tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38100327377183141992024-02-19T06:58:00.798+00:00The tilted-viewThis is a blog dedicated to explore everything interesting about life...from the mundane to the sensational, to the relevant and the obscure...to tell the tale of the misadventures of one individual and laugh at oneself and the folly of others but without malice.... The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.comBlogger115125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-43655521307246626012022-11-23T09:04:00.001+00:002022-11-23T09:04:14.523+00:00In which I finally understand my father's music <p> It is that time of the year again, when my heart feels that it is being squeezed to the point of agony, the day I lost my father approaches again, and all the regret of things left unsaid strikes again. This year though, the pain is accompanied by all the sweet memories that I shared with him. </p><p>I had a difficult relationship with my father, but he was a towering figure in my life and a staunch supporter, who encouraged me in all my pursuits. I inherited my love for music from my excellent mother but, I now realize that it is a trait I share with my father too. </p><p>My mother has an ear for the great masters of classical music and, encouraged me to explore the genre, my father, on the other hand preferred the quieter tunes from old Hindi films. I have been listening to the tunes that he loved and it struck me that they all have gorgeous lyrics accompanying serene tunes. There are so many layers to these old songs; so many meaning to the poetic words. </p><p>I read somewhere that we all eventually become like our parents, it is our curse....I think that there may be some truth to it; I find I understand my father better as I age, I even see the point behind my mother's quirks, I may not agree with either of their viewpoints, but I understand them better.</p><p>This is especially the case with my father, who is no longer around to argue or explain himself, in that scenario, the music he listened to, has made me understand him so much better. To hear the powerful words written by great poets who worked as lyricists in the 1950's and 60's and truly know for certain, the things that they wanted to convey and, my fathers preference for such melodies; make me wish I had more time with him. I might not fully turn into my parents or follow in their path, because they have different lived experiences, but their music makes me understand them better. </p><p>Music is also a companion that has proven to be a balm for my hurts and, provide solace through my continued grief about my father's absence. It makes me feel closer to him. Plus on a brighter note, beautiful melodies with poignant words are always a great way to spend dreary autumnal afternoons. </p>The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-73395555610811265992022-10-20T00:15:00.001+01:002022-10-20T00:15:34.169+01:00<p> The heart hurts every single time people are mean to you, but you put on a mask and pretend to be extra nice, extra polite, or after the bitterness in one's heart becomes a poison; you preemptively strike and say something nasty about your own self. But alas, the masochist in you waits.... just this once someone might disagree with your harsh judgement of yourself, but they never do. </p><p>So the question is why is it that self harm in the form of emotional damage is not the mainstay of topics. World Mental health day just passed and everyone talked about it and how important it is, but how does one get over hatred towards oneself?</p><p>I say this because I have noticed the phenomenon where self depreciating humour can easily turn into statements of self loathing. Therapists can only talk about tiny steps but in this day and age affording therapy is also something people don't talk about as well as the privilege attached to being able to afford the treatment.</p><p>So again how does one get over the chaos within oneself? </p>The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-24390825545812499042022-09-26T12:57:00.002+01:002022-09-26T13:01:34.972+01:00Why does the size of our bodies make the society around us deem us worthy of notice? <p> It is raining cats and dogs outside, and instead of the joy rains usually bring to my heart all I can do is fret about how I can't walk today. One year ago I went to the doctor due to unusual weight gain despite engaging in regular exercise, and not being a heavy eater, in fact I am your usual run of the mill vegetarian. After a long series of tests, the doctor, who turned out to be a kindhearted and unbiased person (she believed me when I said I exercised regularly!) told me in no uncertain terms that I had PCOS and my body was effectively working against me. She promptly put me on the required medication and, forbade me from running for the time being, as I was in my quest to lose weight destroying my joints by putting undue strain on them. Thus started my transition from avid runner to reluctant walker, and fat person to not so fat person ( I still don't meet the ideal of society accepted thinness). </p><p>I confess, that I still run, perhaps 30 mins once a week (like an addict, I need my fix although carefully rationed), but the rest of the time I spend walking and listening to podcasts and music from diverse genres such as Indian classical, fusion music, western classical, K-pop, and rock and roll. As boring as I find walking, having run seriously since the age of 12, I find the activity much more conducive to indulge in my passion for music. </p><p>The positives of discovering world music aside however; I have realized how different it is to be who I am as a person now. I have seen aspects of myself and have made unpleasant discoveries about my discomfort in my own skin. I had absolutely no sense of self worth. As if being fat and plain made me invisible. I know, on a cerebral level, that I matter, however, on a deep level, which stems from my emotional self, I did believe that I was worthless. These feelings came to the forefront when after a year of perseverance I managed to lose more than 25 kgs. I could see that the woman staring back from inside the mirror looked slightly different, but I didn't feel different. </p><p>However, the reaction of the world was so drastically different, as to make me sit up and take notice. The well meaning of course commended me for my perseverance, these were generally women especially older women, the male gaze though was drastically different. Most of them seemed to view me with consternation; they looked at me with questioning eyes, as if wondering 'was she always attractive? or did we never pay attention?' Needless to say all these bizarre reactions solidified the great inferiority complex that I seem to have harboured in my mind for decades, which I only noticed now. </p><p>To be honest it is hurtful, my own self loathing is deeply distressing, but what made me angry was the total and utter difference in treatment by the world around me. I feel like a fraud for the pretense that I indulged in for nearly half a dozen years; espousing, what I believed were feminist ideals of acceptance and body positivity, when all I was doing was running from the true feeling of self hatred and discomfort in my own skin. Was I always so superficial? I still don't believe that I am beautiful, but the fact that I am constantly being told by random people around me that I am suddenly attractive makes me feel as if I have lost the battle somehow. As if my quest to improve myself constantly, specifically my intellect, has somehow failed. I send this final question into the void then....Why do we always feel subpar as individuals due to our looks, why is our sense of self not satisfied with out intellectual capabilities and character? </p>The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-40250325102919661322022-09-22T12:47:00.003+01:002022-09-22T12:47:52.229+01:00In which I muse whether I can still call myself a 'writer' <p> A couple of weeks ago I met a remarkable woman, who is doing her all to preserve and, in some cases revive the otherwise moribund traditional arts and craft scene in India. Over a long discussion about our shared interests, which included books and music in addition to art, she suddenly asked me something that gave me pause; she asked me if I wrote and all I could say in reply was state bashfully that "I'm not clever enough!".