tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38921062033701807812024-02-19T06:40:55.838-08:00stream of consciousness.......This blog is about anything and everything that comes to my mind....<a href="http://www.copyscape.com/unique-content/"><img src="http://banners.copyscape.com/images/cs-bk-120x60.gif" alt="Protected by Copyscape Unique Content Checker" title="Protected by Copyscape Plagiarism Checker - Do not copy content from this page." width="120" height="60" border="0"></a>sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-20354851014274876082013-06-20T23:34:00.000-07:002013-06-20T23:39:58.243-07:00.....about spellings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is my 6 year old son again....he misspelled cave as kave in his class dictation and his teacher gave homework to write it five times. It was my, the mum's, task to take up the arduous work of making him do it. I laid out his copy and asked him to do the corrections. My son took one look at his copybook and refused saying, " Explain why it is cave and not kave." I looked at him with no answer to offer. He went on saying, "and you make me write mi in mice and then you make me write my in my and first you decide how it should be written. Other day teacher marked me wrong when I wrote craud and made be write crowd. then then you say crow (that black bird). What do you think confusing a little boy like me!" Honestly, i have no answer. I tell him,"Look the English do many things which have to rhyme or reason and it is not only their language!" He seems to agree on the language front.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-46400379650741347542013-06-18T20:53:00.002-07:002013-06-20T23:18:14.195-07:00Boys will be boys<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This morning I was taking my children to school...on the way my nine years old daughter saw a picture of a Japanese girl and expressed her desire to draw it. My son, six years old, tells her, " Edom thik kore akish kintu."( draw it properly). My daughter is already looking a little indignant. I suspect a squabble brewing and tell him, "you also can draw it." He says, " Nah! I'll draw and excavator and hmmm a zoo." .... boys will be boy I was about to think when my son asks, "and what was that?"<br />
" What was what?" I ask.<br />
" Thaaaat," he says again. I look out of the window and try to spot a bird or a tree. "You have to explain to me how it looks so that i can tell you," I tell him.<br />
He just points at the road see through the windscreen, "That," he says pointing at the striped little upheaval on the road ahead, " Oh!" I say with a smile,"that's a speed breaker."<br />
"So, tt could be one bump, or two bumps or three bumps or 5 bumps or 10 bumps," he was babbling to himself I thought. <br />
" So when does a speed breaker become a rumble strip?"<br />
" What's a rumble strip?" I am actually clueless.<br />
" When there are five or more speed breakers together they become rumble strip."<br />
Is it? It's their mom's turn to learn now.... boys and their interests!!!!!!!<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-66161183066979205272012-06-04T04:49:00.001-07:002012-08-31T02:51:24.876-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This year i have been lazy...so terribly terribly lazy...not a word on board and it's almost mid year. How fast time flies and only yesterday I was young and strapping ( don't laugh..well almost strapping....ok let's settle for young and energetic, Happy?). Now the little grey roots that keep appearing on my head which tells me I am not that young anymore. And that back which creaks slightly every time I try to get up. It's just a slight creak though. All those LBDs are not my cup any more. The lovely dresses that hangs on the shop windows on svelte mannequins will not suit me anymore. Sigh! Settle for something more forgiving for your frame, my head tells me... double sigh! And I thought all the time there is time....but suddenly realise when did all the time pass? ( To be contd;)<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-33191735148762209382012-01-08T22:00:00.000-08:002012-01-09T03:21:55.267-08:00Happy New Year!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yes, I need to write something on new year! It's 2012! What are our hopes? What are our fears? How do you want our lives to change? Or do we want our life to change at all? Soon it will be 2013 and we will be asking the same questions all over again.<br />
Guys, its just the year that changes...... we don't. Happy new year! have a great 2012!</div>sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-90652635507873772512011-12-28T02:50:00.000-08:002012-06-05T23:30:26.331-07:00Nira’s night out, A Short Story~Sudz<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
( A short story this time)<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 16px;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Nira’s night out</span></strong></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 16px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Was published on 20 December 2010 in the 8TH DAY, The Statesman.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 16px;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Short Story~S<em>udz</em></span></strong></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 16px;">
