Black Day for humanity and innocence


Hatred has no face or religion.

When will the world of hatred ever understand?

There is no place for terrorism, bloodshed and massacre of innocent children.

Small children in the flower of age taken as shield by vile terrorists,

lives drenched in blood and splattered on the ground.

Black December!

No world can condone the ruthless murder of children, the gift of humanity and God.

Who has the heart to mercilessly kill small and innocent souls?

Has your blood stained hand not trembled once?

Heartless and vile humans touching small and innocent children must be wiped off from earth.

Are you made of stone?

In the name of religion!

Nobody teaches hate in this world,

only spineless bastards do that.

How can you even think of hurting innocent lives like that?

Humanity is dead.

The heart is crying out at the sight of such dastard and cowardice act.

The cries of tender lives, drenched in blood and fighting between life-and-death.

Light coffins are carried in a temple of wisdom, our schools,

yet, a heavy burden for parents and humanity to carry till the end of life.

A child’s twinkling eyes full of hope in the world, thrust its fingers longing for love and

guidance by adults to embrace the world.

Today, we have failed the child.

Hang our heads in shame.

Cry the world! It’s a Black Day for humanity.

We have killed innocence, dreams and hope.

A sad day for humanity.

The heart is crying for innocent children,

we shall not be able to carry this burden on December 16, 2014.

This post is dedicated to the innocent children who were brutally murdered by zealots and cowardice terrorists in Peshawar, Pakistan

V

 

 

 

Love at the expressway in the bus


The Volvo bus that moved at neck breaking speed on the Mumbai-Pune expressway abruptly stopped to a halt. It started pouring heavily which caused an accident that caused bottleneck on the road. He removed a copy of ‘Brunch’ from his bag to read as the bus ambled slowly on its way. Reading always calms his nerves during the tiring traffic that refuses to clamp down.

The tall and fair-looking woman was dressed in a grey corporate suit, struggling to hold her laptop bag, luncheon box and West Side carry bag, sat next to him. “Oh! Women and shopping. Can anyone beat that,” he is amused. He peeked outside the window and wondered when the rain is ever gonna stop. She flips her hair back on her shoulder in a rather sensuous manner that broke his concentration. He felt the scintillating perfume wafting through the air. Struck and mesmerized by her presence and oozing hotness wouldn’t be an under-statement.

Today, his reading took a serious beating and the magazine found its place, cosying to the office files in his bag. He moved right and left, feeling restless at her sight since his heart is now wrecking havoc. “Should I strike a conversation with her? Saying Hi! What if she ignores me and shows attitude. Nah! It will look stupid.” He pulled his ear plug listening to songs and the voice of his favorite RJ, Malishka, on Red FM. Perhaps, radio will make his immune to her charm and boost his ego.

The silence was killing him. Thoughts were raging into his mind, sitting close to each other, their arms brushing past each other. He was dying to tell her how beautiful she is and how his mind has been enraptured by this presence. Yet, he couldn’t garner the courage to approach her. After one hour, the bus swerved towards the Food plaza. She scampered her way out of the bus and he got up, watching her steps. He got out of the bus and the rain has stopped. Lighting a cigarette, he furtively looks around to catch her glimpse but she has disappeared. “No chance,” he told himself. “She is too hot for me.”
He orders a cup of tea at the stall. He took a sip from steamed glass of tea and he was distracted from a hand, gently stroking his shoulder. He turns around and saw her smiling face, flashing her dimples who expressed a sense of familiarity. “Karan, Deepa,” she introduced herself. It took him a while to recover. ‘I was dying to speak to her and she has landed in front of me, calling my name,’ he couldn’t come to terms. He stammered, “H-i-i-i.”

“You remember me, Karan. Wait! How would you?!,”

He is wondering how on earth she knows his name. The thought crossed his mind, ‘Is she a stalker?”

She jumped on her feet and giggled, “Apostolic Carmel High School..we were always together and I would be waiting for you outside the gate every morning. We would hold hands to enter the class.”

“The one day, I left the school because my Dad got transferred to Delhi. Wait, I’ll show you something.”

She fidgeted inside her bag, removed her diary and showed a scribble to Karan written with a child’s handwriting

“Karan and Deepa. Never say good bye.”