</p><p>In my last post I had reflected over the past twelve years of maintaining this blog, which I have done so in opposition to my own personal demons, and crippling bouts of depression, physical ailments and grief, through sheer stubbornness. I finally came to a realization, one that left me bemused: I no longer feel confident enough to call myself a 'writer' ; compared to the time twelve years ago when it was all I could think of calling myself, it used to be my ultimate goal even back then whilst I was a trainee journalist, all I ever wanted to be was a writer, and write something meaningful, that would enrich the life of my readers. </p><p>I even had the conceit to address this blog to my 'Dear Readers' in the vein of literary greats such as Charlotte Bronte...... What was I thinking? Perhaps, that the dream in which my words could be on someone's dusty shelf would come true, like a self fulfilling prophesy. Like so many of my oft berated generation, 'the millennials', I too started this blog and maintained it with the hope that one day I would amass followers who would acclaim my writing as the next big thing! Alas, like so many of my peers we cannot even lay claim to being called a 'writer' as we are only self published on our tiny corners of the internet where I suspect our only audience is the great void that is modern internet. </p><p>Still, that one question: Do you write? and my hesitant denial... made me realize how the loss of aspirations and confidence in one's abilities has replaced ambition and hope. I don't mean for this to be a downer of a blog post, however, when did I change so much? What brought about such a dramatic turnaround? Will I ever return to confidently calling myself a 'writer' ? I send all the questions into the void...I know, I may never receive a reply. Yet, the hope that I can solve my own conundrum springs eternal. </p>The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-38777511831151793032022-08-12T10:22:00.041+01:002022-08-12T15:05:17.983+01:00In which I look back at the past 12 years of this Blog<p>It has been twelve years since I started this blog, twelve long years where I've gone from an idealistic Journalism student to a jaded woman, older but definitely not wiser. This blog began as an assignment that was part of my journalism course, and as I never ever had any readers or anybody who cared enough about my writing, this has now become a personal journal of sorts, one that I send out into the great void that it the internet in the third decade of the 21st century. </p><p>There are many things that I have shared through the course of my journey, but I saw that most of my posts have been about my great loves, reading, music, family, life etc. Despite suffering from depression for the better part of two decades, I still have great loves you see, and dreams that are still meant to be realised..... Life is bad and can get better....but I still love life..... Rain, good food, the company of my mother, great music, recently Kpop dance videos etc make me happy albeit for a small amount of time, but I still have the ability to seek happiness in small moments in life. </p><p>This random entry is by no means the great feat of literary hijinks that I aspired to, when I began this blog, but the ability to write a coherent sentence is something that I've come to appreciate more and more as I advance into my 30s. It is a confusing decade, that has brought about some unexpected pitfalls not related to the usual process of aging that plagues us Millennials. </p><p>But the reason for this post is to remind myself that despite everything, I have still managed to keep up this blog for 12 whole years, which to my mind has been a great learning experience for someone like me, I see that my style of communicating has changed and perhaps become more of a reflection of who I am as a person, whilst when I began this it was more about following a given assignment with a guideline. I hope that I can keep this up for a long time, perhaps be more regular. So here's to another twelve years of writing this blog. </p>The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-40320478199536447262021-08-19T06:53:00.000+01:002021-08-19T06:53:18.157+01:00Sometimes I yearn for something so ephemeral that I can't even articulate it. It is during these times that I find solace in music and reading and art. If I had a camera, a good one and the freedom to go places, I would go to all those wide open spaces where nature is at her peak. I would capture every single angle in frames and keep them with me forever. <div><br /></div><div>I wish I could paint the beauty that I sometimes see around. I am slightly obsessed with preserving beautiful thing, whether they are moments, or music or scenes. I actually close my eyes and imagine that I am on a cliff somewhere listening to the combined sound of water and wind whistling through the leaves of the trees of a forest near me. I think it has become a kind of madness that overtakes me. I feel like I need to escape my skin and this scene is often my go to. </div><div><br /></div><div>I need sound and silence combined in a way. I wish I could listen to music for eons and I wish I didn't have to talk. I like the fact that in the 21st century we can do this without disturbing others, oh the joys of good headphones. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wish I could write in cursive and leave behind interesting titbits for posterity, alas this might not be of interest for two reason A. I am not really a good writer, and B. I don't think anyone would want to read my ramblings on page. Does anybody even read this blog? I think not, thus I feel completely at ease. It is like an online journal for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think that I yearn for love and acknowledgement. Lately, I feel that my existence doesn't really matter and that no one would probably remember me if I vanished. In the end that's all anyone wants the beautiful feeling of being loved. </div>The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-27833921750344190372021-07-22T19:46:00.001+01:002021-07-22T19:46:35.539+01:00<p> Feeling sad all the time has become a way of life for me. There are so many things I want to say. But I am afraid of being laughed at. Some may say I am too loud and some may say I talk too much. When did these become such a big sin? </p><p>I used to think that there was some good in this world. Somewhere out there there must be some examples of kindness and morality winning the day. However as I grow older, I feel wronged, somehow. This past year had taught me that nothing is predictable and things may not go according to plans. However the fact that people haven't still learned to be kind; that oftentimes overlooked virtue, is making me sadder.</p><p>I know that this is in a way a very immature way of dealing with what I am going through, writing a blog post on a page people never visit, but this is the void I think that will absorb my embarrassing thoughts. The fact that I have been suffering from inexplicable melancholia from 2003 and having to wear a civilized mask ever since. </p><p>I hope that in an alternate reality, if there is one, my other self is leading a fruitful life. That is all I can write about. </p><p><br /></p>The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-27354270893424521512020-09-23T00:46:00.001+01:002020-09-23T00:46:55.587+01:00<p> Sometimes, I feel like I have lived for millennia, I don't know what it is, but I have these strange thoughts whilst reading something or when I listen to a particular piece of music, or even when the wind rustles through my hair on my runs or walks a certain way.