<strong><em><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></em></strong></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 16px;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheL4TELSz9XCqXrps1IUsYfoj2ZF_fggi6Y_fQLi2s9lkpbO1tqqfabmCIBmRPvFizIe_vZf8xaEPnKu5nT0SHnUMlGTp9G1-4WJNX4ftWI0wa_V_ACGtMSkvsmGuPCioG9okcrKdAVMU/s1600/11042012754.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheL4TELSz9XCqXrps1IUsYfoj2ZF_fggi6Y_fQLi2s9lkpbO1tqqfabmCIBmRPvFizIe_vZf8xaEPnKu5nT0SHnUMlGTp9G1-4WJNX4ftWI0wa_V_ACGtMSkvsmGuPCioG9okcrKdAVMU/s400/11042012754.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The winter seemed like an unsteady lover, sometimes very intense while at others just playfully banteresqe to the extent of being indifferent. Thus carrying a shawl was as mandatory as it was unnecessary. Nature was at its paradoxical best that made one crave the subtle warmth and the chill. “Yeah! I’ll take the sweater today,” said Nira as if in answer to the reproachful look of her mother, as she held out the sweater to her. This was the bone of contention every morning. While Nira refused the extra luggage, her mother insisted in seeing her properly draped. “I am bound to oblige you,” she said, taking the sweater with a smile. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Thank you, your highness for your small mercies,” said her mother looking pleased. Nira hugged her as she readied her bag for work. Being a journalist was fun despite the hard work. She had a party to cover that evening. “Maa,” she said cautiously approaching the topic, “I’d be late today. Boss wants me to cover a late night event. I’ll be back by 10.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Her mother stopped and swung around... concerned, a bit disturbed. “Why don’t you quit this job? You don’t heed my advice and your dad’s not in town. Your company doesn’t give you a car. Give me your boss’s number; I’ll talk to him,” she raged. “Don’t worry Maa(Mother), I’ll ask Sujitda to accompany me back.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “The same guy who saw you off last time you were late?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Yes.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “That drunkard who had to he escorted back by your dad!” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Try to understand Maa,” reasoned Nira. “If I don’t go I’ll lose out on contacts.” Besides, Nira really liked attending events partly because of the attention she got. She was young, still new in the profession and attention gave her a new high. But such things never really featured on her mother’s priority list. So she just said, “This is part of my job Maa... accept it.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Do I have an option?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The party ended well past 11 o’clock that evening. Sujitda, Nira’s so-called escort, couldn’t be traced. She took a cab and all would have gone off well had the taxi not broken down in the middle of EM Bypass leaving her stranded on the deserted road. “Wait for a bus,” suggested the taxiwallah as Nira ventured out grumbling. EM Bypass was definitely not a safe place for a young woman like her at that hour. But Kolkata was still a safe place, she assured herself, as she walked towards the bus stop. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The place was empty except for an individual who seemed lost in thoughts. His clothes could have been branded but the casualness with which they were worn gave her a feeling that either he was indifferent about how he looked or had to do a lot of hard work in course of the day. “One of those insipid creatures,” thought Nira and did not even bother to look at his face. He, too, didn’t seem to be the interfering type. Nira stood waiting as the minutes rolled by.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0MO5mo0Tv_EKoMkSM62PTTXsiKpx6_8c620eFc7jfl2KQhQfTByD6E9Wp98k72IueH3mrM01SimcUEgG-flNIhOP3eoRxc1p71UcDVuLPr0zG2F4aal_0Qmm-SL6LRWVuxK0-TeGEVY/s1600/010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0MO5mo0Tv_EKoMkSM62PTTXsiKpx6_8c620eFc7jfl2KQhQfTByD6E9Wp98k72IueH3mrM01SimcUEgG-flNIhOP3eoRxc1p71UcDVuLPr0zG2F4aal_0Qmm-SL6LRWVuxK0-TeGEVY/s400/010.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Nothing came. A car packed with revelers sped down the road and Nira’s heart suddenly missed a beat. She crossed her fingers as her first prayer, in many days, passed her lips. For the first time it dawned on her why her mother insisted she quit the job. A few minutes later, a car stopped by the bus stand; the door opened and a middle-aged man gestured at her. Nira was stunned. She pulled her sweater sleeves tight towards her, ignoring him even as the man stretched his right hand full of notes. