tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73195228863126340722024-03-07T20:12:54.482-08:00Yea, Write!This is my blog. And I'm not the best writer you've known. I sulk. I crib. I rant. I do everything, but write. Take it if you can, leave it if you can't. I love my blog. Period.Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-53273031542397816872016-09-22T00:46:00.001-07:002016-09-22T04:11:04.754-07:00PINK.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I am not a feminist. And I do not
fight for equal rights. I think women are awesome. And we don’t need to be
compared with men.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I watched PINK yesterday and haven’t
stopped thinking about it, since. Haven’t other movies done that to me before?
Oh yes, they have. They’ve got me thinking too. About how crisp the script was.
How brilliant the performances were. And how beautifully they’ve portrayed such
a beautiful subject. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But PINK, got me thinking about
myself. And no, not too many movies have done THAT before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I walked into the movie hall,
like most other girls, looking forward to some serious male bashing. Prepping
myself to applaud shamelessly, if I felt like it. And whistle, if I could, every
time Big B made an appearance. But I took myself by surprise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A few minutes into the movie and
I realized I wasn’t part of the audience anymore. I was one of the girls. What
happened on screen, was happening to me. The fear, the angst, the rage. And
most importantly, the helplessness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">What I did shamelessly, was cry.
When the rest of the crowd clapped, I sniffled. When they repeated dialogues to
their friends, I repeated them to myself and cringed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">PINK is the story of every girl.
Single, Married, South Indian or North Eastern. Pink is the story of every
girl, who has had to explain herself. It speaks to each one of them, about each
one of them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It asks questions. It raises
doubts. And most importantly, it talks to you. In the voice of Amitabh Bachan.
And then, by the end of the movie, you’re left feeling like something’s just
hit you. Like a strange sense of reality. About the society in which you live.
The men you’ve met in the past and may meet in future. And most importantly, about yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">PINK does not tell you what’s
right and what’s wrong. What it does, is leave you feeling uncomfortable. And
that’s a good thing. So watch it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-4723416302573292712015-09-04T03:10:00.003-07:002015-09-04T03:10:54.688-07:00Clues.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Quite often, it’s that one word
you’re looking for. That one word you can start with. Much like the touch of
your finger on a delicately placed ceramic. That once touched, has nothing to save
it from falling, crashing on the floor, its pieces strewn all around. You stand
there, watching. Knowing there’s nothing you can do, could have done. You saw
the broken pieces, even before they were broken. Even before it happened. You
let it happen. You let it take its course. You let it be. Because sometimes,
it’s like that one word you were looking for. That one word that led to
another. And then another. And just like that, you had words forming sentences,
making stories. Quite often, life’s like that. You think you’re in control.
That you started it. That you’ll take it where you want to. And when you turn
around, trying to look at where it all started, you’ll find yourself searching
for that one word. That one fleeting thought. That one nod or shake of the
head. You wander into the crowd of your past. Between memories that were made
and then forgotten. Amidst moments that you wished never passed, then let go
off. You dive deep into the ocean of your own mistakes. And smile, as you think
of how you stand where you stand now, stronger, older, alive. Not remembering
how you got here, but happy that you did. And as you do, you stumble upon a new
word. That’ll lead to a new story. One that you think you’re writing. But the
words of which have already been found. Because your story, has already been
written. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-15643880993801424802014-07-01T05:10:00.001-07:002014-07-01T05:10:19.544-07:00Stranger. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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He walked into her cabin to find
someone else sitting in her place. She smiled at him like she was expecting
him. So he smiled back, half a smile, at the stranger who seemed to know him
pretty well. He said hi, and fumbled for the next set of words. She responded
with a chirpy giggle, followed by an update on her weekend. He found an uncanny
resemblance. She sounded like her. The giggles, the pauses, the raise of the
eyebrows. And yet, it wasn’t her. Creepy, he thought. And then, her phone rang.
“Hey Bob!” she answered. Bob, his senior, was never great with newcomers.
Forget calling them on their first day, many a time he’d pass by them and
behave like they never existed. For months together. And then this. She has a
3-minute long conversation with him on a project that’s been on for the past 3
weeks. She’s been here for what, 3 hours? WTF! Somewhere in between, she caught
him stare at her. ‘Are you alright Tim?” Startled, he looked away, mumbled ‘yup
Im ok’ and then fixed his eyes back on her. She noticed that something was
wrong. But left it at that. She walked out with a file in her hands and his
eyes following her. Outside, Joanna sipped on her coffee near the vending
machine. Sarah walked by and Joanna smiled her flashiest smile seeing her. ‘You
got a haircut!!!’ She squealed! Sarah, overwhelmed at first, soon calmed down.
