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snippets of book-reviews

Tuesdays with Morrie

Tuesdays with Morrie

ACTUALLY A OLD REVIEW I WROTE FOR MY BLOG

An engagingly enough and haunting narration of how one person can make a difference in someone’s life.

What does it mean to love someone? What does it mean to watch someone grow up before your eyes? or what does it mean to grow up with someone? Can one person mean so much in life? or for that matter Can one person change your life? There are some books that sneak right away into you, which can be there always with you, for you, to pour its meaning into you, when you are at cross-roads.

It is a story of a professor stricken with ALS, a neurological disease with no cause and cure. A professor who chose to come to terms with his imminent death. It is a chronicle of his tuesdays spent with a student. A student with whom, he could relate his very growing up days. His last classes with discussion about the truths of life, death, fear, love, society, regrets, marriage, family, aging, regrets, money, emotion, culture and a meaningful life.

It was an accident that I chose this book, one lazy noon with nothing to do, visited a nearby book exhibition, took it by the mere attraction of the title. Never Knew that I wouldn’t be the same person anymore. I cried along with Mitch and fought back my tears to keep reading. I cried for Morrie, Morrie’s family and friends, I cried for me, I Cried for my Teacher…..

Have you really had that someone? or were you ever been that someone to anyone?

 Cobalt Blue
Cobalt Blue
In a time, where sexuality and freedom of sexual choice been talked over and over again, here is a book that talks in subtlety and overtly under-tones. It is not a typical tale of an adolescent coming to terms with his sexuality or that of a girl learning to cope up with her first heart-break in life.
The setting of the story in a claustrophobic middle class family with three siblings, where the daughter and the youngest son falls for the mysterious paying guest forms the backdrop of the novel.Intriguing a read and subtly disturbing; It does raise a lot of pertinent questions about the familial space and relationships that function within this important social unit.

The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair

The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair

The Kind of book that I sat two days and two nights, with nothing else doing to find out the ending.

A brilliant literary suspense. It is primarily the story about two friends, one a successful writer and the other an aspiring writer. The story is told by the aspiring writer who arrives in the small town of somerset to investigate about the murder of a young Nola thirty three years ago. with each turn of page, more suspense is built and more secrets and mysteries over the missing girl gets unraveled.

 

Bookless in Baghdad: Reflections on Writing and Writers
Bookless in Baghdad: Reflections on Writing and Writers
I have never run bookless in my entire life, yet I had the misfortune of reading this book, Had Woody Allen known this book, he would have definitely called it, significantly over-rated. Though in the preface, the gentleman of a writer Shashi Tharoor says “Though I have reviewed many books, including several Indian Novels, I have not included any of my book reviews in this collection. Rather this Volume seeks to assemble my ruminations on aspects of the literary experiences that go beyond any single book.” It is just an accident and the readers’ misfortune that the single book beyond which he couldn’t go is THE GREAT INDIAN NOVEL penned by yours Truly Shashi Tharoor

A glib of writer he is and every other instance he draws reference to his great scholarly and literary work The Great Indian Novel. His great desire to compare and contrast himself with Salman Rushdie alone two chapters; though he could have done it more convincing by being more self-indulgent.
It is more of him and him in every circumstance and less of ruminations about book!

Though I have to admit that there are certain chapters which thoroughly bowled me over! Can try! Nevertheless a good read

 
84, Charing Cross Road
84, Charing Cross Road
Started this book on an early lazy Sunday morning, a short read on a single sitting of three hours. A brilliant read, bringing back the magic of two lost art, Reading and Letter-writing, For someone who firmly believes that life takes you to the best people and best books, this is a greater testimony to my belief,

In a world mediated by mobile phones, internet, communication and the latest Jio-hyped-free data, it is a blessing, relief to know and to be assured that deep friendships take years to built and never in the era of blue ticks of sent items. I insist every reader to read, to know and to be lost in the thoughts of two different souls, and to see the beautiful unfolding of kindness and friendship.