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks and she drew back with a start. She was almost preparing to run when a grave voice from behind her said, “Leave her alone, she is with me.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Oh,” the man banged the door shut and ordered the driver to move on. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Nira turned to look at the “insipid creature”, her savior. Was he her savior? She hoped he wouldn’t take advantage of her situation. “Oh god!” She prayed. “Let this man be a nice guy. Even if he is not, change him by your benign power. Think of my mother. She has never harmed anyone. Even though she may not have the best daughter in the world, she would prove hard to console if something happens to me. Help me for her sake. God, please…”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Though it’s no concern of mine, you should not be out so late,” said the man nonchalantly. “It’s almost 12.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “I know,” she said apologetically and started explaining. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “You mean you don’t keep such weird hours, today’s an exception?” he asked, smiling. Nira guessed he didn’t believe her. “Look,” he continued, “no point standing here for a bus. There wouldn’t be any to take you home at this hour. Let’s start walking home,” he said as he started walking down the footpath, at a distance from the bus stop. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Nira had no idea what to do. Should she go with him or stay put? Waiting for a bus alone wasn’t a safe bet either. Should her worst fears about the man come true, she could just hit with her bag and run. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The man had almost walked 15 steps when he stopped and looked back at her. “In case your home’s this way, you could come,” he called. The man still seemed suspicious to Nira. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Right then a car stopped a few yards beyond the bus stand. It was slowly backing up towards where she was standing. Could beggars be choosers? Between the devil and the deep sea, she almost thought audibly, sprinting up to him. He seemed to be quite a fast walker. Nira had to break into a trot at times to keep pace with him. The exercise left her quite breathless to talk much. “ You are not much of a walker, are you?,” he noticed at last lessening his pace and offering to carry one of her bags which she was carrying. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> What it appeared, that through the main road Nira was quite far from her home, but a detour through the alleys and lanes could land her home much faster than she thought. Of course, this was not her own discovery. Nira barely had the inkling how to take on those alleys and by lanes. “I will show you the way,” he offered. What if some of his accomplices were waiting in one of the corners, thought Nira? She rummaged her hand bag for the deo spray and kept it handy. She would just spray it on their eyes should the occasion arise.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “What is your name?” asked Nira at last. (Just in case the police would want know his name)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Abhay,” he answered. He did not even bother to ask Nira her name.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “I am Nira,” said she nonetheless.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Abhay just shrugged.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “What were you doing in the bus stop at that hour of the night?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “I generally return late from work,” he replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “And you are a..?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “I am a no one. It doesn’t matter, does it?” his abruptness seemed to stun Nira.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “I just asked…I..I..I think you are quite rude!” said Nira, unable to control herself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said rather impatiently. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> They walked in silence through the silent streets deserted except for a few dogs. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> At last it was Abhay who spoke, “Your house should be few more minutes walk,’ he disclosed, “Ummm…who all are there in your house?” he asked. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Nira had almost forgotten his snub when she started, “Mom….dad is….” she trailed remembering, “It doesn’t matter, does it?” she returned. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Abhay smiled broadly this time. For a moment Nira forgot everything to notice how good he looked when he smiled. Nira shook her head as if in rebuke to herself. Just clear your head, missy, she told herself, next turning and you might be finding this guy attacking you. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> When she came out of her thoughts she found Abhay looking intently at her. “Yeah?’ she frowned.