And with a frown replied, “And Tim doesn’t seem to like it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-68142802901138143132013-05-12T22:59:00.000-07:002013-05-12T22:59:30.385-07:00We.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.5px; text-align: left;">
<em>What is it that makes it so difficult for us to accept rejection? Why do we constantly try and justify ourselves or convince ourselves that we are never wrong? How long does it take for us to let go off our egos and accept criticism with a smile?</em></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<strong>We are super humans.</strong> Each and every one of us. Or so we think, no matter how much we deny it. No matter how weak we seem or behave, it takes a lot for us to nod to rejection. We are so strong-headed that we give no right to another, to tell us that we are no good. That’s how highly we think of ourselves. That’s how superior we think of us as beings. That’s how powerful we are.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<strong>We are rebels.</strong> Even the most silent among us, is. It’s almost instinctive of us to react to a No. Maybe not physically, but mentally for sure. <em>‘Let me think about it. Yea, maybe. Really, you think so? But , don’t you think?’</em> Never, ever a <em>‘yes, you’re right’ </em>at the first negative.<em> </em>We take time. We’re taught to take time. Time to think, to brood, to sulk. And then, we react. We disagree.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<strong>We are selfish.</strong> We love our ideas. We love ourselves. Nobody can take that feeling away from us. Nobody dare take it. Because we believe that we’re perfect. We know it. We’re better than them. We’re smarter. We’re stronger. And we’re funnier than them. Those who think otherwise, just don’t know yet.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<strong>We believe only in ourselves. </strong> No matter what the world thinks of us, we don’t really care. If they think they have point, we don’t think so. Because their point is way different from ours. And If we don’t think so then they cannot be right.</div>
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<br /></div>
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If we’re wrong, we need to feel so. We need to realise it. No extra efforts taken. If it dawns upon us, good for them. Good for us. Till then, they’re wrong and we’re right. We deny. We disagree. We agree only if we think so. Nobody can change that. And till we realise it, we live on. As super humans, as rebels as selfish human beings who cannot accept rejection. Our ego, as much as they may hate it, and as much we’re unaware of it, continues to be the emotion that controls us. </div>
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Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-55801426850050524632012-10-16T23:21:00.003-07:002012-10-16T23:21:25.406-07:00Insecurity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Everyone’s got a little
bit of insecurity<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The dancer wears it in her heels<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The singer hides it in the lowest note<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The artist adds an extra stroke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The writer reads between her lines<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The popular boy revs up his bike.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The “hot chick” goes for the darkest red. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The funny guy laughs at his own jokes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The nerd tries and cracks a new joke. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The new guy in office rounds his Rs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The old guy acts anti-social, for the first few hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> The boss acts bossy,
the client acts pally.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The junior comes early and leaves only last.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Everyone’s got a little
bit of insecurity</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-39148289772062094522012-08-08T23:16:00.001-07:002012-08-08T23:17:29.726-07:00Numb.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It wasn’t the first time she was thinking about it. It had
crossed her mind several times before and perhaps 4-5 times on that particular
day. She woke up to a message from her sweetheart. It had a smiley and read I
love you. That’s all. Nothing fancy. But given that it was after a massive fight
they had last night, it probably deserved a little more. She smiled, half a
smile, and went back to sleep. In her dreams, she saw a fat woman screaming at
a kid, women talking behind corridors and a man smoking a cigar. What they
meant, nobody knows. She woke up 2 hours later. She read the message again, but
didn’t smile this time. Inside the bathroom, as she splashed water on her face,
she woke up. And it crossed her mind for the first time that day. She turned
her wrist and found that it hadn’t healed entirely. The cut had made a funny
shape exactly where she’d wanted a tattoo. She sighed at the coincidence. But it
didn’t seem to bother her. She pressed it to see if it hurt, but nothing
happened. She dried her face and walked out, with the towel still in her hands.
There was another message waiting. And two calls she had missed. She read the
message first. Missing you, it said. As she read it, she wondered what to have
for breakfast. She called him on her way to the kitchen. She smiled through the
ten minutes they spoke. She spoke like a kid, argued like one and fiddled with
a strand of hair, as she did. After hanging up, she poured the coffee into her
cup. Too bitter, she thought. Nothing about their conversation. She decided to
have it anyway. As she sipped on it, she let her mind wander into the busy road
outside. The loud honks, that normally pierced through her ears, weaved another
story in her mind. Of wars and battleships and death. She shrugged. As the sugar
that had settled at the bottom of the cup made its way to her mouth. She knew
what it was. She’d been there too long. Done that, way too many times. She was
tucked in between them and had got used to everything around. With every block
that she passed, every pit that she dodged, she felt a Déjà
vu. She followed the silvery grey road. Ready with an answer at every turn. If
she rammed into someone on the way, she’d brush her hair from her eyes and walk
away like it could happen to anyone. Nasty comments at work made her yawn,
sometimes just frown. She’d sit on her chair all day and let her fingers dance
on the keys. They’d sometimes do an ‘lol’ or form dots with a curve. Her lips,
however, refused to bend. When the cute guys smiled, she’d smile right back and
forget it right then. While it did help her in several other ways, she knew it
wasn’t quite what she had wanted. While they crossed her mind several times a
day, it hardly ever went any deeper than that. There was nothing anymore that
could pinch her awake or weaken her knees. There was never a moment that she could
call a moment anymore. Her phone beeped. One Déjà vu led to another. She got
onto her bed, cuddled herself and continued feeling numb. </span></span></div>
</div>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-58508420579526558102012-01-23T01:48:00.001-08:002012-01-23T01:50:20.390-08:00From there to here.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<strong style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So long old!</span></strong><br />
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;">
<strong><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></strong></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It was nice knowing you, not! Your silly surprises, your dirty tricks. Keep them safe in your deep, dark burrow. That funny feeling that you gave me when I was low? Tuck it under your bed and lie dead on it. Don’t move. Rusted dreams. Cobwebbed memories. Give them to your children. Or even better, put them in a backpack and go take a hike. And never return. Those secrets that you and I shared? Let them out to the world. Coz I don’t really care. I know you’ll keep trying over and again, to lure me into your company. Into your world of negativity. Isn’t that where you are at your best? Isn’t that where you make love with wrath? And make babies and name them fear, guilt and insecurity? I hate you old. Hate you with all my heart. So stay away from me, really. I’ve moved away from you. I’ve left you far behind. Left you to the vultures. Who’ll peck on you, tear you apart and leave no trace of you. So that when I look behind, which God forbid I won’t, I see nothing that’s you. Nothing that’s old. And then I’ll look ahead and keep moving forward. So long old. Take that! The finger!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;">
<strong><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Hello there new!</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></strong></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I love you. Already. And I’m sure we have a very long way to go, together. We have so much to do. And I can’t wait to live each and every moment that’s waiting for us. I’m sure you’ll love me just as much as I love you. I can see that already. That smile on my face you brought along with you? That was just a sign of the good days to come. That was just the beginning, I know. Starting here new, you and me will walk together to a happily ever after. You know what I see now? I see jealousy talking sweet to me. I see bitchy being friends with me. I see fear trying too hard to get me. New, I love the change you’ve brought with you. I know that some day, that’ll change too. But I’m sure I’ll love the new change too. Oh and I love your friends too new. Positive, happy and strength especially. They just took me into their arms, the very first day I met you. And I’m sure I’ll have them with me as long as I have you. And that I know, will be forever. I love you new. I love you so very much. Muah!</span></div>
</div>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-39751649999991912712011-09-15T05:23:00.001-07:002011-09-15T05:25:18.366-07:00Love in the time of Facebook.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Seriously now!