Helena’s quirky personality and the ‘polite British reserve’ Frank’s blend of the personal and the professional attitude add life to their letters, be it the books, family or any odd things they talk about, they pour a bit of their candid selves into these letters.

Kafka on the Shore

Kafka on the Shore

Kafka on the shore is one of the strangest books i’ve read. A journey that stretches itself onto the realms of magic as the reader approaches it. The story is narrated from different perspectives of  Kafka Tamura, a fifteen-year-old boy who runs away from home to escape an oedipal prophecy and thereby making it true and then the story of Nakata, an old man who gained the ability to talk to cats after an incident in his childhood.


This entire book reads like a fine collage of  intense vignettes of unrelated dreamy scenes and poignant conversations. A meandering dreamlike tone drives the entire reading experience. A surrealistic “Kafka-esque” thread runs all along the narrative tying the loose ends, before the book ends. One can sense an intentional ambiguity in the very narrative and the plot. At times, it takes a toll on the reader to make connections every now and then, that said, it ain’t an easy read.
Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe (Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, #1)
Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe (Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, #1)
Apprehensively started reading this book, on a slight intrigue by the title. A Novel that refuses to be coming off age, yet predictable at times. Nevertheless a good read! Something that grows on you, if you have had a friend, with whom you grew up on your teen years. A poignant tale of love, friendship and family and how these three entities can affect the eternity of lives

On Chesil Beach

 On Chesil Beach

“They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when a conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible. But it is never easy.”

In a lot of ways, this still happens to be my first read of Ian McEwan. I could only feel a little bleak knowing how the entire course of a life can be changed by a single event in one’s life. Ian beautifully captures the thousand subtle emotions of two different individuals on their nuptial night. The entire novella revolves thoroughly around a number of seamless fragments of flashbacks and memories of Edward and Florence’s lives.

Powerfully through his brevity, the author captures these characters’trivial memories and tidbits of their everyday lives, hopes, dreams,disappointments and how one night that change everything.

The Signature of All Things

The Signature of All Things

A Fine achievement of history, science and storytelling. A tale complete in itself that I did feel like my world ceased to exist after Reading

Youth

Youth

This is the third of my coetzee’s book. somehow it was a drag right from the beginning, yet I managed to read to be drained. This narrative is painted with despair and the frustration that becomes the tryst of every day life. The wry observation of the hopelessness that one feels, wading through the alien streets of a different world in one’s youth is beautifully captured. Personally I could NT relate to the author and waited to finish off the book. May be, I read it in the wrong phase/time of life, nevertheless this is definitely not the best of his books or shouldn’t be the first of coetzee’s for one to start with.

The Fault in Our Stars

The Fault in Our Stars
Depressingly funny!
Rather Funny and Depressing at the same time in different ways; absurdly philosophical and intricately subtle. An easy read though it leaves you a bit heavy towards the end

The Mirage: A Modern Arabic Novel

The Mirage: A Modern Arabic Novel

A Poignant tale about love, betrayal and family. The sketch of an overprotective mother and the nuanced observations of the conflict and working of the mind of an overtly shy individual makes this writing a brilliant psychological portraiture. The novel leaves you feeling a bit disoriented. A wonderful story teller from Egypt. Thanks Rohit for introducing this wonderful writer 🙂
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The forgotten art of getting lost into

Somewhere along the mundane morbidity of this life, I have lost being able to lose myself into something. That scares me to my wit’s end.

A phase where it is impossible to concentrate on one single thing and be able to do it. Guess it all boils down to the Perils of a PhD. I just cannot help, but relate my PhD process to a beautiful line of a Tamizh song

“நான் தூக்கி வளர்த்த துயரம் நீ” “naan thookki vaLartha thuyaram nee!”