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “I was precisely waiting for you to come out of your reverie,” he replied, still smiling, “Whoever, is there at your home must be sick with worry by now. There is a phone booth still open round the corner and I think you should make a call,” he said. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “How do you know about this phone booth and do you know them?” asked Nira. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Look, the choice is yours. I was just trying to help,” he said looking the other way. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Why are you trying to help?” she asked looking straight into his eyes. Their eyes locked for a moment. Something in his eyes told Nira she should not have broached on this topic. Abhay then said abruptly,” Fine, then, that's it! You are on your own,” he quipped walking away. He had gone a half a meter when Nira saw him returning. Smitten by my charms, smiled Nira to herself, as she saw him approaching. Nira actually was a good looking girl. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “You are right, why am I trying to help you? Why did I help you at all?” he said, slamming her bag which he was carrying into her hand. With brusque steps, Abhay turned the corner and disappeared. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Nira now stood on the empty street. She almost called out to her night knight beseeching him to return. But her pride came in between. As she turned the corner she noticed the telephone booth by the side of the road. It was actually a room of a house where an old woman was preparing to close the window which served as a counter. Nira did not make the call she just walked on letting her intuition take its course. Down the road she saw a crossing. Nira knew it. Two turnings down that road was her home. “Huh! Mr Abhay..I am home,” she said. But no sooner did these words leave her mouth; she saw two figures emerge from out of the darkness swaying gently as if by the breeze of the winter night. Nira knew they were drunk. As they approached her, of them stopped her and asked, “Aije madam, May I have the honour of your company just for a dance.” Nira tried to ignore and keep walking but they kept coming her way asking her for a dance. “Let me go,” she pleaded. But such pleas at these hours of the night went unheard by people in their senses, what could she expect from mindless drunks? Just then she felt a hand on her shoulder almost chaperoning her out of their clutches with an order, “keep walking.” Nira knew that baritone voice. With a relief in her voice she could only say, “Thank you.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> In two minutes Nira was standing in front of her house. “Is this your house?” asked Abhay. “Yes,” was her relieved reply. The blazing living room lights told her, that mother was still awake. That was natural! So, like Maa, she smiled warmly. Abhay was after all not a bad guy as she had thought! He was only trying to help, Nira thought with a smile. Maybe he will ask me for a cup of coffee tomorrow. Not to mention I will agree. But first let me thank him… </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Nira turned to Abhay. But where was he? There was no sign of him. Not now… not ever. Nira did not even get to tell him thank you! An opaque winter fog seemed to envelop everything around just leaving behind a trail of that winter night walk and a faith that still existed a few good men. </span><br />
<br /></div>sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-801416202064642052011-12-24T02:59:00.000-08:002012-01-03T03:23:05.114-08:00Merry Christmas!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-large;"><i><b style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">Merry Christmas!</b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjFNRjIrtqW9k7_-UgdJOxQTdkZFkRj1wqNXnrDhJJWFaYijAvCT65lJStT-O_tNXa8vIIMnDTDSLMjcYIgv0LF2Viu4zJ9USk1i_C5ikeielHdsOmCilx83LlESCPH6rqlk7qV-qeb0/s1600/Cake.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjFNRjIrtqW9k7_-UgdJOxQTdkZFkRj1wqNXnrDhJJWFaYijAvCT65lJStT-O_tNXa8vIIMnDTDSLMjcYIgv0LF2Viu4zJ9USk1i_C5ikeielHdsOmCilx83LlESCPH6rqlk7qV-qeb0/s640/Cake.JPG" width="480" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i><b style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-size: large;">I</span>t’s 24<sup>th</sup> night. The Christmas tree is dressed and ready. Socks have been hung. Letters to Santa Claus have been written. It says something like this, “ I have been very good for the whole of last year, well almost. It is hard to be very good that long. But at least I have tried. And so has brother. Please ignore all his naughtiness and give both of us nice gifts. He also deserves it, really. Please have the cookie(the cookie was cut and then cake was written it it’s place). A piece of cake has been placed on a plate along with a glass of water. Sohini wanted to keep cookies (Chocolate chip Cookies, in fact) but I (their mother) said we had run out of them. I offered thin arrowroot. Both Sohini and Rohin looked hurt. “How could you give Santa something which we so grudgingly eat?” they tried to reason. I smiled within...memories of my childhood were flooding in. But looked at them sternly. Later of course, they were allowed to keep a slice of Dundee cake. Both are extremely excited. Sohini wants to keep the front door open. “Now, that we don’t have fireplaces anymore, how will Santa come in. Besides mama he is a old man it is difficult to climb up the window. Let’s just leave the front door open.” Rohin wants to stay up and bargain a better gift in case Santa chose to give him something he did not like. “What if he gives me a girlie gift, mama?” he cautions.