There’s got to be something more interesting than relationship updates right?
And definitely something more to our lives, other than the love affairs we’re in?
Can somebody please explain why and since when did everything in this world
start revolving only around relationships?</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I’m
in a relationship.</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"> Good for you. <i>I’m single.</i> Oh, even better. <i>It’s
complicated.</i> Get the hell out of there! I’m confused. I’m dating. I’m
double dating. I’m sleeping around. I’m flirting. I’m desperate. I’m
heart-broken. I’m so stuck in a life that’s only about my relationship status.
And sometimes, yours too. So can we please have something new to talk about
now, please? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">How I wish it ended
just there. We seem to be so stuck with this concept. It’s more like a
state-of-mind now. Like nobody thinks outside it anymore. For instance, I put
up a status msg a few days back that said ‘<i>in
a bad mood’</i> and I get a hundred comments of which more than half ask me, ‘<i>fought with your boyfriend?’, ‘broke up?’, ‘i
know how painful that can get girl’, ‘don’t worry just move on’, ‘find another
guy’, ‘wanna talk</i>?’ So on and so forth. Ugh! For god’s sake I’m in a bad
mood because nobody noticed my new haircut! And my status updates could also be
about me and only me and nobody else, you see!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Aren’t we going a bit
too Gung-ho about this whole idea called relationships? I agree it’s a
beautiful feeling to be in love and all that. But why do we go overboard in
publicizing it so much? Why don’t we have anything better to talk about these
days? Why does everything have to be about that? Or are we just making up for
all the pseudo love happening around us? With all those fake emotions and
expressions doing their rounds, we seem to be finding solace in its popularity.
Like talking about it makes you sound profound. Your insecurities are pampered
when you talk about the highs and lows of your love life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">And it’s easily
buyable. Just look around. Isn’t everybody talking about it? From advertisers to
movie makers to writers to singers. Everybody’s got a point of view on love. An
opinion, like you know what. And who doesn’t believe in a well-narrated story
of love, life and hope these days? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I’m a romantic. An
eternal one at that. But I’d love it if love was made to feel special, like it
once did. If relationships were not just about status updates and likes and
comments. I’d rather go looking for that silly idea it used to be than delve
deep into what it really means. I would stop throwing it around and would not make
a hero out of it. High time we stopped facebooking love and started showing some
real love, people?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-41817271250775246152011-08-16T04:46:00.000-07:002011-08-16T04:48:32.813-07:00Wanderings.<p class="MsoNormal">A world, far away, lost. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Quiet. Ignorant. Hidden. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of my own, myself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Secrets. Whispers. Sighs. </p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Pieces of glass, in black.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Kaleidoscopic visions. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Illusions, optical, in colour. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eddy. Deep. In-fi-nite. </p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Smoked up, high, hits the brain. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Nirvana, through the veins, from the heart.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sweat, breath, breathlessness.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Guilt.<span> </span>Fear. Insomnia. </p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Detached, fallen, from the clouds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Let go, scattered, through terrains. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">A quest, tunnels, limitless.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Journeying. Patiently. Maturing. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-92166990211907559142011-08-02T07:28:00.000-07:002011-09-16T00:18:46.754-07:00Devu.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Devu was all of five when she understood what it was to be a woman. She was aware of her body and she knew what made her different from the boys in her neighbourhood. She would go to school with them but took smaller steps and looked down when she walked. In her white petticoat, she’d rush to the door hearing the doorbell, but hide behind her mother’s saree on seeing Kumar Uncle through the window. He’d make vain attempts to lure her with juicy tamarind and deep-fried murukku. And poor Devu, digging herself into her mother’s saree, would shut her eyes tight. Hoping that she’d become invisible. And if he got any closer, she’d rush to the backyard, squat beside Ponnamma and watch her intently, as she milked the cows. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Devu was all of six. But she learnt a lot more than girls of her age. Devu was asked to talk with her voice low. If raised, she’d be asked not to talk for the rest of the day. So that the next time she opened her mouth, she’d think twice before she uttered a word. To help her grow into a fine woman, her father would say.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Devu was all of ten. But she’d learnt how to walk like a woman. Or so, she was taught. She’d pull her skirt down a million times, so that her knees didn’t show and the boys wouldn’t stare. She took careful steps and made sure she never missed any. She’d give way to the boys as they cycled around like ugly mosquitoes. Her pretty pink shoes looked pretty pink forever, because she knew every puddle that came her way, from home to school and then back home.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Devu was all of thirteen, when she was told not to talk to strangers - come what may. She was told that strangers are bad people. And talking to bad people could land her in danger. And so Devu hated strangers. Devu hated anyone she didn’t know. Or who her father didn’t know or her mother or brother or sister or friends didn’t know. And Devu wouldn’t talk to people she hated.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Devu was all of eighteen. And she had learnt to ignore. She was taught to ignore. Because ignorance, they said, was bliss. So no matter what the strangers did or said, Devu would ignore. She’d wait to get home, lock herself up in her room and vent by crying her heart out. She felt better when she cried. Because a woman was allowed to cry, she was told.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Devu is twenty five. And there’s nothing new about her. She talks softly. She watches her steps as she walks. She wears long clothes. She doesn’t always look good in them, but she feels safe in it. The lesser the skin, the lesser the eyes and so lesser the strangers who’d look at her, she thought. But Devu was wrong.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She felt helpless that evening. In a churidaar, that left no inch of her skin exposed, she felt naked. She cringed in fear. She pulled up her carefully pinned dupatta, so that it covered her neck line and that inch of a shoulder that was shown. She held a bunch of books so close to her chest that it almost felt like she had someone to hold on to. It gave her a sense of security. She ignored the eyes that followed her and hoped to get home faster and safe.