<br />
I am the night of your day<br />
I am your last ray at twilight<br />
I am the peace in your darkness<br />
I am the horizon of your sight<br />
<br />
I am the stillness after the ripples<br />
I am the lull after the storm<br />
I am the calmness in your being<br />
I am your familiarity, I am your norm<br />
<br />
I am the pause after your breath<br />
I am your moment of solace<br />
I am the melancholy in you<br />
I am the breeze on your face<br />
<br />
I am the quietness in the noise<br />
I am the meaning in what you do<br />
I am your endless search<br />
I am the nothingness in you<br />
</div>Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-71675448686235467032010-12-19T00:45:00.000+05:302010-12-19T00:45:55.664+05:30on life...Shakespeare talked of the world being a stage, and human life being a series of seven acts. Closer home, Vedic philosophy had it all sorted out into four clear-cut compartments or ashrams – Brahmacharya, Grihasta, Vanaprastha and Sanyaas. But is life really that simple? In our age and time, when people have babies first and then get married, couples take a break from their blissful Grihasta state to find their true calling in life only to get back together again after realizing that having to do the laundry, pay the bills and cook three meals a day all by yourself is not so cool after all...I am pretty much willing to bet a one-month salary that the good old bard would be tugging at his beard in frustration…and our sages would be left dumbstruck from not being able to express their frustration for the lack of swear words in Sanskrit.<br />
<br />
One evening after a particularly heated conversation with a friend over how simple or complicated life is, (never mind the fact that we did not even touch consensus with a ten-feet pole!) I went back to reflecting over these ‘stages of life’. Besides, reflecting on random matters of dubious distinction is a great hobby, now that coins have lost their sparkle and stamps are pushing the envelope trying to stay alive, battling electronic phantoms. And I digress…true to my hobby :)<br />
<br />
Coming back to my reflections, life does not seem to me like a cake that you can clearly cut into slices and put on different plates to be handed out one after another. It seems to me more like a bag of peanuts. You never know when you get a perfectly salted one or one that leaves you cursing the genus, species and whatever else there is to the whole nutty lot. There are no stages. There are just phases. And you never know which one it is going to be.<br />
<br />
Someday you wake up feeling the feeling that you can’t exactly nail down, but know it is there. The feeling that makes you want to bounce off the bed screaming ‘I love you’ to no one and everyone around. It could just be the previous night’s awesome dinner or a beautiful dream that just did not make sense but was beautiful nevertheless. It could even be a butterfly fluttering its wings in Timbuktu. You don’t care what brought about that feeling. All you know is ‘life is beautiful’. So you sing your way through the shower (to hell with those notes and octaves!), dance your way through breakfast, smile like an idiot when the autowallah extorts ’meter + 10 rupees’, give a handful of coins to the beggar at the crossing, lilt a ‘good morning’ to all your colleagues and coo sweet nothings to your PC even as it shoves a 404 error in your face. Phases like this usually don’t last long. They are probably like the fillers that go in between the main acts on stage. But as long as they last, ‘aal iz well’ in your world!<br />
<br />
And then there are the ‘(unprintable word) the world’ phases. They are like weeds. Stubborn and irritating, coming back with a mind-boggling frequency even after you have gotten rid of them. These are the days when you just don’t want to open your eyes to those smug little morning rays and take the day off, even as apoplectic team members spend an entire morning Googling to find out what on earth is ‘Caribbean equine flu’ that has struck you down 2 days before the project deadline. And if you feel benevolent enough to drag yourself out of bed, chances are you will leave the water faucet half-open to drip down the drain an entire month’s water quota of a small village, smirk while thinking that the beggar at the crossing could have done a better job with dabbing that red color on his bandage, ask your colleague how she feels being allergic to water and deodorant, and then get back right home to tell your wife that her new yellow dress is not being too kind on her tyres, and then turn on the TV volume to let the cat-fights and beeped-out abuses of reality TV drown out the real abuses coming from the kitchen. To be honest, these phases aren’t all that bad. After years of social conditioning, after an entire childhood of being taught the difference between ‘what you want to say’ and ‘what you should say’, these phases are like the whistle on a pressure cooker. Relieving. Liberating. But the ‘bringing peace to the world’ phase that inadvertently follows it can haunt you for a long long time. This is where the gender war goes 1-0 in favor of women. When you back up your ‘to hell with the world’ phase with biological reasons, no questions are asked. Game.Set.Match.