</b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i><b style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"> “ He knows you are a boy and a very naughty one,” I inform with a laugh.</b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i><b style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">“Say he chooses to give me a doll or a word game and I am there I would tell him then and there Mr Santa, Sir, I am a boy so please give me a drum or a gun or a football. He would have it all in his sack. He would just have to change it.”</b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i><b style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">I just start laughing. But papa Claus looks quite cross. Its freezing outside and he has to smuggle the gifts in from the car dicky. “ I am not fetching them if you don’t put them to sleep right now,” he warns. It is an absolute Ho Ho Ho situation at home. I imagine myself having to go all the way down from my seventh floor apartment to the parking area. Brrrrrrrr....</b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i><b style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">“Children Santa won’t come if you don’t go to sleep right now,” I hurry the kids to the bedroom as I hear a slight creak in the door. Within minutes they are in their dream world.....dreaming of Santa Claus.</b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i><b style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">Papa Santa had the hardest job. But he too is back within minutes and tells me the gifts are in their assigned places. “And don’t for get to eat the cake in the morning,” he reminds, “I am too full now.”</b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i><b style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">“Don’t worry I will,” I tell him setting the alarm at 5 o’clock.</b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>I slept badly waking up in fits and starts and scampering up every now and then to reach out for the watch. I almost ate five slices of cakes in my dream. Thank God it was a dream or else I would have felt really giddy having eaten so many of those Dundee cakes. Actually, I really had a bad taste in my mouth when I eventually woke up. Every time, I would wake up and go to sleep I would dream of myself stealthily tip toeing down the living room and reaching for the cake. I first woke that 1 o'clock and then at 2.30 and then at 4. Ah! there is time, I said every time settling back to sleep and then eating another slice of those cakes. At five o'clock when the alarm really did go, I reached out for it and switched it off and told myself, waking up in a minute. </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b><br /></b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>When I woke up it was 6:30. The children were up and I could hear the squeals and shouts of joy coming from the living room. They had found their gifts. I smile and settle back into the bed only to realise that I had not eaten the cake. I rush up to the living room. The children are ripping apart the wrappings around their gifts. "It's a drum," shouts Rohin while Sohini just hugs her Kitchenette. She has moon in her eyes when she says, "He read my mind. He knew I wanted just this." But I am frantically searching for plate the cake. My eyes fall on the empty plate and I slump back to the couch in relief. "All of it was not a dream after all," i told myself," I had actually woken up and eaten the cake." I hug the children and wish them Merry Christmas. "Merry Christmas, Mom," they shout in unison. Only papa Santa looks a little grumpy, I feel as I served him tea. </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>" So?", he asks when we are alone, " How was the cake?" he asks. </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>I new something was wrong and kept my silence.</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>"Trust you with a job," he says refusing the biscuits with his tea,"The cake, the cake, you talked all night in your sleep not letting me catch a wink. And, here I find the cake sitting nicely on the plate and you snoring away."</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>"So, you ate the cake?" I asked, "and I was thinking I must have eaten it." </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>"I gobbled it at the nick of time," he informed,"Couldn't let them down."