Tears rolled down the cheeks. They hugged like lost friends and lovers. On their way to Mumbai, they talked non-stop. The bus stopped at Dadar station and they walked hand-in-hand like during the old days.

V

 

 

 

Everyone Has Their Own Truth.


vishalbheeroo:

A brilliant post that must be read and mulled upon. Let’s be each other’s strength in disagreement. Open up:)

Originally posted on quickmeups - short uplifting messages.:

It seems like the Earth is currently engulfed in arguments. There are religious arguments, geographical disagreements, unrest and frustration. I think one thing  seriously lacking is compassion and understanding.

It can be so easy for us to become consumed by our own viewpoint and belief that only we are correct, which can lead us to completely misunderstand our neighbor. If we each see the world through a unique lens, then of course another life will look strange to us through our lens.

We need to step back for a minute and remember that…

Everyone Has Their Own Truth.

Amish family living a much different life than most of us. Everyone has their own truth.

An Amish family living a much different reality than I do. Photo: OttawaAC

“I feel like when people judge me they’re not judging me, because they don’t know who I am.” – Gisele Bundchen

We each have our own unique set of views and beliefs. My beliefs may be very different than yours, but that doesn’t…

View original 445 more words

Spooky files: The midnight ride


He lies motionless inside the graveyard, frozen in fear, surrounded by the cement slabs housing the dead. The cemetery wore a deserted look as his eyeballs popped out, moving right and left, silently praying that a human soul would come to save his life. The dashing ladies’ man that he once was has been struck over night and now dons the avatar of a frail creature.

Shivering to death in his white tee and paralyzed as fear run down the spine, he slowly turns his neck at the deserted graveyard as no soul-human and otherwise, could be heard from afar. It rained heavily. Not a single whisper broke the night’s silence but dogs ferociously barking to the faceless night. The clock struck midnight.

The powerful engine of the Yamaha bike steered to life, exploding into a thundering noise like his persona, girls swooning to his Don Juan charm. The hot wheels, coated by metallic steel rolled like magnetic thunder as he sat straight on the leather cushion and riding like the King of heart, swirling and dangling in the air, wearing his black blazer.

Image credit: Google

 

The bike zoomed past the multiplexes on the wide street as he approached the traffic signal and iconic building everyone marveled at for  its sheer delight. He spotted a tall shadow and slowed a bit to cast a glance. Thanking his stars, he smiled, “Another catch at this odd hour past midnight.” He stopped his super hot engine in front of her.

An oval faced woman, dressed in a long white skirt and jet black hair falling on her shoulders smiled to the biker. An unexplained power captured his senses and body, which drew him towards her like magnet. Her angelic smile captured his imagination and nothing on earth could let go of this opportunity to hold her hand. They remained silent for a while and the intensity in their eyes did all the talking.

Finally, she looked straight into his eyes and coyly asked, “Hi! My car broke down and I remained stuck in this rain on the deserted streets for three hours. Can you drop me home, please? My mom would be worried.” He gallantly removed his black jacket which he made her wear as she sat on the back seat on the bike, zooming past the green Maruti car.

She indicated an alley where a huge mango tree stood, giving shade to an equally big but old, colonial wooden Christian house, beautifully made of corrugated tin roof. She kissed him on his cheek. On the way back, he realized that the black jacket was missing but was too late to make a u-turn.

Two days later:

He excitedly rode his bike towards her house to take back the black jacket and another excuse to ask the mysterious woman for a date. What he was going to see would blow him mind. He was hit by thunder and wondered whether he missed the address in his excitement. He looked around only to realize it’s the same alley! He pushed open the decrepit gate and walked towards the house. His head was spinning and felt that he was about to crash on the floor as he tried to recollect what happened yesterday. The huge colonial house that stood tall suddenly disappeared to be replaced by an abandoned two-piece house, roof dangling in the air, supported by damp and moldy wall.

He was greeted by a wrinkled face, 60-year-old woman in a disheveled state, giving him cold stares. “Yes!” she menacingly asked. “I came here to take back my black jacket which the girl forgot to give me back. Where is she? ” he tried to peek inside the house.

“Girl..jacket…who?” she angrily asked.