<br />
<br />
I have a postcard that says ‘there is a secret part in everyone that loves being miserable’. This brings me to the third phase. The sour, horrible-tasting peanut that takes you by surprise and pulverizes your palate, even as you quickly spit it out. The phase where you see the world in negative, no matter how Technicolor it is. Remember those Greek tragedies? Those opera singers bursting out of their corsets, with painful shrieks bursting out of their contorted mouths? This would pretty much be the background score drumming through your head all day through – even as you sulk about how rude the autowallahs in the city have become, worry how global warming has made the city ridiculously hot, wonder what it must feel like to be homeless and penniless like the beggar at the crossing, answer every ‘how are you?’ with ‘why…what’s wrong with me?’, pity yourself for uninspiring work, virus-affected workstation and back-stabbing colleagues who you are sure are plotting against you even as they stand at the water cooler whispering and laughing intermittently. In this phase, everything in this world sucks…and no, am not talking about gravity! It is like pathos, conscience, guilt and all those ten thousand complexes having a picnic together in your head. And then we take refuge in the past, shutting our eyes, rewinding those little tapes somewhere in the back of our head to 10-20 years back and wondering what went wrong and where!<br />
<br />
Finally, we have what I like to call the ‘Miss India’ phase. Right from the moment that the alarm shakes you out of bed, you know you are the one. Morpheus’s Neo. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra. The one to Save The World. You finish your bath with just half a bucket of water to save the other half, pack the left-over breakfast to hand it over to the beggar at the crossing, threaten the auto-wallah with police action if he takes even as much as rupee over the meter reading, spend every ticking second of the 2 minutes at the red light trying to motivate the beggar to take up some work to feed himself, offer to finish off your colleague’s work because you know she has a little baby to look after and stay back late to help the guy in the next cubicle draft an apology email to his girlfriend with a proposal in the P.S. I love these phases. I mean, what’s life without some bravado! But the journey from the pedestal to the rock solid ground can leave you bummed out, especially if you land on your perfectly mortal bottom.<br />
<br />
And this to me is life! Not some compartmentalized, sorted-out stack of events. But just a mixed-bag of random, crazy phases that come and go at their own whim, in no particular order, with no fixed lifespan…just like those peanuts in the packet. Tomorrow I may be 40, 57 or even a much-lived 84, but I know life will still be about waking everyday and either discovering that I love the world or realizing that I hate the very sight of it; either agonizing that the world just doesn’t seem right or prophesying that everything is going be all right. Life will still be about opening my eyes every morning and finding a new me. It will still be about taking a deep breath and thinking “this too shall pass”…Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-31283381043441329462010-03-08T15:04:00.001+05:302010-03-08T15:07:31.543+05:30wallet woesA place for all the bills<br />
for every rupee you pay,<br />
fading ink and crumpled edges<br />
in wait of that fateful day<br />
when the new shoes will break<br />
and a claim to repair you will lay.<br />
<br />
A place for business cards<br />
of friends at their first job<br />
the new tattoo parlor<br />
or just the regular business snob<br />
people best kept at a distance<br />
not to socialize and hob-nob<br />
<br />
A place for all the slips<br />
from the money spitting machine<br />
I wish I had hit the 'No' button<br />