</p><p>This feeling of aching knowledge; of a particular state of being, is so powerful that it knocks my breath away. This aspect of existence is not new, and yet the ongoing isolation has increased it's appearances in my life. I know that all of us our pondering the meaning of life right now and the great philosophical question of 'what it is all for?' has taken a permanent residence in our minds. Yet, why has it become increasingly difficult to share these thoughts?</p><p>I find myself having out of body experiences in the middle of inane conversations. I can feel myself looking at who I am and finding myself lacking. I don't feel depressed precisely; rather, it is a curious state of judgement and recriminations about ones character laced with frequent bouts of loathing towards oneself and the world in general. </p><p>One would be a simpleton indeed, if one didn't recognize it for what it was, ' a particularly nasty bout of ennui'; and yet how does one get out of the dark pit? I send this question out into the void with hopes that there are others in the same metaphoric boat as oneself. </p>The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-4631599548819216572020-05-05T22:44:00.001+01:002020-05-05T22:44:25.406+01:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In the age of Pandemic, I can't help but feel the need to write in order to pass away the time. In an interview that I read recently, a famous writer talks about getting frequent bouts of 'writer's block' and the very inability to write, leads to further anxiety about writing, thus creating a vicious circle.<br />
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I am, to put it honestly suffering from a severe one. I haven't been able to write well for the past two years and this has led to a loss of confidence in my dealings with other topics. This is not to say that I am a writer, in fact I am a person who blogs occasionally, However, I have manged to keep this blog running for ten years and am actually quite surprised.<br />
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I have never been confident about my writing skills, thus one of the reasons that I feel that I continued with this blog was that I realized that no body was actually reading this, thus in a way the act of sending my thoughts in a written form into the void has helped.<br />
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There have been some humorous episodes and some annoying ones in my journey but what made me keep coming back to this blog has been the uncontrollable urge to write. I am aware that there will be times when I will sound stupid and ignorant, but this blog is a learning experience that I have decided I need, in order to be better at things in the real world.<br />
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It is my own private therapeutic outlet; only on an incredibly public forum, so I realize the irony, However it could be an interesting study of human nature. I actually read some of my posts from years ago and am amazed at my own naivete.<br />
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I hope that this may prove to be a record of my thoughts, my own Tilted view of looking at the world around me . Until the next one then........ </div>
The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-63384827759783523182018-08-07T03:11:00.002+01:002018-08-07T03:11:48.454+01:00The transformative power of Books.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have recently been undergoing a quiet emotional rebirth. For a long time, in fact for the past few years, I had begun to notice a slow decline in my capacity to feel; Anything really. In a lot of ways, I am still not at the optimum level when it comes to feelings, perhaps I was always emotionally stunted, or the onset of numbness is something all of us go through after turmoil.<br />
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I think this renewed onset of feelings has to do with rediscovering my reading prowess. I am quite impressed by how much I can read without distraction. My mother recently asked me about my progress and I happily informed her about the many books that I had read in the last couple of weeks.<br />
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The transformative power of a good book is hard to explain. An immersive narrative can take the reader through a journey that has the capacity to provide immense satisfaction. How I wish, life could be like that. If everyday was a new adventure, one might never be prone to bouts of melancholy.<br />
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Then again, constant adventures can become monotonous and lead to ennui; something I dread. I have yet to start reading poetry again. Perhaps my renewed interest in fiction will progress to rediscovering my love for poetry, one can only hope.<br />
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I know that books and reading is terribly personal. But I can't help but feel that the world would be a much better place if there were more readers amongst us. This thought stems from my own emotional growth. Because, as I've discovered, there is no experience as thrilling as reading a story well told. </div>
The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-82381116475217484662018-06-30T11:16:00.000+01:002018-10-07T14:12:53.067+01:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sometimes I wonder about my life, I live a small life; mostly a self communing life, I wonder if I died tomorrow will someone mourn me....I know some would. But what kind of a life have I lead?<br />
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I wanted my life to have meaning. A few weeks ago, I read the news about someone's death, someone I really admired. It got me thinking, he meant so much to me even if he was a celebrity, I felt liberated watching his celebrated travel show, through him I was able to do things I wish I could and see lands I have yearned to see since the time I was little. I don't understand why reading about his death affected me so. He was after all a complete stranger, the persona he had created for himself tragically consumed him. But I have also found myself sympathizing, I do know what it is like to be consumed by dark thoughts, I understand the wave of melancholy that can suddenly hit out of the blue, and the control it takes to present a decent face to society.</div>
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I recently disgraced myself by giving in to my weakness, I showed emotion in public, something that I have been taught never to do, I wish I could take back my loss of dignity but alas, it is too late. I now feel like the walls are closing in on me. I just had to write it all down and expect that I shall recover, you see I have found that the true test of character is to be able to pick oneself up after a fall. </div>
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I know, that this particular blog is not the upbeat post readers expect of me but for the time being I need the salvation that writing brings me in expressing my thoughts. In some ways it gives me the feeling of standing alone in a vast forest screaming at the top of my lungs. It makes me feel like I can express on the page what I can never do in life. </div>