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It was half past six. And Devu wasn’t home yet. Somewhere far, in the middle of nowhere, Devu lay helplessly. With nothing to save her from the savagery. At twenty-five, Devu succumbed to her helplessness. At twenty-five Devu wished that she had learnt more. She wished, that she had learnt to raise her voice and not just ignore. </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-74698326621165385332011-07-14T05:21:00.000-07:002011-07-14T05:23:58.815-07:00Story of my life<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I see a face; <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Quite far away. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The hair, the lips; <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >A mirage you could say. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I start a little slow. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >With doubts in my head.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Do I walk towards him?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Or should I just stay?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I think no more. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I decide to move. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I walk straight ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >As my steps gain pace. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >He’s still right there. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Like he’s waiting for me. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >My eyes stay fixed. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And my breath gains speed. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I now see the checks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >On a full sleeved shirt. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >They’re blue with some red.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Or wait, is it grey?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >There’s a faint little smile. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Is that a dimple that I see?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >My heart beats faster.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And my feet go numb.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I take another step. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >From just another three. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I reach for him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I pout my lips.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And like a funny joke of destiny. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >A stranger crosses my way. </span></p>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-35797678037772343842011-06-07T11:30:00.001-07:002011-06-08T03:10:22.870-07:00Wannabe.<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Famous. Not on page 3. Followed. Not copied. Loved. Not taken for granted. Important. Not fake. Heard. Not for the sake of it. Kissed. Not distracted. Happy. Just like that. Respected. Not feared. ‘Liked’. Not clicked. Free. Not judged. Remembered. Not saved. Lost. Not found. Furious. Not stupid. Silly. Not dumb. Patted. Not Pitied. Envied. Not ignored. Hurt. Not forgotten. The one. Not the other one. Held. Not owned. Pampered. Not possessed. Bad. Not hated. Good. Not easy. Asked. Not assumed. Noticed. Not scanned. Funny. Not foolish. Thought of. Not regretted. Alive. Not the usual. Special. Not another word. Understood. Not defined. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">The answer. Not an option. Sure. Not stubborn. Wrong. Not questioned. Right. Not confused. This. Not that. There. Not here. Me. Not she. Read. Not between the lines</span></p>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-47782710104839774172011-05-19T01:26:00.001-07:002011-05-19T01:27:07.319-07:00Scrap!<p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">A silent whisper,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">I continue to be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">A shadow missed,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">on the deserted street.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">A speck of dust,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">that nobody sees.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">In ancient trunks,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">and cobwebbed locks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">I lie inside,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">a forgotten sigh.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">Through dirty nights,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">and foreseen dawns.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">Im nothing new,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">but a shade of grey.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">Warm and calm,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">I’ll always be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">A secret I am<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:17.2pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">I continue to be.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-13756947002777338812011-05-02T05:32:00.001-07:002011-09-16T00:18:31.286-07:00My funny bone.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">I’m not the funny types. I’m not the one who can hold a straight face, crack a joke and have the whole room rolling on the floor laughing. That’s just not me. But yeah, I can laugh at your jokes. Each and every one of them. If your joke’s not funny, you still have no reason to worry. I’ll find them funny.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Probably, when God gave the funny ones a funny bone; he kept one last piece aside. One that had a problem. And to make sure it goes to the right person, he first tried it on himself. To his surprise, he noticed that, he just couldn’t crack a good joke anymore. People stopped looking up and going, “God, are you always this funny?” And instead, they went, “Hey you, up there! That was a bad one.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">However he noticed that often, very often, he looked down and cracked up at the silliest things man would do. Like when he planned his future or he worried about his past or cried over a lost opportunity. God would burst into the loudest, funniest, squeakiest laugh ever. Tears rolled down his cheeks, his stomach ached and he gasped for breath.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">This went on for a while; until one day God decided that it’s time he parted with the funny bone and passed it on to somebody more deserving. Sitting on his mammoth throne, he looked around. And! He spotted me!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">There she is!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">I was in the car with a friend, having a very very heated argument. My friend, in his defense, addressed me in the loudest tone ever. “But Saritha!” And turned around, to find my eyes crinkle, nose cringe and lips widen. I burst into the most hysterical laugh ever. And that was just the beginning.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Honestly, the funny bone’s been quite a boon to me. And to some of my friends too. Today, I manage to laugh at almost everything around me. Nothing seems to be too serious or too boring. God’s been good to me. God ought to make more such mistakes. Give everybody a funny bone like mine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><o:p>T</o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">hen there won’t be grumpy bosses anymore. They’ll be too funny, for you to notice their grumpiness. All that once made you sulk, will now make you laugh. Short deadlines will make the client look funny. That wannabe colleague, who stole your idea and got a raise, will look pathetically funny. That college sweetheart, who dumped you for Miss Fresh Face, will give you cramps in your tummy, as you laugh hard pointing your finger at him. The auto driver’s expression, when he charges extra, will look insanely funny. You’ll laugh at the weighing machine, you’ll laugh at those dark circles, and you’ll laugh every Monday morning. The “out of order” board on the lift will look funny and your boss’s mail, that says “not working”, will look funnier. When your bike stops half way, for the hundredth time in the past two months, you’ll kick it hard and then laugh at yourself.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">You’ll realize that there’s so much to laugh at, than to cry for. There’s so much to brush aside than crib over. And then one day, God, from his mammoth throne, will look down with pride, and smile, as you laugh at your own mistakes.</span></div>