and just seen my balance on screen<br />
Reminding of fat pay cheque times<br />
and of three-digit balance days seen<br />
<br />
A place for a thousand different cards<br />
promising credits and discounts alike<br />
Gold. silver.platinum - have em' all<br />
I wonder what it would be like<br />
if someday the "lifetime free offer" guys<br />
go off on an indefinite lifetime strike<br />
<br />
A place for souvenirs and sundry<br />
old photos. id cards. and notes<br />
out of circulation since the big T.<br />
chits best made into paper boats<br />
If there ever were a 'obese wallet challenge'<br />
guess who would get the most votes !<br />
<br />
(After a mammoth wallet cleaning session....glad I don't own a tote :)Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-84654692183257107362010-03-03T13:35:00.000+05:302010-03-03T13:35:51.940+05:30Raydancing through the window<br />
tiptoeing on eyelashes<br />
tickling bits of dust into a frenzy<br />
I play peekaboo in quick dashes<br />
caressing cheeks and hair alike<br />
giggling as they avert their gaze<br />
I am just one among a thousand<br />
powdery morning rays<br />
<br />
we touch the morning dew<br />
it vanishes in thin air<br />
petal by petal we prod<br />
the blossoms open and bare<br />
and as the time keepers<br />
march ahead hand in hand<br />
we charge across miles<br />
setting ablaze oceans and land<br />
I refuse to let go<br />
of my juvenile gentle touch<br />
even as the harsh noon rays<br />
snide and chide me much<br />
<br />
In vindication of the self<br />
I make one too many sweat<br />
Slicing through sheer curtains<br />
I end a siesta mid-breath<br />
Swirling in the tea cup<br />
setting the biscuits on fire<br />
But I get no more fiery<br />
just as the sun gets no higher<br />
<br />
I meet them on the horizon<br />
in a cooler shade of crimson<br />
My pals of the morning<br />
as wearily they move in unison<br />
And a mass of light, 'em rays<br />
blink, flutter and die<br />
In silence they give in to darkness<br />
they say no last goodbye<br />
I stand alone in solitude<br />
weary yet faintly alight<br />
Giving in to the hungry night<br />
I am the last ray at twilight...Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-85473406708655944912010-02-27T20:27:00.001+05:302010-02-27T20:28:57.225+05:301989At five, I had friends<br />
with runny noses and grimy hands<br />
half tucked ink stained shirts<br />
and pink hello kitty hair bands<br />
friends with lunchboxes laden<br />
apples, jim-jams and rolls<br />
flipped open and shared<br />
even before the lunch bell tolls<br />
friends who smuggled my bag in<br />
on days that I was late<br />
and covered my three feet high self<br />
as I squeezed in from under the gate<br />
<br />
some came home to me<br />
as sniffling and shivering I lay<br />
swathed in five layers,<br />
they held my hand and declared<br />
like grim old pygmy soothsayers<br />
"You will be well in just a day<br />
Shoo...scat you bad bad flu !!"<br />
They made me laugh<br />
till my sides hurt like crazy<br />
they got back class notes for me<br />
on days I felt too lazy<br />
Friends that helped me plan<br />
a birthday bash for my dog,<br />
and gladly ate biscuits instead of cake<br />
when the dog played the greedy hog<br />
<br />
Friends who were oddballs<br />
some ate chalk<br />
others drank glue<br />
some nibbled on erasers<br />
one claimed he once flew<br />
yet another could moonwalk<br />
At five, I had friends<br />
with broken teeth and grimy hands<br />
Young foolish tots<br />
they sure knew how to be friends... :)Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-27869928195457679652010-02-10T23:22:00.000+05:302010-02-10T23:22:48.066+05:30Vogon PoetryMy friends thought I was joking<br />
when I said I am an alien<br />
My freak quotient shot up<br />
in a day by ten gazillion<br />
<br />
I showed em' my control board<br />
they oh-aahed and said 'fancy'<br />
I even pulled out my tentacles<br />
they called me cute n pansy<br />
<br />
I stood in the dark for a day<br />
till my batteries all but ran out<br />
I got 'em charged up in the sun<br />
and still they had some doubt<br />
<br />
meanwhile my leader up there<br />
in gynaemeda seven<br />
drummed his fingers in impatience<br />
and looked up at the heaven<br />
<br />
my ten years of undercover life<br />
as Rajinder Parsad Sahani<br />
was falling apart in seconds<br />
as they called it a 'Kahani'<br />
<br />
And then the divinity radar<br />
picked up my SOS beep<br />
riding on a cloud of dust<br />
came a red and yellow jeep<br />