It literally translates to something like that of “You are a sorrow that I raised.”  (willingly and lovingly, [my emphasis])

At times, I can only laugh at the irony of its aptness. Given all that! With twenty five days to go, Chapters to write and Drafts to be done, Corrections, Bibliography check, footnotes and citations and corrections pending. ALL and the least and the most I need to do now, is take care of my ownself, stop panicking every now and then, take few deep breaths at every possible intervals and be on the maniac, militant and drunk writing mode. Good luck to my own self. This is the last phase of PhD and it matters more than anything now. From March 2011 to December 2017, with a break of five years in teaching, I need to be strong and pass through the final passage of rite to complete this ritual and Ordeal called PhD. Go BeeNat,  Go. Keep writing 🙂

 

 

Letter to a battered, withered soul

Dearmost I

In another world, another time, this should have been the name you must have been baptised with,

As the new adage goes, when was the last time, you did something for the first time, I wonder, when was the first time, I did something for the last time, there are so many habits that one needs to unlearn as they grow old. For people who firmly agree to believe and as well fervently refuse to believe that ‘Age is just a number’; something they overlook,

With age, comes a certain vulnerability. Say a graceful one. At times, they are visible, yet they can render a great invincibility. Being vulnerable doesn’t scare me much, but rather the lack of it scares me, more. The peculiarity, is that in a world mediated by cell phones and being connected, people have lost touch with their emotional side, that days and moments only count for Facebook or for an Instagram picture worthy moment. Just couldn’t help to smile and agree more with Ms.Buffay when she says, “How self-involved are you?”

I wish I was self-involved, I wish I could love me more once, and Hence this letter. To remind that self love can also be a worthy love at times.

To remind oneself the multitude of joys that one can attain, if only learnt how to live in this time, immediate – not the bygone, not-the-to-be-gone, but the on-going time. I have somehow learnt, say mastering the art of staying away from Social media – the way it makes me anxious, I have also realised that twenty fours hours of time is enough and adequate to sit and sulk, to bask in lazyness, to contemplate, to actually get the domestic chores done, to do run errands, to watch a film, or to re-watch-the-many-times-re-watched episodes of a sit-com,

Strange but true, I do have a better re-collection of things that happen in a day, I can cook a decent meal, read an article, read a newspaper, and write mails. ( I really should learn to cut down the number of mails i write to people, who at times, can be so emotionally retarded and unavailable, to even compose a few couple of sentences as a reply)

Stranger but truer, thirty can be quite confounding when it comes to certain conjectures about life, the way time overruns, overlaps, the way it is reluctant and reticent. It does a number on your head, mind and soul and yet gives enough time for healing. The way days plummet forward when my mind and heart race backwards in time and memory, everything seems a standstill

Which is exactly what I cannot afford right now, with work cut out to do and an impending finished PhD thesis. I race along time, day and night, in its stillness and in its momentum. All I need is a refuge in doing now. What needs to be taken care, should be taken care.

With souls departing in a jiff, all it takes is to be a still-home, in Happyness and in Faith.

Oops. Here I go,

 

 

 

A woman I loved is coming for dinner tonight.

A woman I loved is coming for dinner tonight.

So as known, I slept very early, woke up in the middle of the night, lazed around watching random stuff, read random pieces from my diary, sat across the balcony. Having fallen asleep there, I wake up disoriented.

I get up and I make tea. As I wait for the water to boil, I vaguely go through a few random memories of her from the past.

I am thirty one years old, I have been alone for almost three years now, I have dated no one since-the-last-almost-three-maybe-four-years-of relationship/being-together/knowing her. I know her for the past six years. I fell in love with her, yet. She could have fallen in love with me; may be, she did. But, she avoided it. We were almost in an almost relationship, but we averted it.

Sometimes I like to be alone, I come into my bedroom at the odd time of the day, just to lie down for a moment. I Look out at the light coming through my window, it gives me a feeling of solitude filled with hope. It seems the most human thing, i can learn to live with.

I realise how, some mornings never dawn in a man’s bedroom, the drapes of a morning never unfolds till a woman arrives.