</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>"I know," feeling sad that I couldn't play my part.</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b><br /></b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>" And Santa ate the cake," I see Sohini peeping from the playroom, "that is why I was wondering what was that tinkering sound at mid night. It was Santa!" she exclaimed. </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>"So, you heard him?" I ask.</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>" Yes, I did," tells my little girl.</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>"He also said Ho, Ho, Ho, in my ear, I think," tells Rohin.</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>" which ear?" I ask.</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>"Both ears," he tells. I am laughing already.</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>"How is that possible?" questions her elder sister unwilling to accept Santa doing something better to her bother.</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b>"Everything is possible with him..he is Santa," argues Rohin.</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b> While Sohini is looking extremely angry and skeptical I settle down into another reverie of my own childhood where there was similar excitement over this extremely lovable old man in a red suit with fur trimmings. </b></i></span><br />
<i style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Calibri;"><b><br /></b></i><br />
<i style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Calibri;"><b> Sometimes I feel that the children will soon out grow this world of make belief where there are pixies and fairies and gnomes and Santa Claus and that little pink fairy in Sohini's school bag who sharpens her pencils every night and the little brownie in the children's cupboard who looks after their toys. They would laugh at the whole idea just like we do. But, thank God there was a Santa Claus who made us look forward to Christmas. The cold winters were much more tolerable because there was a fairy round the corner of the street. The old toys were so lovable because it spoke to the brownie every night. And lastly, it was after all the pink fairy's fault and not the forgetful mother when the pencils were not sharpened in the morning. </b></i><br />
<i style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Calibri;"><b><br /></b></i><br />
<i style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Calibri;"><b>To end, on this cold winter morning my mind races back to my childhood where mama would be busy preparing breakfast and she would call us and say " Go out into the sun....the fairies are waiting to see how you are today." I now know it was maa and pa all the time and their love and made that wonderful world of make belief possible! </b></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b><br /></b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b><br /></b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
</div>
</div>sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-51233109267320751612011-09-09T04:49:00.000-07:002013-06-18T21:00:25.520-07:00ektu Bangla hoye Jak!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hotath likhe phellam koyekta line......<br />
<br />
1.<br />
Metho path,<br />
Dheno path,<br />
geche eke beke.....<br />
eke geche beke geche.....<br />
geche koto dure.....<br />
Dure aaro dure....<br />
bohu dure geche beke....<br />
eke geche beke geche.....<br />
geche koto dure.....<br />
shei dike chokh jai....<br />
mon jai ure......<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-55418493044069115682011-08-18T05:24:00.000-07:002012-06-05T23:29:39.767-07:00Hmmmmmmmmmm....Trying to overcome the writer's block!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div closure_uid_qtprbf="97">
( I scribbled this piece on my note pad on an afternoon when severely hit by writers block....I kept writing what ever came to my mind....you never know who can play your muse!)<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2vyANCJf7OIYt2KhgRIBrjHHRZYx0U6xxm-sL3JpwO9eV8cR9WRmXspy0F9eSgOCRXoDBa3mmdRjgoH55rFyGuwoVOX1fsX3QKkDHwLITMmVZhyphenhyphenu5SE_bX-1rLUONqBlT0Vt0yA_esJE/s1600/26122011260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2vyANCJf7OIYt2KhgRIBrjHHRZYx0U6xxm-sL3JpwO9eV8cR9WRmXspy0F9eSgOCRXoDBa3mmdRjgoH55rFyGuwoVOX1fsX3QKkDHwLITMmVZhyphenhyphenu5SE_bX-1rLUONqBlT0Vt0yA_esJE/s400/26122011260.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photograph -Sudz</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