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The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-70056984742234994552018-04-19T13:42:00.000+01:002018-07-02T13:53:58.273+01:00When reading books becomes a solace for sadness...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Reading for me has become a solace, for me reading was always an escape. Books made me feel less worthless, I felt needed when I read books, now though, it is as if reading is the only pursuit that makes me feel a sense of self worth, I feel beautiful and powerful simultaneously, I feel like I matter and the best thing about reading is that I can live an relive feelings some I shall never feel in my life.....<br />
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I had a particularly visceral reaction whilst reading a book where the protagonists kill themselves. I felt relieved in their act of courage, I don't think taking one's life is cowardice, perhaps it is a cultural thing that Indians carry in their DNA, for we have had long a glorious traditions of death by self wish, in fact most religious and cultural traditions view the act of taking one's life as honourable and the greatest act of independence an individual can carry out.<br />
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Does that mean that I am suicidal? I think not; but my preoccupation with life and death has intensified for the past couple of years, I find myself pondering questions about things like life after death, the soul, the meaning of existence. I am no philosopher, but I feel that life should have meaning. What I mean to say is that one's life should be led in the pursuit of making someone else's life less painful.<br />
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I find the modern age in which we live increasingly selfish, I mean look at the consequences of the selfishness people are increasingly displaying all over the world. This had led to a rise in hatred towards others and caused rifts in society that I fear can't be undone.<br />
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In fact I have felt this in my own life and now feel an increasing need to isolate myself. In the absence of good company, I find myself turning towards my only love in life books. I feel that this form of escapism is helping me cope with a lot of bouts of severe melancholia, I end this post with a wish, that I hope others in the same circumstances can discover the balm books are capable of providing. </div>
The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-54822851799478039862018-01-10T08:57:00.000+00:002018-07-18T08:57:29.541+01:00New year and new resolves<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is a new year and a new start for my Good reads reading challenge. Last year a breezed through reading 50 books, this year I am increasing my target to 60.<br />
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I am a reader, I love books, however, there had been a period in my life when I had stopped reading as many books as I liked, I was much more interested in Netflix, Facebook etc. like so many of my generation I was turning into a sponge for the dredge of nonsense that is social media.<br />
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A few years ago, 2016 to be precise, I picked up a well loved novel, and realization struck me that I had only read around 5 books in the whole of 2015. This was in my opinion disgraceful. I had through out my childhood and adolescence, prided myself in my ability to read quickly. My sister and I had a rivalry about how many books we could finish in a week. I won more often than not (she was better at sports and arithmetic!). So this year we have decided to revive the tradition, since last year only I did the Good reads challenge.<br />
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I confess that stumbling onto the Good reads thing was fortuitous, because I find that I need goals now to stave off my ennui, I have noticed this tendency in myself recently, which is new! Surprisingly though reading has reintroduced me to a part of myself that was fading away. The part that was capable of great concentration and curiosity.<br />
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I have found that part of me again thankfully, and am now determined never to let it slip again. So I begin this new year with the resolve to regain all my capabilities and ambitions that I have let slip away. </div>
The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-12635784256097248832017-09-25T10:30:00.000+01:002017-09-25T13:38:57.579+01:00Of memories and past experiences, recollecting the forgotten.....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dear Reader, memories of sultry summer afternoons playing in the dark cool rooms of my grandparents' house are what I always revert to when I am troubled by torrid summers. It is that time of the year again, the time for remembrance and celebration, the festivals are beginning and I am missing my father so much that it is almost a physical pain.<br />
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This year summer was unbearable, so hot and sultry that only the very brave ventured out of doors and then came the monsoons which were ferocious and brought floods and woes, but curiously, the weather seems to be clinging to summer with a stubborn grip. What should have been a season of cool autumnal relief is now hot, muggy torture.<br />
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I spent the past couple of weeks in the town that I grew up in, a town so changed that I scarcely recognised it. Yet there were glimpses of the past, a past full of memories of my grandparents and my father.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsx55-mJOoX8P1UMpTbaRbqxupsyR0lktpzmj8Ysk7vEYM1JAjqgww5ASCke7eF5T1j9N_bBcu3s2mCWgowJR3fH3IUJ5t41KhSKvm4J9D_nFbxHILhcb1vTWXIcdmRMea53zRjs787Kk/s1600/979f7e45936f231afe4161e8b3011464--little-girl-pictures-spring-kids-pictures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsx55-mJOoX8P1UMpTbaRbqxupsyR0lktpzmj8Ysk7vEYM1JAjqgww5ASCke7eF5T1j9N_bBcu3s2mCWgowJR3fH3IUJ5t41KhSKvm4J9D_nFbxHILhcb1vTWXIcdmRMea53zRjs787Kk/s320/979f7e45936f231afe4161e8b3011464--little-girl-pictures-spring-kids-pictures.jpg" width="228" /></a>My childhood now probably belongs in a pastoral novel. It does not even sound believable to me, and I actually lived that life growing up! What a nice, quiet, peaceful childhood it was. Summers were spent playing in the cool rooms and beautiful gardens of my grandparents house with my sister and cousin brother. We spent countless hours laying siege to our male ayah who was our nemesis. Oh the fun we had outfoxing him dear reader! Then evening always brought bowls of chilled mangoes and an array of sherbets, rose one day lemon another and green mango the next. It was a charmed life indeed full of laughter and fun and books.<br />
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I find it amazing that I, who have always hated summer, managed to have so much fun during summer as a child. Perhaps it has something to do with the shelter and protective warmth of my family, who are amazing. My mom and her brothers and sisters are a close knit lot and have always worked well as a unit. My father was absorbed into this vastness and was always there especially when we got too rambunctious to handle.<br />
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The combination of the summer-like, autumn heat and extended sojourn in my childhood hometown was a sucker punch of nostalgia and I found myself reliving and recollecting some remembered and some forgotten memories. Especially poignant since I got to celebrate my father's Birthday there. It was unexpectedly one of the most touching events of 2017 for me. Oh to be a child again and run barefoot through cool rooms onto flowering gardens!<br />