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Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-60165525021253051212011-04-01T00:11:00.000-07:002011-09-16T00:19:24.869-07:00Cool?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">It’s so cool no? What’s so cool? Whatever. Everything. We live in a cool world. Yeah. And we do cool stuff. Aha! We find this cool and that cool. Cool is so the in thing. Cool is so hot! One fine day, you wake up to find out that everything, that was once hardly even noticed, has now become cool. So many cool things around us. So many cool people around us. Wearing bathroom slippers to office is cool! He who uses the “F” word in place of every second word is oh so cool! And she who uses the “F” word is oh so cooler! Fighting with the auto waala and winning is aah cool! The reply to a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I’m sick today</i>” SMS is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“cool! </i>Ugh!<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>What’s so cool about using cool? There ought to be a cooler word than cool? But look around and you’ll see how cool, cool is. Falling in love with a man twenty years older to you is cool. A woman conceiving a kid in her seventies is cool. A kid who calls her mother by her name is cool. How uncool! A forty year old man with salt and pepper hair is cool. Oh yeah! ;) Knowing that it’s “my” life at 18 is cool. Doing my own thing at 20 is cool. Ignoring questions is cool. Cool comebacks are cool! Doing what the world doesn’t do is cool. Doing what’s not so cool, is cool! “Ok” is so out “cool” is so in. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ll be late. Cool. So let’s do that. Cool. Get lost, you! Cool.</i> If the question’s cool. The answer’s cool. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Maybe cool should become a religion. So everyone who belongs to cool, will be cool. A cool guy can get married to a cool girl. There’ll be cool temples or cool churches. Cool festivals. Cool rituals. Everything about cool will be cool. Cool Gods. Cool prayers. Oh wow! Now that’ll be soo cool! I’ll convert to cool-ism! And make my kids cool. I’ll be a cool mom! They’ll go to cool institutions. And learn cool stuff! Cool will be the coolest thing!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So here’s to a cool world. A world full of cool people! ;)</span></div>
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Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-15328133913058760332011-03-24T09:18:00.000-07:002011-03-24T09:23:02.843-07:00Lazy we!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; "><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; display: inline !important; "><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">The world’s filled with lazy people. Including me. Blame it on technology, and the stuff it brings along. I mean, how else do you explain the LOLs and the Hmmms and the WTFs?</span></p><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">Take a normal chat conversation, for instance.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><i><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">Reena: And then I said this..and then he wus like whoa..oh god it was so funn! you shud have been there and damn I don’t believe it happened.</span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><i><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">Me: LOL.</span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><i><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">(Hand on chin, droopy eyes, breathing through my mouth.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">Now that’s definitely not how I LOL. I’m just too lazy to even laugh and too lazy to even type out anything more that I feel, about my friend’s funny experience. So I LOL. How convenient.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">Here’s another one.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><i><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">Tina: So babe, you know what I mean right? It’s like serious. You know I’d say it coz there’s a reason. Right?</span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><i><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">Me: Hmmmm.</span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><i><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">(Minimising windows, replying to Mary who just popped up from another window and trying hard to get some Maggie twisted on to a fork.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">“Hmm” just means, go on, whatever!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">Hey now don’t give me that look. It’s not just me, right? It’s what you, Reena, Tina and Mary would do too! We’re lazy. Let’s just face the truth. Too lazy to even express. Forget the online conversations. When was the last time you told somebody how much you love them? Or even worse, when was the last time you actually LOL?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">While on one hand, we spend half our time romancing with technology and expressing half heartedly with fake emotions, we’ve forgotten how a warm bear “hug” feels or what the joy of receiving a tight, passionate “mmuah” is! ;) Lucky are those, who haven’t.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">Like now, as I type this, I’ve keyed in a lot of “hmms” and “lols” and “ohhs” and “hehehes” across various chat windows. Sorry you, on the other side, you still have all my attention. Swear to God. And I promise, that when I LOL to your last ping, mom walked in to my room and went “What the hell was that?” See? I did laugh out loud!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">So I hereby make an oath. That no matter how stuck to my chair my ass is, I shall express more. I may not “roll on the floor laughing my ass out”, but I will, for sure, smile when I click on a smiley, listen carefully and ponder when I “hmmm”, and will not stop at a “hehehe.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">;) (I just winked, really.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; "> <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"><b> </b></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"><b> </b></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"><b> </b></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"><b> </b></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"><b> </b></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"><b> </b></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"><b> </b></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"><b> </b></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"><b> </b></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"><b> </b></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b> </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: bold; "><o:p></o:p></span></p></span>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-78472179051189235912011-03-22T23:09:00.000-07:002011-03-23T02:25:29.090-07:00Sasi.<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal; "></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span >And then just when Sasi thought that he was done dealing with the most difficult aspect of being in a relationship, just when Sasi had given in to the million-dollar, diamond studded, salt rich tears that rolled down those wrinkled cheeks, Sasi was in for problem no.2!