<br />
Out jumped a young lady<br />
mike n camera in tow<br />
she drew a big red circle<br />
covering me head to toe<br />
<br />
flashes popped, cameras rolled<br />
i grunted and spoke into 'em<br />
moved my tentacles, flashed my lights<br />
and even showed 'em my pink phlegm<br />
<br />
The next evening on prime time<br />
'Alien attack' made the headline<br />
the young lady with the chaste hindi<br />
assured you all was not fine<br />
<br />
They asked 'who is he'?<br />
or could 'he' be 'she'?<br />
will the aliens capture earth?<br />
and will they set humans free?<br />
why did they abduct the cow?<br />
was it for the milk?<br />
if they wear clothes like us<br />
will they next want our silk?<br />
<br />
And thus my ten year long mission<br />
was finally a success<br />
after a secret small town life<br />
disbelief, ridicule and stress<br />
<br />
Now my leader full of glee<br />
to take me back will agree<br />
for now humans are aware<br />
that aliens are out there<br />
all thanks to a TV channel<br />
who even have a panel<br />
discussing us 24x7<br />
for which I thank thee heaven<br />
<br />
(an entirely uninspiring bit of prose, inspired<br />
entirely by a feature on aliens on a 'certain' news channel<br />
all characters in this post are completely fictional...and no,<br />
I do not know any Rajinder Parsad Sahani...dead or alive, tentacles<br />
or no tentacles :)Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-23763120118348961872010-01-12T17:50:00.001+05:302010-01-12T17:51:46.264+05:30mirror mirror on the wall...Whoever said a mirror<br />
was all gloss and shine<br />
Whoever said a mirror<br />
told you all was fine<br />
<br />
The mirror of lore<br />
where pretty lasses of yore<br />
the fairest of em' all<br />
smiled and stood tall<br />
is but a fine tale<br />
told to chubby children<br />
huddled up in quilts<br />
mouth agape and pale<br />
<br />
The mirror of the modern day<br />
is deep, dark and got lots to say<br />
comes in all shapes and forms<br />
and follows no rules o' norms<br />
<br />
Sometimes it is a friend<br />
who is just being 'honest'<br />
at times it is the mentor<br />
putting you on a test<br />
<br />
The stranger on the road<br />
whispering as you pass by,<br />
Or the office gossip<br />
trailing you on the sly<br />
<br />
or just a well-wisher<br />
too eager to disagree<br />
and the online personality quiz<br />
ten clicks and its free<br />
<br />
everyone's a mirror<br />
showing 'you' to you<br />
everything that you are<br />
everything that you do<br />
tall, slim, fat and stout <br />
maybe an occasional horn or snout<br />
at times you are the devil<br />
at times almighty incarnate<br />
sometimes beauty embodied<br />
sometimes a balding pate<br />
<br />
so if I were to spin a yarn<br />
for my forthcoming progeny<br />
changes in the tale of yore<br />
I would make a many :)Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-21875856367195452532010-01-09T17:32:00.001+05:302010-01-09T17:37:11.502+05:30the commemorative post...Sitting in the library, working on something that needs to be done by today evening POSITIVELY, I suddenly realised that its been quite a while since I wrote something on the blog...actually, since I wrote something. Period. I would love to claim that I have what they famously call the 'writer's block'. Except that my affliciton has long limbs, hooked claws, hangs upside down from trees and is spelt S-L-O-T-H. There was a time (which goes on to say a lot about my age I guess..sigh!!) when I would wait for a spark of inspiration to write about. Many of my friends found their colourful lives gloriously blown out of proportion under the euphemism of 'fictionalization' and emailed back to them as word doc attachments. They discovered previously unknown and unexperienced facets of their own personality. The Lopas, Shaileshs and Hemas of my world found themselves referred to as L, S and H on my blog, more to lessen my guilt about taking creative liberties while writing about them than to protect their identities. Cut to twenty-ten. And whenever I am gripped by an urge to write, when the words spur a sudden neuron activity sending a tingle down my arms into my fingers, I just shut my eyes and wait for that urge to pass. Like a wave of nausea that washes over you and then goes away with a deep breath. <br />
<br />