I remember a portrait of us together in a friends house. Probably the only picture of us together; me in a white tee and a black shorts after giving bozo, the chocolate lab, a shower and she in her pantsuit. The picture is a testimony of our worlds apart, Yet S’s mom finds that a cute picture, “No two same people ever fall in love”

There are times, I feel so ditsy, dizzy and disoriented. I do take refugee with some of my couple-friends, Three to two to be precise, for they make you feel better and humane. I remember once at a late dinner at their place, I could hear their baby whimpering from the bedroom. I was about to stop my story-telling as she paused for a second and asked me to finish first. I was a bit taken back, She got up as I finished with the anecdote, Winking at her husband V, she said, “I will get the baby, you take care of this one.” I am grateful in life for a few deep friendships that I had earned till now.

Sometimes all I do is sit at my sofa or lean against the counter in the kitchen or even without realising as I open my fridge or when I am about to leave for work, I start to think about the home that I have made in the last lustrum. The guest bedroom, the way the laundry bag is hidden from the view, the way the bamboo plant is kept facing the sun, the arrangement of rugs.The idea of an hand-sanitiser within the reach as you snuggle onto the sofa. The chair right near the front door so that one can ease into it, as reaching for the footwear. In some ways every little precise detail matched the version of you in my head.

At times, it gives me an immense feeling of a home, a family, when there is someone sleeping in the next room, the way I tip-toe across the entire house, the way a door should be closed with a silent hush. Something I picked up from somewhere,

just like this weird habit of mine – Celebrating either a 10,000th day or Eleven thousand eleven hundred and eleventh day of someone, I missed the first. So i planned the latter on April 1st 2014. How I bugged her all day to bunk, just to cancel my plan on the last minute. Yet Fahadh came to the rescue, planned the whole thing, A cake, a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, I do have the small video of someone, mellowing down, the welling up in the eyes and a slight smile of mouthing the words, Thank you.

I imagine at times, the house filled with people, the two kids and the dog. As I have this space below the window sill, large enough to fit a small bed for a dog. Of her in the study, pacing deep down in concentrating on work, the kids sleeping, me sitting with the dog, talking to a friend/student. May be its a way that one is growing up without a family around.

May be somewhere a home awaits you, as the woman I loved is coming for dinner tonight.

 

 

 

To be Cared for,

Here I am back to my blogging life, interspersed with random thoughts, frequents cups of hot fluids, evading abstract memories of fading yesterdays and an impending finished PhD dissertation, nursing myself back to health, like an wounded animal in a battle for survival.

My mind chose this night to recount a few memories, draped in a moon-lit solitude and a flickering candle, I sit helplessly and sleeplessly ruminating over a few hundred moments of what could have been the point of breaking down. Writing could be a wonderful way to exorcise past and to confront the violent ugliness of reality. Its the point in time, when people see that lane of exit of the past, parallel to their actual days of life.

Most times, our lives are never about ourselves alone, it is so more about a few people who do become a part of you and your everydayness of life. It is strange when people decide to leave, all of a sudden. The silence, sullenness, the aloofness, the cold distance, the indifference and all of that together in a single look, word or a phrase, and to realise at a precise moment in time; to be left alone,

” I was certain he would turn my way. He would look at me. He would flatten his ears. He would growl. In some such way, he would conclude our relationship. He did nothing of the sort…
…. I was weeping because Richard Parker had left me so unceremoniously. What a terrible thing to botch a farewell. I am a person who believes in form, in the harmony of order. where we can, we must give things a meaningful shape.. It’s important in life to conclude things properly. Only then you can let go, otherwise you are left with words you should have said but never did and your heart is heavy with remorse, that bungled good-bye hurts me to this day.. But I hope you will remember me as a friend. I will never forget you, that is certain. You will always be with me in my heart…So Farewell, God be with you..”

– Life of Pi- Yann Martel.

The adolescent longings of an unrequited love seems much more of a mirage in the scale of pain as one grows up to be an adult. Those winter evenings as I stay hidden on the sides of the wall, looking up on balcony for a sight of her. The exhilarating joys of a puppy love, the rush of hormones, the inevitable shyness even to look into your eyes as we speak. The innocence of then love held a promise of being cared for, with no apprehensiveness. Was it the age? was it the heart? Was it the mind?

Life then sucked too.