“The night before, a girl, wearing a long white skirt was standing on the street and took a lift with me on the bike,” he blurted out.

“I mean, the girl whom I dropped at this place, yesterday.”

The old lady received a shock and asked him to enter the house. His eyes popped at the sight of the angelic smile and standing tall on the photo frame, hanging on the wall.

” This girl,” he excitedly pointed at her picture.

She calmly replied, “She is my daughter. But, how is that possible? She died in a car explosion ten years back on her way to attend her best friend’s wedding at the church. “

She burst into tears, “If you don’t believe me, you will find her at the graveyard. Her name is Diana Fernando.”

He rushed to the graveyard and frantically looked for Diana Fernando. His jacket was hanging at the gravestone, scribbled with ‘In Loving Memory of Diana Fernando’.

His body lay cold on the ground and his face looked fresh, wearing the expression of a smile, at the graveyard. He breathed his last during the wee hours in the night as Diana held his hand to her world.

Disclaimer: I claim no originality to this story which was first narrated to me during my teens. Of course, the only claim to originality is the way I interpreted the story and sketched the characters.

V

 

Thirst to quench


He walked under the scorching sun for hours in the busy street and sweated profusely, depleted of energy. Suddenly, he was thirsty and was longing to see a shop to buy a bottle of cold Bisleri. No shop could be spotted, not in the looming distance. He cursed his destiny. It was a new city in the outskirt when he set on a crazy journey to explore for days. Zooming on a bike for days, he finally stopped at this destination and the traveler in him, handed the Yamaha bike to the renting company. Taking upon himself to explore a new city and new life, he was suddenly transported to an alley and steps took him to the small but modest railway station.

Kids could be spotted playing cricket in the galli, their tiny legs soaked in mud as village women, spinning their saree till their thighs carried buckets of water on their head. He suddenly felt a  glimpse of hope and almost reached out to them, asking a drop to quench his thirst. ‘But, it’s not cold water.’ As he turned towards the women, they disappeared in the flick of second. He wanted to kick himself in the ass. After all, who is the thirsty man who let water disappear like this? Stop whining, the soul tells him. Own up to your decision to see life in the country side, far away from the hum-drum of city life, malls and super fast cars and, of course, the beautiful girl-friend.

He almost jumped with joy when he spotted a water tap at a looming distance. To reach the water to save his energy, he got to cross the railway track, especially after someone told him that he wouldn’t spot a dingy shop. For that, he has to take the municipal bus that will reach the other end of the outskirt in an hour. He pulled his motionless body, showing sign of weakness and pushed his legs forward as he climbed the platform from the gap on the muddy terrain and pressed his hand on the cement slab, rolling his body like a soldier in war zone. Finally, he crossed the railway track and reached his destination. He felt a sense of jubilation and groveled in front of the water tap as if he has finally found God. A sudden spurt of the tap water flew on his face and he rolled droplets in his mouth like his favorite chocolate. He felt the water hard to swallow down this throat to quench his thirst. It didn’t matter that gush of water flowing was not freezing cold but it’s water.

It was his moment of truth. He wouldn’t imagine that tap water in a distant rural village would be his savior. On the spur of the moment, life was suddenly stopped and his looked around to see not a single life could be spotted. The water has suddenly stopped. He felt a burning sensation in his parched lips and dry throat. He furiously twist the tap and shake it violently like soldier toggling with his rifle. The water has suddenly stopped running.

Cover Reveal: Sundari Venkatraman’s Matches Made in Heaven


Sundari Venkatraman, known for her light and breezy romantic stories, is coming up soon with her next release, a collection of romantic short stories, ‘Matches in Heaven.’ I am happy to host the cover release of ‘Matches Made in Heaven’- a romantic short stories by Sundari Venkatraman.

Brace yourself for yet another romantic adventures bearing the imprint of Sundari Venkatraman. Wish her the very best and I am sure, her latest offering will be a best seller this December. Book your copy.