And just as I logged into Blogger, the '99 posts' text on the Dashboard caught my eye. So this would be the 100th post. So it had to be a commemorative post. While the rest of the world writes about the best and worst of the year that just whooshed by, I will sit and write about my little-over-5 years on Blogspot. From sending messages to close friends, friends of friends and just about everybody within the six degrees of separation to 'check out my blog' to getting to know from somebody you hardly speak to that they have been following your blog and quite liking it. From opening the blog ten times a day on a 56kbps dial-up connection to see if there are any fresh comments (ohh...the excitement of finding a new comment and the subsequent fall of all joy and hope when you find that the comment is from an online pharmacy offering you a 10% discount on 'performance enhancing' drugs) to email alerts about new comments and followups. I could just go on and on with these from-to statements. I guess it is just one of those many things you learn with age. That thing they call 'nostalgia'. (Strange how close it sounds to nausea). <br />
But just when I was too busy composing my commemorative post, I realised that 14 out of those 99 posts are drafts. Sudden strokes of imagination that flashed and were flushed soon after. So technically this will not be the 100th post. Never mind. My profile has not been updated ever since day one - except for the picture which I thought back then was a nice sepia. My blog page is still linked to the blogs of some of my friends who gave up blogging after an initial burst of enthusiasm or moved onto newer and quicker pastures like FB and Twitter. And there are none of those fancy widgets or much-needed monetizing options on my blog page. All in all, it is just as it used to be 5 years back. With the addition of a lotus-bud picture, which really doesn't serve much to liven up the page. And so my much-touted commemorative post turned into yet another regular rant. But hopefully this time I shall take stock and shift my attention lock-stock-and-barrel onto some more writing. Both on and off the blog. So any of you gets a new Orkut testimonial or a handwritten card from me extolling your existent and non-existent virtues, five months before your birthday, please DON'T PANIC :)Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-49899547502539401652009-11-24T17:04:00.004+05:302009-11-24T17:12:09.360+05:30Epiphany<span style="font-style:italic;"><br />An excerpt from 'Notes to Myself' <br />by Hugh Prather <br /></span><br />I talk because I feel, and I talk to you<br />because I want you to know how I feel. <br /><br />My statements are requests.<br />My questions are statements.<br />My trivia is an invitation to be friends.<br /><br />My gossip is a plea: Please see me as <br />incapable of that. Please respect me.<br /><br />My arguments insist: I want you to show<br />respect for me by agreeing with me. This<br />is the way <span style="font-style:italic;">I</span> say it is.<br /><br />And my criticism informs you: You hurt my<br />feelings a minute ago.Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-26174856355174102252009-11-23T16:13:00.004+05:302009-11-25T13:17:46.582+05:30reflection<span style="font-style:italic;">Dug up something from the past...</span><br /><br />You are everything I hate in me<br />Perfect ivory whites smiling <br />when you want to cry<br />Lips dancing to cheer <br />all when the heart is wry<br />Eyes jade with envy<br />None but one you see<br />Wanting to possess <br />but being owned not<br />Expecting the world<br />but expressing naught<br />Walking away at will<br />Drawing close on a whim<br />Leaving the other empty <br />At times filled to the brim<br />The taunting laugh. The brusque word<br />Throwing caution to the air<br />Hiding more than you reveal<br />With not a care to spare<br />Wanting the other to think<br />the way you think and feel<br />Treating every yes and no<br />as though it were a deal<br />Spiteful in giving<br />Revengeful in loving<br />The skewed morality, the flawed soul<br />The two faces each playing its role<br />to perfection<br />No trace of affection<br />Wanting to do a thousand things<br />Uncommitted to a single one<br />Not settling for the moon<br />'cos you think you can have the sun<br />Lost in thought<br />Unfounded in act<br />High on opinion<br />Sub-zero on tact<br />Living in a fantasy<br />Holding on to a dream<br />Turning your back to reality<br />Humming when you want to scream<br />Captive in your freedom<br />Deceptive in your truth<br />Zealous.Jealous.Shallow.Callous<br />Euphoric.Ennui.Morose.Free.