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The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-8464736036343097862017-08-31T10:21:00.000+01:002017-09-12T10:41:34.326+01:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My dear reader, this year has been full of ups and downs....some moments were triumphant and some were the absolute dregs, but through it all I have found that one elusive trait within myself....the ability to bear solitude and vexations, with equanimity.....the question is....is that a good quality? <br />
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Perhaps not...on Monday evening all my pent up feelings manifested in an attack of 'Bells Palsy' which has led to a temporary paralysis of the entire left side of my face. I literarily 'froze' up due to stress! <br />
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Fortunately, I got immediate medical attention so, I'm now pumped full of medicines, some of which have caused my face to change completely....it really is an indescribable shock,dear reader,to actually look in the mirror and have a stranger stare back. <br />
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But, to be honest the reason behind my contemplative mood is not to fret about the change in my appearance, it is this ABSOLUTE sense that I am a different person now than I was, even a year ago. I find these drastic changes in my personality, I have lost so much......especially my ability to feel warm....I feel cold all the time.....I don't feel passion anymore....I have mellowed to an such an extant that nothing seems to move me anymore....What a disturbing thought is it not? <br />
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This attack of 'freezing up' has made me resolve to do something buoyant with my life. Something positive....something that will make people smile and give them peace......The ancient Greeks did not write obituaries....all they asked after a man's death was "Did he have passion".....I don't know where I heard that, but for some curious reason,it has always resonated with me. SO new resolve.....live with passion....</div>
The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-51882233330355814452017-07-24T13:38:00.000+01:002017-10-03T21:23:28.451+01:00In defense of 'Millennials'- A generation trying to not be the new 'Lost Generation', but a positive force for Change.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The other day I read a fascinating article about Lena Denham and the rise of the " so called Millennial woman"...one who is alternate voice. But, is one really an 'alternative' voice if so many of the mainstream read you? I must start by saying I admire women like Lena Dunham, I think they have provided a much needed voice to millennial women. But I certainly don't consider her the voice of my generation.<br />
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Bill Maher, the great comedian really dislikes Millennials, I can understand why, for him we are whiny and entitled, lazy and unwilling to listen and constantly need our hands held and demand 'safe spaces'. I see that he has a point, perhaps he has had the misfortune of meeting really monstrous versions of my generation. In the defense of the millennials, I think that we have been given a very bad reputation due to so many factors. The truth is that we have faced some of the worst situations as a generation. We came of age during the great recession, thus many of us suffer from unemployment and underemployment (the worst possible thing for a generation of worker qualifies/unqualified, skilled /unskilled according to the ILO). I think it is unfair to call us lazy when we haven't even being allowed the opportunity to enter the workforce with respectable jobs. <br />
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A lot of our critics have formed their opinions due to the images available during the various protests that we have led. The various I might add 'failed' protests; as each of these successive protests on valid issues get louder in decibels, they fall on deaf ears. We do suffer from foibles, and I readily admit that my fellow me Millennials in the west especially, come across as self absorbed and ver complaining, they lead their entire lives online and are alarmingly ignorant of the ideals of enlightenment, democracy, egalitarianism and fraternity that built the west and most new democracy in the east aspire to.<br />
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In defense of my generation, especially those like me who grew up in countries like India; we are neither whiny or entitled, we are also not lazy, we are however, unwilling to listen to archaic dictates of the 'traditional society that is forever looking for ways to shackle us. We do not need our hands held but we do need safe spaces to love freely, express ourselves freely without the intervention of society, family or the state. Especially as a young woman, I must add that safe spaces are a necessity right now in a country like India to provide protection from the violence against women that is perpetuated by the society as a form of suppression. I do not suggest that we will need these safe spaces forever, rather, we need these safe spaces to discuss new ideas and express ourselves freely without facing censure, in order to then go out in the harsh reality of society and try to bring about change in the mindset that causes violence and suppression.<br />
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Mahatma Gandhi said "Be the change you wish to see in the world".Millennials as a generation are only trying to live by those words.</div>
The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-43361130910113086122017-06-16T09:56:00.001+01:002021-10-18T18:41:50.784+01:00When fitness becomes a chore<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dear Reader, for some time now, I have been going through the motions, the daily grind so to speak. I confess I have been on the down low for a while and have been suffering from frequent bouts of inadequacy and anxiety. I thought that I had made my peace with my looks when I turned 25, but oh how wrong was I!<br />
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To counter these feelings I recently jumped on the fitness tracker bandwagon. I have to admit that I am noticing an immediate difference in my outlook as well as exercise output. But, I realize that there is a deeper cause to my feeling off kilter, it is just that I am a women. We are forever conditioned to be positive, beautiful, perfect, modest...it is honestly exhausting. Oh how I wish that it was ok to be waspish and irritable and completely and utterly negative and pessimistic. The aspects of our own life that keep such a tight leash on! It really is exhausting. <br />
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There are so many ways that we are told by people to love ourselves, whilst I do agree as a feminist...I really do, but how I wish that I could be negative once in a while and hate myself in the good old fashioned masochistic way. Is it really <i>that</i> bad to hate one's image? And why? For me the worst is when I complain and someone just pipes in cheerfully or worse admonishes me about my negative bent. The absolute worst are the well meaning scolds about "How beautiful and perfect I am" by near and dear ones. <br />
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I suppose all this anxiety stems from the fact that despite being an active person, I have never been the "ideal" body type. Whenever people see me workout, they either marvel at my 'ability', 'fitness levels' or 'dedication' or start offering unsolicited advice about improving my stature or lose weight. What troubles and occasionally upsets me is the absolute disregard for my privacy. The freewheeling and pointed comments on my body are rather disturbing and quite frankly intrusive. I feel like I am constantly underpinned by this imaginary gaze that <b>will not let me relax</b>! I wish it wasn't so, but it is the irony that I face. I want to hide and be private in this age, where there is absolutely no privacy.<br />