The author can be contacted on https://www.facebook.com/AuthorSundariVenkatraman

 

Cover Reveal:
 
MATCHES MADE IN HEAVEN
 
Romantic Short Stories by
 
Sundari Venkatraman
 
Sneak Peak



Swayamwar on TV reality show; Dating Clubs; Matchmaking websites; parents setting up their children with one another; friends getting married and more – there are many ways that couples get together for hopefully a “Happily Ever After” experience. MATCHES MADE IN HEAVEN explores the various premises in the form of short stories that one can relate to in everyday life. There is even one based on Gods falling in love. Shh! I am not going to say anything further. It’s for you to find out.



And there are thirteen of them. While many insist that “13” is an unlucky number, I am quite fascinated by it. I absolutely believe that it’s a lucky number for me. That’s why I decided to publish this anthology with 13 romantic stories. 




About the author



Sundari Venkatraman has authored four novels and a short story anthology till now, Matches Made In Heaven (anthology) being the latest. The Malhotra Bride; Meghna; The Runaway Bridegroom; Flaming Sun Collection 1: Happily Ever Afters From India (Box Set) and Matches Made In Heaven have all been self-published on Amazon under the banner of Flaming Sun. The three novels are regularly seen on Amazon’s Top 100 Bestsellers’ Contemporary Romances list. The Box Set and Anthology are bound to catch up soon. 




A great fan of Mills & Boon romances over the past four decades, Sundari has always believed in ‘Happily Ever Afters’ and all her books promise happy endings. 



Matches Made In Heaven is a compilation of thirteen short stories – all romantic – based on many situations anyone can come upon in their day-to-day lives. The stories revolve around the different ways a couple can get to meet and tie the knot in a culture rich country like India. Those reading the stories will definitely be able to connect realising that one of the situations has definitely been a part of their lives. 


So here you go……..
 
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Book Launch by:
 
 

 

Heart is the abode of paradise and God


In the quest for paradise and goodness,

we set to conquer forces of hell and evil.

Fear and fury instilled in the mind, heart and soul.

There is just one path to the final destination.

It’s our heart in which resides the magnificent and beautiful temple, mosque and church.

Seek and speak to God inside the heart,

it’s our inner strength that makes us good humans to fight human prejudices, forces of evil for

there is no hell in humans.

We shall swim to heaven like the humanely prince.

This poem is inspired by the magnificent words of Baldeep.

Book Review: ‘India was One’ is heart wrenching tale of Indianness


INDIA WAS ONE

By

An Indian

Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (April 13, 2012)

Illustrator: Darshini

Language: English

 Rating: Four

 

INDIA WAS ONE by an Indian wouldn’t be classified as a novel or love story, in my view. I would call it: a tough nut to crack leading to an  untoward situation and a jolt that would tear your heart into pieces. The author conjures a ploy as it diverts your mind like a spy maven at his job, taking you to unchartered territory to get his job done. You are led to believe that ‘India Was One’ is a travelogue of the East (read India) meeting the west, he aptly questions your Indian-ness at a time when the political brand regionalism makes us forget that we are One nation. Lots of what-ifs!

At one glance,’ India was One’ revolves around the world of Jai and Kaahi, their friends in India and married life in United States. The confluence of culture, cricket and cinema interspersed in a structured manner in the book. As the reader slink on the sofa holding the book, he or she receives shock waves one after the other, like the earthquake, shaking them off the ground.

In one word: Though ‘India was One’ gives the impression of being the first person account of travel and life in both India, United States, it doesn’t disappoint in depicting the lives of Jai and Kaahi which is suddenly brought to a halt. As the book gains momentum, there is no stopping back and I couldn’t put it back till the end. India was One is a must read for every Indian who believe in One Country, One Nation theory and is a gift for nationalism, despite our differences.

BLURB:

He was in South India and she was in North India…

Have you ever imagined India being divided into two countries? What happens to the millions of Indians who are from South India but are now residing in North India? Kaahi & Jai were two such people who got trapped in this situation. How will they get together? Will India become one again?

 

Narration:

The author throws an interesting question: What if India was divided into different countries, North, South, East and West? Would love still triumph when two people stand separated on different sides of the fence?  One would argue that the book sounds like a travelogue, which is partly true. But, it isn’t it. The best thing about ‘India was On’e is that I could relate to it  since I lived in Mumbai where the author touches the heart by expressing the local lingo that simply melts your heart.