<br />You are everything I hate in me<br />You are everything I hate to beNeelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-65372595581381525572009-10-05T20:01:00.003+05:302009-10-05T20:42:59.166+05:30p e a c e.so what does it take to make<br />your peace with someone?<br />a sorry. a phone call.<br />or maybe some writing on the wall.<br />a meeting over coffee.<br />a shared smoke. a tad too sweet tea.<br />flowers for the romantics.<br />apology in blood. more fancy antics.<br />a joke you can't help laughing at.<br />a kiss. a hug. a smile. the doff of a hat.<br />a word. a touch. maybe just good old silence.<br />with the moments ticking by<br />a fight.insults.fists.slaps<br />tears smarting and stinging the eye.<br /><br />when all is well and ends well<br />and peace is made with someone<br />you sit back and wonder how long before <br />you make your peace with all that was said and doneNeelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-36187067083227653282009-09-20T21:19:00.002+05:302009-09-20T21:26:11.747+05:30great expectationsexpectations.<br />what color are they? the grey of a pregnant cloud?<br />or the yellow-green of bile rising in your throat?<br />in what shapes and sizes do they come?<br />big round encompassing circles?<br />pointy skinny triangles that poke, no matter any which way you turn them?<br />how do they look like?<br />knitted eyebrows? wringing hands?<br />sheepish grins? sneering lopsided grins?<br />i would like to meet one of them.<br />look them in the eye.<br />and then walk away.<br />whistling my own tune.<br />down my own way.Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-36945475037002177452009-09-08T22:50:00.002+05:302009-09-08T23:30:49.196+05:30the inner circlesometimes i want to fly....far far away from them all<br />doubting thomases and peeping toms<br />snooty susies and cheap floozies<br />comments and opinions galore<br />politics and perspectives<br />attitudes and agendas<br />lilacs and magentas<br />bitch sessions. cat fights<br />and a whole lot of puppy love<br />cheap thrills. expensive tastes.<br />carbon emissions and plastic wastes.<br />what nexts and why mes<br />i-told-u-sos and let-me-bes<br />future planning, living in the present<br />getting in touch with the past <br />fashions that come and go<br />things that are built to last<br />tantrums, arguments and jealousy<br />joy, happiness and ecstasy <br />frustrations. disgust. <br />hunger and a lil bit of thirst<br />love and war<br />war and peace<br />peace and solitude<br />solitude and bliss<br />mourning and celebration<br />thumbs down. standing ovation.<br />wants, needs, cravings<br />the haves. the have-nots<br />and the we-dont-cares<br /><br />sometimes i want to fly away from them all....<br />but i am a part of them. they are a part of me.Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-53370534029910843672009-08-15T22:46:00.002+05:302009-08-15T22:50:29.684+05:30Unbreak...habits made. habits broken.<br />promises made. promises broken.<br />hearts won. hearts broken.<br />trust earned. trust broken.<br />bonds formed. bonds broken.<br /><br />a day to mend.<br />a lifetime to unbreak.Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-44343685469429114652009-08-07T22:16:00.005+05:302009-08-07T23:38:58.258+05:30if...if for every dream dreamt<br />there would be memories<br />if every regret entitled you<br />to a second chance<br />and each mistake made<br />could be undone<br />if every laugh laughed<br />could be held in the hands<br />and cupped to the ear<br />if for every nightmare<br />two hands would protect<br />and hold you close<br />if every moment spent<br />could be earned back<br />and spent again<br />if every tear that fell<br />tickled the lips<br />into a smile<br />if every thought that<br />crossed the mind<br />could be frozen for a second<br />and let loose again<br />if life could be lived again<br />through all the ifs<br />and enjoyed all the same...Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-88674970409040593222009-07-07T15:19:00.003+05:302009-07-07T16:34:14.161+05:30Travel DrivelIt would be highly presumptuous of me to call myself a 'traveller'. As a child the only travelling I did was from my home to my native place for summer vacations and any other sundry holidays that dotted the calendar. Add to that the occasional trip to Pune or Mumbai to visit family and friends....that would pretty much sum up the travel diary of my early years.