</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span ><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span > </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span >Sasi’s ex-girlfriend’s best friend! Tada!</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span ><br /></span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span > </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span >Aaargh! That bleddy biatch! That nightmare of my first nights! That fighter of a woman who’ll scratch, bite and shred me at sight and inject those venomous thoughts into my poor little, angelic ex-girlfriend’s mind! She who ripped me off my aww-nice-guy image and crumbled me into teeny weenie pieces of shame, disgrace and humiliation. She who made me the bad boy of every Hindi movie.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span ><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span > </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span >Tsk..tsk..tsk! Poor Sasi.</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span ><br /></span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span > </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span >So now what do I do! Oh there’s an update. Oh a new pic. Shit! The biatch’s liked it! Ugh. She commented. Oh my God a new note! It’s all about me. I know it, I know it! And there a thumbs up! The world’s going to see it. They’re all gonna know it’s about me. They’ll all hate me now. Can’t these women stop talking about me? Can’t they just let me be? Oh! Oh! I know what to do! Aah! Why didn’t I think of this before? You wait and watch you best friend, you woman! Here I go, I UNFRIEND you! CLICK! And, she’s gone! Phew! That was close.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span ><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span > </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span >Sigh! </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span ><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span > </span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span >So safe Sasi feels in his new found world. So blissfully unaware of the action outside. Locked from all sides, blocked in a page of his own, Sasi chooses what to see and what others must see. Sasi’s startled at a post and Sasi trembles down a note. Reading between lines and staying awake all night. I pity Sasi so much. And Sasi’s scary sad life. But then like they say, boys will be boys. And sasi will always be Sasi. Looks like they’ll never grow up.</span></i></span></p><p></p>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-11916931886522566902011-03-21T04:28:00.001-07:002011-03-23T02:24:29.315-07:00Looking for advice.<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; " ><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">I walked into the advice store to find advice. The big bold fonts, that flashed in bright yellow neon, wooed me in. “Now these guys ought to have something for me.” I told myself. I’d gone almost everywhere tried almost everyone, but nobody really had what I really wanted. They were either too old or they simply wouldn’t fit me. The advice store however, looked quite promising.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">A warm smile stood by the door to welcome me. I walked in and a tight hug greeted me. There was a couch waiting and I rested myself on its lap. I leaned to the side and I felt light in the head, already.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">The store was big. And there was advice of every kind, hanging in almost every corner. There were shelves full of it too. And baskets and cupboards and folders and bags. There was advice spilling out from everywhere. Like nobody needed them anymore. Like they’ve been there for years together but nobody’s walked in looking for one. </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">It was started, they say, by a man from the hills. He traveled around the world looking for advice and finally found so much that he had to find a place to put them all. There was advice from the mountains, advice from the seas. Advice from Texas, from Greece and even from the trees. There was a piece of advice, heaps of it, there were harsh ones and the ones you just wanted.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">There were pretty ones, knitted with lace, and dark ones you’d never want to take. There were funny ones, sincere ones, some friendly advice and unwanted ones too. I looked around and wondered what to take. I scratched my head, bit my nails, frowned a lot but just couldn’t decide. Everything looked so good, like they were just right for me. But every time I tried one, I’d wriggle out of it.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">So then again I decided that this isn’t perhaps what I need. And just when I did, a note caught my eye. A crumbled piece of brown paper, with red ink smudged all over. And written in awfully bad handwriting, was the following text: </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><em>“Oh dear one, looking for advice. Why come here for what you seek? It’s all out there and ready for you to take. Look at where you’ve been and think of what you’ve done. You’ve perhaps missed something, and that’s probably what you need. Look at where you’ve been and think of what you’ve done.”</em></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; display: inline !important; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">It was signed, <strong>the man from the hills.</strong></span></b></p><p></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><strong><br /></strong></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><strong> </strong></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">And so I leave the advice store and all the advice there. And go on looking for mine, from everywhere I’ve been. I try them each, one by one, and to my surprise, they fit me just right. Like they were made for me and nobody else, but me.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Who else would know what fits me best? Who else would know what exactly I need. No lacy advice, no friendly ones, none of those work for me. What does is what I have. Made from what I know of me. </p></span></b></span></span>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-30929486691552664652011-03-12T05:06:00.000-08:002011-03-12T05:07:29.630-08:00Shoo Cow!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; " ><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><strong><em>A random ranting dedicated to the cows of the world. You cow out there, this one’s for you!</em></strong></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><strong><em><br /></em></strong></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Such cowards, these cows.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">So little, their thoughts</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Their tails, so long.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Their horns, so sharp.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">And yet so dumb.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Such cowards, these cows.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">They moo as the pout</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Or pout as they moo</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">That’s all they do</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Such cowards, these cows.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">They chew and spit</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">And chew and spit</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">They take it back in</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">And squeeze it all out</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Oh cow do you know how fake you look?</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">With those big fat lips, and that stained brown teeth.