Moreover, he depicts what an Indian feels at the slight mention of the name of the God of cricket, Sachin, who unites the nation. Now, who would argue over Sachin?  Despite the overt details about cricket and the book did suffer at times due to an over emphasis on travel diary, the book scores high when the author cleverly brings to the fore the possibility of a divided India. The author achieves his objective since it touches your heart by shaking you off the ground, injecting one jolt after the other, making the eyes moist. Brilliant sketching of a situation where the country is divided and reference is made to the Mumbai 26/11 terror attack. Even a non-believer would be moved and shaken. An Indian injects a novelty in the book which ends with a sublime poem by Rahul.

Moreover, the author has beautifully scripted the confluence of lives in India and America, something those aliens to the vast Indian cultural heritage would be attuned to.

Minuses:

  1. What goes against the book is that the denouement takes a long time that leads to some sort of confusion, the reader is unsure, what’s in store for him or her. Honestly speaking, the entire premise around which the book is built should have come earlier to sustain the suspense and make it more dramatic cum exciting.
  2. I feel there is too much detailing on the A to Z of cricket in the book and description of American roads which sounds like an induction to the world of bats, bowling and batting.

 

Quotable Quotes:

 There are passages and quotes in the book that makes it an endearing read and forms the beauty of reading ‘India was One’, living truly to its name.

“You swine,” said Kaahi. “We just got married, and you are already thinking about mistresses.

“You are too kind,” Jai continued.

“A slime-ball, that’s what you are..”

“That makes you Mrs Slime-ball…”

 

“The best way to see India is traveling on the Indian railway system. As one traveler has aptly said, “No visit to India is complete without experiencing the bustle of Indian railway stations.”

I couldn’t agree more to that.

 The emotions of connecting to one’s homeland  and to realize everything has changed pierced the heart, the childhood memories, the city we call ‘Mumbai’ that sends a tizzy down the spine. I could relate to the deft depiction of life in the city.

“Suddenly, Jai realized how much he missed this place..He had hardly any time to reminisce about his life in Mumbai. His college, canteen, his friends, time, they spent together. Everything was flooding his memory now.”

 An Indian made me emotional and brought many scenes vivid as if it was just yesterday when he depicted life in Juhu and the playground whose face has changed, owing to ‘development.’ Time  for us to reflect on the state of the city. Or, the unblemished lines, “Right across from his bungalow, used to be an open ground where he and his friends often played cricket. The ground was gone, replaced by a tall building.”

 Final words:

On the whole, India was One weaved by the author who choose to call himself An Indian is very significant in a time when we give ourselves religious, regional and caste identities. This pretty sum up that India was One is read. I admire the patriotism of the author who wore his heart on his sleeve.

The author contacted me on Facebook and was kind enough to consider me to review his book. Hope I’ve done justice to it.

An Indian can be reached out on his FB page,  https://www.facebook.com/IndiaWasOne

http://www.indiawasone.com/

 

Available in major bookshops across India, you can order your copy on http://www.amazon.com/India-Was-One-An-Indian/dp/1450543332

 

 

 

Wordless Wednesday #63


The inherent beauty of art lies in the creative vision of the artist cut to perfection like polished diamond. A work of art where the the aesthetic mind envisions the beauty of imagery-newspaper cutting, wooden statues and branches blended together. The result is simply breath-taking.

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Linking the photo image to Wordless Wednesday # 63 to Ruchira‘s blog.

 

A tale of leather jacket


Brow-beaten and dusted, the leather jacket stood tall on the hanger of fame.

Changing hands from great grand parents, parents and sons as it could tell legion of stories in big cities, its tryst with destiny on rough terrains in obscure villages.

The romantic adventure smeared with intimacy and kisses made its leather-ly heart become red with jealousy.

It witnessed warfare, civil protests and strife in equal measure as countries stormed its way to freedom.

Face of years of rebel, the leather jacket stands as a symbol moving beyond age and time.

Telling thousands of stories and burying deep dark secrets as it changed hands and moving across the globe.

Wishing for the last destination, it traveled tirelessly and seamlessly into a world that made it toiled blood and sweat,

sheltering the flesh against winter and pain.

Today, it hangs on a mantle as onlookers occasionally peeked at it and admiring its vintage beauty.

An object of admiration, it refuses to grow old as it drowns in its own solace and grief.

V