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Oh, I pretend to be blind to the looks and deaf to the comments but it is painful! painful I say! I send this question out into the void. Do you too feel anxious and the need to hide after the constant microscopic attention <br />
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The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-24083357336725585242017-05-05T12:19:00.000+01:002017-10-03T20:57:07.666+01:00In which I muse about the vast elegance of the Banyan Tree<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-2OMGRtSyQgfV2pcCMS6z0W9Kq6Rxw6GfVszHBcSSGCyqFews-mlMH5fNbS4cNgMtC5KAFj8iAWnx967FJZ5hw4M0suf9mkyvIl88GrGIshSYD-MHdQbssxxG05DE2Y3o9ft-4fs4b0/s1600/th.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Dear reader, there are times when I feel closer to nature than my fellow humans. Is that odd? The other day I went to my aunt's house for a visit. She lives in a lovely old house which is fantastic, all hidden angles and nooks and crannies, but what I absolutely fell in love with was this gorgeous Banyan tree right in front of her house. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-2OMGRtSyQgfV2pcCMS6z0W9Kq6Rxw6GfVszHBcSSGCyqFews-mlMH5fNbS4cNgMtC5KAFj8iAWnx967FJZ5hw4M0suf9mkyvIl88GrGIshSYD-MHdQbssxxG05DE2Y3o9ft-4fs4b0/s1600/th.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="204" data-original-width="306" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-2OMGRtSyQgfV2pcCMS6z0W9Kq6Rxw6GfVszHBcSSGCyqFews-mlMH5fNbS4cNgMtC5KAFj8iAWnx967FJZ5hw4M0suf9mkyvIl88GrGIshSYD-MHdQbssxxG05DE2Y3o9ft-4fs4b0/s320/th.jpg" width="320" /></a>I love Banyan trees, they are so strong and omnipresent, their numerous roots give one the impression of vastness and strength. They can grow as tall and as wide as possible. Their rich brown colour are a striking contrast to their bright green leaves. I adore the sound of the banyan tree leaves rustling in the wind right before the first monsoon rain...heralding a prelude to the sonata that is the sound of thunder and pitter<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span> patter of fat raindrops dropping onto the parched earth.</div>
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There is something rather poetic about the roots of the tree. I have often imagined it sheltering lovers, meeting in the shade for a secret assignation, on a sultry summer evening. Legend has it that a great many ragas have been composed under it's shade. What a gift it is to all and sundry! Imagine all the things that an old banyan tree might have witnessed. <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></div>
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If I was a tree, I would want to be a Banyan tree, I know that it is self indulgent but there you are. I have always used nature as an inspiration in my writing. I honestly don't even consider myself a real writer. This blog for example is an exercise in self-indulgence, that probably nobody reads; but for me this is an outlet for all my thoughts, the mundane and the profound. Writing is a necessity and so is nature. For me they are intrinsically linked to the many faces I wear for the world as well as my inner self. </div>
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The roots of the banyan tree signify for me my many faces, it is me but a different version and yet I am always rooted, no matter how tall I grow. That is why I love the Banyan tree, rooted and tall rigid but flexible enough to sway with the wind and always there to provide shade and comfort to the weary. </div>
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The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-21535029720994332412017-04-21T10:33:00.000+01:002017-09-19T10:35:10.399+01:00In which I muse about fun things like societal pressures!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sometimes I wonder at life, there has never been a moment in my life when I regretted being born a girl. I always had a curiously pragmatic outlook to being born a female, even when there were times when I was informed by my extended family about the 'huge disappointment'of my birth...ie me being a girl when I should have been a boy. I suppose that is because my parents were amazing.<br />
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My gender never came in the way of my pursuits. My parents encouraged me to be my weird, dreamy self and never once complained about my oddness. They seemed proud, even, it is only now as an adult, that I understand how extraordinary they are. My dad passed away a couple of years ago, but there are still moments during which I realise that he was a man out of time. In the misogynistic Indian society that I grew up in, he was a rarity. He did not want me to be his son, he encouraged me to be his daughter, together with my mother, he taught me and my sister to revel in our femininity, he made us understand the importance of having our unique feminine perspective, and made sure we never gave way to boys during fights, even if were fighting him.<br />
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You might wonder Dear Reader, why I am indulging in this particular bout of nostalgia; well the answer is simple, I am now facing the immense societal pressure to get married, because in our society, an unmarried woman is a liability, it is the terrible truth that all of us face sometime or the other, the constant, leading questions and the insinuations about declining fertility are just a few cringe worthy moments that one has to endure.<br />
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It would be funny if it were not so frustrating. Really when did the whole world and its aunt assume that it was alright to shame and frustrate a girl into willingly step into the 'parson's mousetrap' (<i>I love this old fashioned phrase meant for men, but I am making it my own</i>!). My father would have rolled his eyes and told me to move on and get real. For a 'Johnnie head in air' dreamer such as me, my father was alarmingly earthbound. The curious thing was that, as an Indian man of his generation, he used to say this curious thing "A wife walks behind her husband in silent support but a partner walks and in hand through life, occasionally pulling and frequently egging her spouse on". I never really understood what he meant until now as I stand on the precipice. <br />
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I know that you'll nod sagely dear reader, and shrug and think that I am indeed the cliché, that for me my father was perfectly right and reasoned. But really is it that great? Was my father so unique? Surely there are some men out there who feel exactly the same about their partners. Oh how I wish it were true! If so there is hope for my generation. </div>
The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-41412265100808721252017-03-31T10:42:00.000+01:002017-09-26T09:30:14.678+01:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dear Reader, it's my Birthday! today I got the most wonderful surprise in the form of my aunt who flew in just to spend the weekend with me and help me bring in the year. I confess to being slightly low in spirits this last week. You see, I have long made my peace with my appearance and with every year that goes by, one does get used to aging....I am not too old....but my early twenties are behind me now; that 'golden' time of one's life when everything is charmed and supposed to be the most exciting time of one's life. <br />