...<span style="font-size: large;">h</span>ere is a blank page and it tells me to write.....I look at it...hard.....thinking.....what should I write? You tell me what I should write I ask the blank page......it smiles(blank page smiling???? am I going nuts).....but it does smile....with all it's crisp, whiteness......and says don't you know what I want you to write?.....now don't you play with me white, blank page.....don't you flirt with me ..I am warning you......with that <i>herowallah</i> smile and question( yeah! question is included too)...what's wrong with the question? you ask me....everything is wrong with the question, I say..It has a flirty edge, if you insist on knowing...and very unbecoming.....you are hardly <i>herowallah</i>...you are just a blank page.......what if I tear you into pieces just this minute?...that would be the end of you....you are smiling?...no, actually you are laughing.....at me? You are daring me, are you? Actually I am, tells me the blank page still that laughter trailing it's eyes, if you tear me our story never gets written....<i>mazza toh tab ayee jab saap bhi mar jayee aur lathi bhi na tute</i>.....it tells....think, think, think.....may be that is the way you can overcome your writer's block or laziness.....whatever syndrome you choose to name it! How will you undo my blank page! It asks as I pick up my pen.....ok, blank page I take up the challenge......A broad smile comes over the blank page as it asks, friends then? .....yeah! friends, I tell...okkkkk it says excitedly, as the tip of the pen archs on it,, just one thing more! I stop looking enquiringly....Be careful, it cautions, I hate bad language, spelling mistakes and careless punctuation errors... blank page this is too much.....oh! it's much, much, it tells ....I am almost hearing it hum, <i>barbadiyo ka jashn manata chala gaya </i>while I write....what a musical page you are....Madam, have you noticed you have undone quite a bit of me already.......I am no more a blank page entirely.......Now I am a page full of crap.....and not to mention the bad hand writing that comes with it!</div>
</div>
</div>sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-55431703853539028122011-01-12T02:35:00.000-08:002011-01-12T02:35:02.526-08:00I think this is a classic case of a stream drying up or loosing it's way......perhaps blogging is not my cup of chai!sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-6903040185338610362010-11-22T04:05:00.000-08:002010-11-22T04:05:35.127-08:00Wondering what to write!I need to write something....but I am seriously wondering what!sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-56491221998343882862010-10-04T03:39:00.000-07:002011-12-26T01:49:41.464-08:00Starry Starry Vincent<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Vincent Van Gogh happens to be my favourite atrist. No wonder I love listening to Don Macleans Starry, Starry Night so much. Some times, when I look at his paintings in blues and yellows, the colours seem to spill over and colour my life in shades of the Sun Flower or the Irishes. I regale in the most Van Goghesque maddness of colours. Some times you don't need a brush to paint your life....you are enough! All of us have a madness within us. All of us have a Van Gogh. Are you in touch with the Van Gogh within you?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdDineuKnD5F83iKySqg22B8-APBRmjWfI8Mfqc3BsG5sfg2hOSwzs7qBDPwupxZVcpqRf1k2pyaHvbtQLYiTODm7C5efhRSw_VG1tt9tjoqW3zXDnZ7dW3yt5pH2AeRIGXbqsvEd7lo/s1600/starrynight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdDineuKnD5F83iKySqg22B8-APBRmjWfI8Mfqc3BsG5sfg2hOSwzs7qBDPwupxZVcpqRf1k2pyaHvbtQLYiTODm7C5efhRSw_VG1tt9tjoqW3zXDnZ7dW3yt5pH2AeRIGXbqsvEd7lo/s400/starrynight.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Starry Starry Night<br />
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,<br />
Swirling clouds in violet haze,<br />
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.<br />
Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,<br />
Weathered faces lined in pain,<br />
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.</div>sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-90097236167171012902010-09-05T02:59:00.000-07:002012-01-08T22:21:45.769-08:00what if........it all began at 90!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I was in school, a friend stayed at the threshold of her adolescence which means her 13th year for three full years till we refused to accept her age. I have found most women find it difficult to admit how old they are. May be the same applies for men... I am no man ! so I can't give you the exact way a man's mind works. Since, none of us are growing any younger we can only hope that by God's benign justice this entire equation of growing old converts to something like growing young. What if we suddenly woke up to discover we are candles and the longer we stand we are likely to grow younger. What joy!<br />