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">You poker faced meat, oh you poor thing, you.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">I love you, yes, but I pity you too.</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">You thick skinned fellah</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">You dirty old creep</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Go dig some junk</p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">And dig deep in.</p></span>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-41767680493225834632011-02-21T04:36:00.000-08:002011-02-21T04:37:51.469-08:00The forgotten<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; "><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><strong>Cochin</strong><strong>. </strong><strong>February 21, 2011</strong><strong>:</strong> Ok cool. So you’re on facebook now. Looking through albums, commenting on them, liking status updates, staring at your profile page for minutes together, sometimes hours. You’re just there. Like me. And damn are we lucky or what! Lucky that we have our asses firmly rested on a chair, palm sweating on a mouse, eyes fixed on the screen and our minds wandering aimlessly.</span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >I love my life.</span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><strong>Bhopal</strong><strong>. </strong><strong>February 18, 2011</strong><strong>:</strong> The city wakes up late. It’s 8 am, the windows are closed, streets empty, and there’s silence in the air. The night of December 2, 1984 is not one that the people of Bhopal want to wake up to, ever again. Sadly, they’re left with no choice. They sleep with nightmares from that fateful night still haunting them. They close their eyes only to see dark yet vivid images of their loved ones falling dead on the streets. They’re woken up by the sound of their five-month old crying, whose body they found amidst the debris that lay scattered. The poisonous gas that engulfed the city 26 years back continues to do so. In Bhopal, there hasn’t been a dawn since.</span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >My visit to this city has left me feeling uneasy. A sense of restlessness crawls into me every time I sit back and yawn. What I feel, what I see and what I do, seems to go all the way back to what I saw there. The ‘gallis’ of JP nagar made me feel nothing less than despondent. Ask me if it was disbelief, helplessness or disrespect to myself that troubled me more? And I wouldn’t know. One question, however, haunted me throughout. What the hell was I thinking when I cried last night about how sad my life is. When I freaked out on hearing that my salary hadn’t been credited? When I yelled at my mother for not “understanding” me. What the frikkin hell was I thinking? Truth is, I wasn’t even thinking. Coz if I were, I’d have had a zillion reasons to feel good about. And that I realized right there. In Bhopal. When I met the victims of the Gas tragedy.</span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >They were there, in front of my eyes. Mothers who couldn’t stop crying as they spoke about their baby they left behind, when they ran to save their lives. Girls in purdah, with mehendi till their elbows, who peeped from their little huts to catch a glimpse of us - the “shooting waale”. Kids who knew nothing. Who struck a pose in front of my mobile camera to give Shahrukh Khan and Hritik Roshan a run for their money. They stood there with silent questions that hit me right in my face. And as one among the zillion witnesses across the world, I knew that I owed them an answer.</span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Two decades since, the threat continues to linger. Kids are born with alarming defects. Their brain outside the skull, deformed bones constantly at war with their mind, refusing to give them a reason to stand. Flaking skin that peels off bit by bit as they smile. Eyes that see nothing but darkness. The tragedy screams into deaf ears. And it doesn’t end with what’s now. Pregnant women do not know what to expect. They don’t pray for a boy or a girl. They pray for a fully-formed baby. Nothing more. Nothing less. But they know that everything that’s granted will still leave them weeping in distress.</span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Where does the voice of the people of Bhopal sink into? Why aren’t they heard? Is anybody even listening?</span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >The water the people of JP Nagar drink, remains contaminated. Fresh water is a need that’s ‘waiting’ to be considered at the court. Wrong drugs are still being administered. Death continues to loiter. And the people of Bhopal still find reasons to be happy.</span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Is this a tragedy we can afford to forget? Is it nothing but a thing of the past that can be brushed away with a shake of the head or a deep sigh? The Government continues to turn a blind eye to the world’s worst hit tragedy. While no compensation can make up for the memories they’ve lost, and will perhaps never find, it could give them the strength to build a better future. All this, if we make sure that the disaster’s not forgotten.</span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Bhopal. The heart of India that stopped beating 26 years back. </span></p><div style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; "><br /></div></span>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-43420984989384457022011-01-10T07:41:00.001-08:002011-01-10T07:42:01.825-08:00That day.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; " >One day is all she got to live a dream. And she knew she had to make the most of it. So the first thing she did was, to dig out her conscience and keep it aside, carefully. Coz she knew she couldn’t do without it. But that day, she didn’t need it. And of that, she was sure. Then, she stopped asking questions. Something she’s never been able to do before. She quite beautifully, let her mind go blank. Well, not exactly blank. But sans questions. And that felt good. She just saw what she wished to. She was so much at peace. The doors of her mind opened wide. And she welcomed every beautiful feeling with a smile. She was in love. In love with the feeling of being at peace. In love with the fact that there was no struggle. In love with herself. She smiled. Letting go off all those promises she made to herself, she embraced the moment, the minute, the hour. She made love to the freedom of her mind. So passionately, it brought tears. As they rolled down her cheeks, she felt warmth. The kind that makes you cringe and never unwind. She held tight coz she feared she’d forget. She feared that she’d never want to walk out of the dream. Like the last time. So she treaded slow. Out of every minute, every moment. She closed her eyes, they were half open. They began fading. First the smile, then the love. She could feel her feet on the ground. It was heavy now, inside her heart. She thought she’d never open her eyes. But then she did. And somewhere she felt the smile come back. It was then that she knew that she was out of it. The dream she saw, she had left behind. She turned around and looked at it. From a distance, with a giggle in her heart, she smiled. </span>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-2828511802916521542010-12-24T00:44:00.000-08:002010-12-24T00:52:27.584-08:00My Christmas wish.