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Is it really <i><b>that </b></i>special though? I don't really feel that my early twenties were great? I was so clueless and full of myself. case in point, I actually started this blog as part of a student journal at university. Back then, I had these grand delusions about being a great journalist/ writer/ moral crusader....... Never in a million years did I even think that I'll continue writing this blog. In that, I have pleasantly surprised myself. this blog has come to represent a vital outlet for me. It helped me through incredibly difficult times. I, honestly don't even know if there is anyone out there who actually reads my crazy ramblings, but I do care that my written word is out there. <br />
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I have used this blog as a way to express my views, and have been fortunate enough to not be trolled, which I dreaded, when I began writing in 2010. I do not even know if I am a better writer now or that I've worsened. I do know from reading some of my old posts, that my writing style has definitely changed. But, today on my birthday, I must admit that this blog has come to represent, for me my most honest self. I don't feel the need to dress up, I don't feel judged, the emptiness of the page represents the canvas on which I can paint whichever form of self expression, that I want and be any version of myself; even my best version. <br />
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So Happy Birthday to me and all my fabulous and terrible versions dear reader, may this my future posts be a continuation of my positive growth as a human being. Cheers! </div>
The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-78113508296630239622017-02-12T02:20:00.000+00:002017-05-12T03:05:13.417+01:00Why I feel that there are no real poets anymore..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Once upon a time in my life I was madly in love with poetry......Does it mean that I don't love poetry anymore? The answer is somewhat neurotic...I love some poems more than others but I do realise that there is an abundance of terrible poems that people for some reason like, like for example poets of the Beat generation...I don't really get them...I mean I do on some level understand the gist behind their writing but not really connect to their verse like say the World War 1 poets like Wilfred Owen, or the Romantics or John Donne, Christopher Marlowe and Alexander Pope.<br />
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I guess I am no longer going through the thoroughly maudlin phase that I went through in my late teens...poetry at that time of my life was my way of telegraphing all my teenage angst through poems. Now that I am older I have learnt to really enjoy the beauty of certain poems just for the great works that they are and on an unselfish level really let it be about the brilliance of the person behind the poems.<br />
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A good poems can really change one's perceptions about life. I can say with a lot of certainty that there are a lot of people who would agree with me when I say that some powerful lines from great works of poetry really changed their lives.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abelard and his pupil Heloise by Edmund Blair Leighton</td></tr>
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In times of turmoil I always find myself remembering lines from poems and they really provide me with solace, strength, and a sense of belonging even. How wonderful is that? Novels are in my opinion powerful works of prose that can shape one's philosophy, and yet it takes you some time to read through one. Poems on the other hand have the magical quality of conveying so many impactful emotions in short bursts. Especially those times in our busy 21st century lives when we are compelled to stop and really take in the surroundings.<br />
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I feel that we have lost the ability to be eloquent like our ancestors, in this day an age we have this constant compulsion to be up-front; which is not necessarily a bad thing, and yet we have somehow forgotten to feel and convey those feelings. I wish that someone still had the ability to write about a simple flower like a daffodil that Wordsworth wrote about, or convey separation like Pope did in his Eloisa to Abelard, In our constant modern chatter, we have perhaps lost that unique ability to convey a lot in really few words and that in my opinion is one of the unspoken tragedies of the modern 21st century society.<br />
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The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-8649900604734171602017-01-01T06:00:00.000+00:002017-01-01T06:00:14.376+00:00Books that change our lives<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Good Morning and Happy New Year! I want to begin 2017 by talking about something that gives me immense joy; reading. My uncle gifted me a copy of Pride and prejudice by Jane Austen on my eleventh birthday and that day and that book changed my life.</span></div>
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In the movie You've got Mail, one of the characters talks about reading habits by saying that one of 20th century's most profound truths <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">was "you are what you read"and then Meg Ryan's character summed it all up with this gem <span style="background-color: white;">“When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does.”</span> Truer words were never spoken. Pride and Prejudice and later, Jane Austen played a major part in shaping my identity, </span>I can still recall the crisp paper and that unique smell that accompanies brand new paper. <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">From the moment I opened the page and read the memorable opening lines I was pulled into a world of genteel late Georgian/ Regency society; where an independent and intelligent women had only selected avenues to lead her life. I confess now, that first reading didn't really open before my eyes the complex layers of the characterizations and situations in the novel, in fact it is only now that I am beginning to fully comprehend the subtext. But I do so cherish that first time reading. I was captivated and couldn't put the book down. I loved it and couldn't stop thinking about the story. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">For a long time I even slept with my battered and worn copy under my pillow. If you ask me the reason behind that odd quirk now, I really couldn't answer why. I just did!I was proud that I had read such a 'grown-up' book and made certain to boast about my accomplishment in front of everyone, needless to say I did not end up endearing many.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcUU65ec1Ba2dc0XGabloc5c_psR6BLZBUR3Vvf_wBMb6VzxKnB_sTHfmsFLExFTsNtEWW7cGe26SU9w1m8WSJfp8u7oRh_ujlXP6SMyf2AHwUFTNkatNgVgIy13nmlK1tMTd3x2zWBk/s1600/download.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcUU65ec1Ba2dc0XGabloc5c_psR6BLZBUR3Vvf_wBMb6VzxKnB_sTHfmsFLExFTsNtEWW7cGe26SU9w1m8WSJfp8u7oRh_ujlXP6SMyf2AHwUFTNkatNgVgIy13nmlK1tMTd3x2zWBk/s320/download.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Reading Pride and Prejudice gave me the confidence to read further and opened up a whole new world of classics, I devoured Jane Austen and then moved on to Charles Dickens whom I adored, Anthony Trollope, the Brontes, W.M Thackeray, Elizabeth Gaskell, Walter Scott and many others followed in quick succession. I loved them all. For me Pride and Prejudice opened up the world of reading and literature, and I am indebted to Jane Austen for playing a major role in forming my healthy reading habit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So yes, to paraphrase Meg Ryan 'I certainly am what I read due to the fact that reading Pride and Prejudice at the tender age of eleven made a love for classics an eternal part of my identity as an adult'; it was most certainly a book that changed my life. </span></div>