<br />But as I grew up, I had the good fortune of travelling to quite a few places, taking a few thousand photographs and doing the quintessential touristy things. <br /><br />What amazes me even today is how we form a mental image of a place much before we even set our sight on it or foot in it. Earlier it was word-of-mouth - that "oh-so-reliable" source of information that made or mauled a place for us. And maybe an occasional postcard that a distant relative had sent from london - more to inform you that he is in london than to give you a dekko of the Big Ben and the big fat red buses. <br />My sister's stamp collection is largely responsible for my mental image of Australia being the 'pregnant pearl'Opera House and that of Kampuchea (which I later learnt is Cambodia) being a big fat half-green half-brown lizard with its tongue sticking out. Based on what the next door Kumars (or Silvas or Subramanians or Joshis, depending upon which latitude-longitude you are sitting on) say after their recent vacation to Singapore, you decide whether to mentally scratch it off your travel list or to convince your better-half about how it would make more sense to go to Singapore than to invest all that money in the stock market (what with the erratic sensex and union budget et al) and then spend the rest of your weekend sashaying on the streets of Singapore and giving a thousand-watt smile in front of the lion fountain..all in the Singapore of your mind.<br /><br />I was jus doin a quick top-down of my immediate "must-see" list...and heres what i found: <br /><br />Sicily : Old houses with balconies facing the road, bullet marks in their walls, old women sitting on porches sewing wrinkles onto little pieces of fabrics, men in suspenders with slick hair and lopsised charming smiles and mysterious ways, chunks of tomatoes drying in the sun, the smell of bell peppers frying in olive oil wafting onto the roads, faint music playing in the background. I guess it would not really take a Freud to guess where this one is from. and strangely, the whole mental picture is in black and white...<br /><br />Calcutta : When you have two 'Bongs' (one dyed in the Bengali culture from head to toe and the other reluctant to be typecast as a Bengali and yet retaining a healthy nostalgia for the Calcutta of his childhood) giving you a healthy dose of Bengali music, "shorsher maach" and stories from the "DomDom ilaaka" and "Bara Bazaar" everyday (I hope I have got the pronunciations right....with all due respect) it is difficult not to fall in love with Calcutta. It has always meant to me wide streets with trams and cabs ambling by, women with big eyes and tiny puffs in the sleeves of their saree blouses, steam rising on the streets out of nowhere, the fervour of Durga Puja and spending days cooped up in an old apartment engrossed in writing a book as the sounds of the streets ride piggyback on the strands of light entering through the tiny crack in the window. Where 36 Chowringhee Lane meets Parineeta meets the Calcutta of my friend's stories....<br /><br />This could just go on and on..right down to the last place on my travel list. And its the same story. Same vivid mental image- meticulously put together from fragements of hearsay, pictures, wiki and facebook, memories, movies and music. Just like a jigsaw puzzle. A montage.<br />I guess we almost always see a place much before we actually see it....Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-19684409363759961702009-06-30T16:52:00.002+05:302009-06-30T16:54:31.789+05:30eavesdropping...N: ...its just a temporary phase...this too will pass<br />K: even a storm eventually passes...but leaves in its wake<br /> a trail of destruction...<br />N: hmmm....<br /> dont worry..i won't let this draft turn into a storm<br />K: hmmm...Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8848439.post-3666414978504286022009-06-30T13:44:00.003+05:302009-06-30T16:50:37.670+05:30twilight zone...when the dusk has just bade<br />its goodbyes to the skies<br />and the dawn is still away<br />by a few hundred miles<br />the twilight comes dancing<br />with twinkling stars in its eyes...<br /><br />and it casts shadows<br />long, dark and brooding<br />so near, so close<br />you can almost hear their hearts beating<br />and all thats hidden, comes to fore<br />fear, confessions and a secret meeting<br /><br />it casts a spell,<br />holds you in its sight<br />in a hyponotic hug<br />of no day, no night<br />no time nor any space<br />no wrong and no right<br /><br />and as you lay entwined<br />in its magical glow<br />it sings its last song<br />and with a last bow<br />vanishes into the dark<br />with no promise of a 'morrow...Neelam Prabhugaonker Shetyehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00408956026305029838noreply@blogger.com2