<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; "><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; "><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; "><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">This Christmas, I wish to smile more than I usually do. I wish to smile real smiles and not fake ones anymore. And if in case I don’t want to smile at all, at someone or anyone, I wish with all my heart that I don’t try too hard or force myself to. This Christmas, I wish I don’t try and understand every single soul I meet, don’t try to look at things from “their” point of view and step into “their" shoes. This Christmas I wish my anger lasts longer and I learn to hate people for more than half an hour. I wish that I don’t yearn to be good or try to be nice. I wish I learn that not all things around are bright and beautiful and that there are blacks and greys and will always remain. This Christmas, I wish that all those people who deserve a piece of my mind get it as and when they need to. I wish they get to see the bad side of me and regret like never that they met me. I wish I listen not to my head but more to my heart and I do all that it asks me to. This Christmas, I wish I learn to hurt, to ignore and most importantly to swear. I wish to learn not to regret, not think twice or even once after I speak my mind. This Christmas, I wish to be me. And not just somebody who some others want me to be. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">Merry Christmas to me. </span></span></p></span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p></o:p></span></p>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-61678906793122635332010-10-19T23:46:00.001-07:002010-10-19T23:52:54.610-07:00Signs.<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><br /></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">I wish, to walk away. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">I wish, I’d never want to look back. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">Of all the wrongs and stupid truths<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">There’s never a reason to hold me back<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">Yet to feel funnily right <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">Guilty of love. Happy to be. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">There’s never an urge to think otherwise. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">Sheepish smiles continue to haunt.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"">Thoughts remain, they refuse to change. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-87566907980149375522010-10-06T01:07:00.001-07:002010-10-06T01:07:22.149-07:00The pause.<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; ">Just when you thought that the rains were over and the bright sunny days were back, you find yourself blanketed by dull grey clouds once again. So dull that you strain to keep yours eyes open. So grey that you stop believing in black or white. No matter how hard you try, all you see is a thick layer of fog all the way ahead. Giving you, not even the slightest hint of what awaits you. You strain harder and your eyes start hurting. And then somewhere, between the moment of grief and the moment of optimism, you step into a dark whirlpool of random images. Thoughts, to be precise. And before you even know, you find yourself tumbling across. From one image to another. The past. The present. The future. And then you find yourself frowning when you see the past. With images so clear, that you almost fail to believe that it happened. Because the past never seemed so vivid when it was the present. Or perhaps because you never thought that it would lead you to the future you’re in now. You try opening your eyes in between in an attempt to step out of it, but something sucks you back in. Deeper down and you almost find yourself falling. This time, you’re tickled, poked and rammed amidst a stampede of questions. You find the answer to one, but soon the next one crops up, you solve that and another boos you from behind. Left, right, centre. Madness. Then there’s a lullaby. A musical that drags you even further down. Here you have some others waiting for you. Guilt. Wrath. Possessiveness. All the bad guys. And they host a party. To celebrate your arrival. They know you’ll stay there for long. Maybe for good. You settle down, in a corner. You give in hoping for the fog to clear, the questions to fade and the bad guys to shrink. And then you feel the curves of your lips widen a bit. You cuddle and breathe out a sigh, as you watch a dream tiptoe from the corner of your eye.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS""><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7319522886312634072.post-56999898491901097262010-09-09T22:05:00.000-07:002010-09-09T22:07:01.487-07:00My bedtime story.<p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">Once upon a time there lived a little girl named Sara. She lived on the hill, in a room full of stars. But she cried almost everyday because she was in love with the moon. Though the stars shined bright and played along with her, she still missed the moon, to be with whom she wished upon every star.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">So one day, Sara decided to write a letter to the moon. She started by saying,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">My dear moon,</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">I see you from my window everyday</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">And wonder as I do</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">Do you want to come down and play?</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">Do you love me the way I do?<o:p></o:p></span></strong></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><br /></span></strong></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">As she wrote the letter, she looked outside the window. To see if the moon was listening to all that she had to say.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">I love you so much my dear moon</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">I love you with all my heart</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">I wish there was a way I could make you mine</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">And never had to part<o:p></o:p></span></strong></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><br /></span></strong></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">Just then, Sara thought she saw the moon smile. She wiped away her tears and continued writing, now with a smile.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">People say I’m funny and weird</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">They think I’m being too silly</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">But what can I do if I love you so?</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">So what if I’m a lil crazy?</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><br /></span></strong></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">Dear moon, I know you’re too far</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">Farther than the dreams I see</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">But I can’t seem to stop loving you</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">And wishing you were with me.<o:p></o:p></span></strong></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><br /></span></strong></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">Sara put down her pen and looked outside as the moon shined. And then, as if they spoke, and the moon had something to say, Sara wrote a few more lines. And closed her book after she did.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">I may perhaps never reach you</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">Or never be able to play with you</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">But I’m sure I’ll never have to miss you</span></strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">Coz no matter where I go I know where to find you. </span></strong></p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;"><br /></span></strong></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:18.0pt"><strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;">:)</span></strong><span style="font-family:"Trebuchet MS";mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Trebuchet MS";font-family:";color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Saritha Rajagopalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990646036340578879noreply@blogger.com3