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The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-36716839172022919982016-12-05T02:25:00.000+00:002017-01-03T19:39:24.296+00:00The year of bleakness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Just switched off the television after watching the news about an increasingly alarming, bizarre and bleak world and now all I want to do is bury my head in the sand like an ostrich, or even better, curl up under my blanket and go to sleep hoping to wake up when all this is over.<br />
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Plato said "We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light", he also said "Wise men speak because they have something to say, fools because they have to say something".<br />
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Those are some very wise words by a man we now regard as one of the greatest ancient philosophers. Until a few decades ago, it was mandatory for students to have some knowledge about the ancient philosophers, sadly that is not the case now. The men in power are increasingly ignorant and seem to have a wealth of words but not wisdom. They also have a disturbing and annoying habit of talking at a person, instead of to a person which I honestly find exhausting.<br />
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I cannot tell you how tired I am after listening to the constant cacophony of words that seem to flow at us in this glorious age of information and instant communication. I have also read various tweets, memes, witticisms about how 2016 was a really bad year, however did anyone ever apologise for contributing to making it so. The year did not start as a bad one, we were all hopeful in the beginning yet by May, people seem to have given up and pronouncements were being made about the absolute shambles the year 2016 was.<br />
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I confess, I want this year to end too. I am in the middle of a deeply disappointing decade that began as I completed the quarter of a century mark. But I would not blame it on anyone but myself, I am the architect of my own misery and have disappointed myself the most. If I have learnt something over the past traumatic year from what has been happening around me; it is that I should stop complaining and start working to improve my future or in case of the worst to paraphrase a quote by Theoden King of Rohan from Tolkien's Lord of the Rings Trilogy "If this is to be the end then I shall give them SUCH an end as to be worthy of remembrance" </div>
The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-41727662397548709032016-11-27T19:41:00.000+00:002016-11-27T19:41:11.641+00:00When Books begin to reflect life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have a confession to make, whenever I like or dislike people or for the matter like or dislike situations, I automatically compare them to literary characters ot books, for example, I dislike a particular male movie star so, my brain always compares him to Willoughby the shifty bounder from Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility, or the other day when I felt paraphrased a line from a Charlotte Bronte novel, needless to say, it was a bit weird for the people who heard me, because to be completely honest, a Bronte novel almost always can be depended upon to deliver dramatic dialogue. <div>
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It is the moment right after, when I saw the flummoxed expressions of those around me, that I realise this particular habit of mine. But really all I want to ask is; is it really that odd a habit? I suppose to those of us who are of a literary bent of mind, it may be that I am perfectly normal. But, even if I am completely bonkers, I know that it is perfectly fine to be odd. I have had a lot of fun in my life and gotten away with a lot of really controversial hijinks by having a long- established reputation for craziness. </div>
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To get back to my original observation, I don't know why, but I think that writers of old, especially Jane Austen, Dickens and the Brontes were really on to something. I find that I can always draw a suitable parallel in their novels for just about any person or situation. It really is amazing that novels written all those years ago in such a different era can still be so relevant even now in the second decade of the twenty first century. Perhaps it is the genius of such writers that they studied humans and human emotions so well. I am sure that we can still find a complete nincompoop like Mr Collins or even an intense self destructive and vengeful man like Heathcliff even now. </div>
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I have always thought of myself as a realist, but I find myself changing that opinion about myself lately. You see, I think I might be a bit of an optimist with a romantic's heart. After all who, but a romantic would attempt to quote Jane Eyre in the middle of a heated argument humm? </div>
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The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3810032737718314199.post-23872364832604487412016-10-31T02:01:00.000+00:002016-12-14T01:37:00.962+00:00Autumn in the life of a non-happening millennial <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is a bright crisp October evening as I am writing this and I can't help but remember some of the sweetest things connected to my childhood. I have always loved this time of the year, it heralds my favourite season winter. There is a freshness in the air and the anticipating the cold north wind makes one feel nostalgic for that time in life when October stood for the start of the holiday season.<br />
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Well the two of the major festivals in the Indian calendar have come and gone with a few more to follow. But, I must confess that a sense of fatigue has begun to set in. There was a time when I was younger when autumn was a buoyant time of the year when, ever single day brought a fresh chance to enjoy with friends and go on epic shopping expedition to various 'upscale' malls and frantic flea markets in anticipation of the winters.<br />
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Now though, one finds more joy sitting around in the evenings reading, which might prompt the following question, when did I become so boring. If I were to stand in front of my younger self, she would berate me for consigning my life to what she would consider 'purgatory'. Yet one can't help but wonder whether one's tendency towards becoming a homebody has something to do with just growing up.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDqG02dsV77ofDt7snAeQTzKgW-2JI4vUnE2xvFdYLJCBZkruJ8pwaXcSEiwRvQdfBuEjYWdJ5s1Pr4p364Kgyofh1oX8ONkQyIKZxUPMbolT390-624M4VXzn_SA187xrrUxT_UlqN9g/s1600/202e693886cd257ff7bf8fcfdd98e9be.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDqG02dsV77ofDt7snAeQTzKgW-2JI4vUnE2xvFdYLJCBZkruJ8pwaXcSEiwRvQdfBuEjYWdJ5s1Pr4p364Kgyofh1oX8ONkQyIKZxUPMbolT390-624M4VXzn_SA187xrrUxT_UlqN9g/s320/202e693886cd257ff7bf8fcfdd98e9be.jpg" width="320" /></a>I have read so many articles about the rapid decline and fatigue most millennials face in their late 20's. Whilst I shudder at the thought of my life taking such a moribund turn, I guess that there is some grain of truth to it all. Life, I guess does catch up with us at some time or the other; or is it that we catch up with life? That is a question for the intrepid pop-philosophers of the modern era. In the meantime I am of to curl up on the settee with an exciting new book. </div>
The tilted viewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10036915013741570543noreply@blogger.com0