We would be born, may be ninety years old to much younger parents. Imagine the diapering woes of such huge individuals and the task of rocking them to sleep etc etc etc. Imagine taking the children out in prams and pinching their cheeks and saying oh so sweet! It would be such an unflattering experience. Oh! and the first prom!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Jokes aside, birthdays are such wonderful milestones they tell, you have not aged but you have lived life! Enjoy every moment of your life.....tell the world that you have lived that much and this far!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-71066889638073029542010-08-31T11:03:00.000-07:002011-12-28T04:57:26.943-08:00.....Of becoming a Journalist!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxI8Ag9EY63_eUFDEsx1yANCzLPO8vWNawz3MESGzFXTHl9vvRrIwNNqFKjTL3WAOrSV01IXuJxJpAU9gL9JViEH9Bln3zv6QICsCyHijjozCe6_B5mSsjCO-XFBY-j8Db2MrzKKzndw/s1600/28122011273.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxI8Ag9EY63_eUFDEsx1yANCzLPO8vWNawz3MESGzFXTHl9vvRrIwNNqFKjTL3WAOrSV01IXuJxJpAU9gL9JViEH9Bln3zv6QICsCyHijjozCe6_B5mSsjCO-XFBY-j8Db2MrzKKzndw/s320/28122011273.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">W</span>hen I was ten years old I had brought out a handmade newspaper. It had the most unimaginative name - Santa News Times and was shaped like the head of the Santa Claus cut out from a Santa Claus mask which I had. The newspaper had just three copies - carbon copies rather! It had four to five articles generally dealing with who(among friends) was not talking to whom and when and why. Once in a while it also had a happy story of warring factions making up. But rarely! The paper also provided comparative analysis of sweet shops and profound deliberations on why one shop sold the better ones and how the other could improve. However, doing all of that, it never struck me that this was what I ever wanted to do in life.<br />
My first brush with the word journalist happened in class seven. At that time I wanted to become a school teacher. A new girl came to our class and she said she wanted to grow up and become a journalist. I liked the word not really understanding the nitty gritties of the trade. I remember on a few occasions when asked, saying, " I want to be a journalist," just to create effect.<br />
I grew up wanting to be many other things rather than a journalist. I never thought I was a great writer. I still feel my sister who is a professor of commerce is a better writer than me. But I was inquisitive and I used my nose for news. I knew what exactly was cooking in my neighbours home( literally, no puns). I stayed away when they cooked spinach and timed myself exactly when they were to serve the chicken( yet another journalistic trait). But I guess, I was destined to be one. Now, having spent twelve years being paid for what I am writing, writing is the only thing I can imagine doing. Thus, I still write copies of who is talking what and about whom and provide comparative analysis of things which could never be as dear to my heart as sweets!<br />
<br />
(That girl in school who wanted to become a journalist went on to become a fine english teacher. While I became what she wanted to be. <i>Maktub?</i>)</div>sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-48968677755347797342010-08-30T03:14:00.000-07:002010-09-28T04:40:19.327-07:00Goals in life change in a moment!...2At one point in life I wanted to be an artist. I spent two years of my life very seriously pursuing art with the hope that I would join the art college. I spent hours and days at the Kolkata museum sketching statues and figurines to get the exact proportions. My life was smudged with vivid shades of the water colour. I had so many hopes about my prospective career in art. But then my art college entrance exams came few days after I had taken my admission for my literature classes. In fact, it coincided with the day I had my freshers welcome. The freshers welcome came with the prospect of such wonderful excitement of the clothes we would wear, of friendships we would make and of course the spells of ragging we would face, that I just did not go for my art entrance exams! In that brief yet decisive moment when I boarded a different bus my life changed. Though I don't regret having studied literature. I do regret not having pursued art. Some times I wonder how different my life would be had I taken up art?sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3892106203370180781.post-66438370958657164242010-08-29T10:36:00.000-07:002010-09-28T04:39:47.899-07:00Goals in life change in a moment!...1<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">You know, when I was twenty four I looked at life very differently. My aim in life was to have a sports car, a pent house in New York by thirty three. I was working hard at it, pulling up all stops that came my way. But then, all of a sudden I met this new co-worker with whom I got talking about our goals and dreams in life. He heard me quietly and when I finished he related his dream, "I dream of being a station master in a small sleepy station where only one train comes in a day....where there is a small boy there who never grows," he said. In a moment my pent house crashed and the brand new sports car that I planned for life just whizzed away. In a moment my life changed. Many who knew me at that age thought I had lost my ambition. But to me I had a new dream. Sometimes getting off the bus and taking a walk is not bad either. You might think I am a motivational disaster! But I choose to take the detour...... </span></span>sudzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08494460937389936592noreply@blogger.com0