Yet.

The promise of a love and a faith in the togetherness of a tomorrow was quite reassuring.

I vividly remember a new years eve. Following a promise made to A, I began to read my first Classic, Of Human Bondage. Any plans for a celebration looked futile. I was half cursing and sulking at my room-mate who left earlier that evening.  I took my pills, covered myself with two sheets of blankets and held a book on top of my chest.  It was cold and difficult even to hold the book and worse it wasn’t a book that seemed to move forward as one reads. I remember this place in the book, where an unhappy orphan kid feeling far worse alone and painful as he couldn’t be consoled by his care taker, a barren elderly women who never had a kid. The kid shouts out his vengeance”I hate you, I wish you were dead”. The poor lady who never knew what it is to be mother breaks down at her failure. She breaks down and sobs as the kid reaches to kiss her. “She loved him now with a new love because he had made her suffer”. That was a moment of a sublimeness and I was overcome with such a spiritual feeling. I went off to sleep, closing the book and remember waking up far better in reality.

I knew very little of A’s own journey from her childhood. She married young and got divorced with a little boy even before she turned twenty five. Having lost her father at a young age, it was her mother who raised her; and life can be indeed cruel when you are violently brought back to square one. I knew somethings about her life as she told me, what she had to fight everyday and what follows her like the shadows of demons. I know our lives are not destined to be the same in our adulthood, yet I know, how I once felt close to her as how I would have for a sibling.

At times, life spins a tale, a far fetched joke, taking someone far away from everything they knew and they loved.

I remember writing once in my diary, “Love is an ability. An ability to be humane.” I have had known, what is when people leave, when they grow up and move on. Yet some times, when few memories catch you, so off-guard.  A trembling moment of resonance as one sees, when things come crashing down. Stay put. Hold onto your ground. Look up as they soar high and smile, knowing deep down, they are not coming back.

May be. Sometimes they do.

Sometimes this wound occurs at the moment of birth, sometimes it happens later. We are all fixing what is broken. It is the task of a lifetime. We’ll leave much unfinished for the next generation. 

Cutting For Stone – Abraham Verghese

 

‘My Sister always thought; you were a complete mess in your head.’

That is something probably he is used to hearing from F, whom he considered more of a Kid Brother. “My Sister always thought you were a complete mess in your head.”

Something that stuck with him for life. There is a stagnant place in life, just like we all believe there must have been a simpler place in time. Strangely life takes you more often there, leaving you bewildered.

Like the tempting waves of the sea, as one steps into the shore, the water soothes you, caressing you and thereby slowly touching each fibre of your soul and wading you into it. There is a moment when you let go of the fear and step into the horizon of the unknown as the ocean engulfs you into it completely. Few people rarely get into ocean that way, to completely give into it.

Those countless hours they have spent on the sea, her fascination for water as F puts it. He was taken completely by the charms of the siblings. They are quite apart yet they are so similar. As we all grow up, we outgrow the intimacy of being brothers or sisters. What charmed him more, is that he can see himself as the brother and the sister and how much he miss being a brother to his own brother. As D puts it often, “Cranky families produce better children” Yet they are his own dysfunctional idea of family and love.

The girl that he fell in love, a girl who who grudgingly yet soulfully built a home in a house full of strangers. A girl who painfully transformed herself into a woman, having fought for a place in the world. A woman who with an easy smile and with a sip of wine can be dismissive, “Yeah.It all happened. Everything was given to me at the right time.” He did wonder at how many people, actually would be so nonchalant about growing up.

A few remnants of the residual love, the slight amused tilt, “You are so much a kid, still.” the smile she had for him through the side mirror as she parks her car in the reverse, a momentary pause to decide whom to greet first, the dog or the guy. The way he longs for those rare moments when she leans onto him, the smell of her morning shower, the smell on her hospital dress, when she is back home. The way she closes her eyes as a test and a thought to decide how much water for the rice to boil. A tired greeting on the phone at the end of the day. The twinkle in her eyes at his every gesture of love and surprise. Her resignation for his ways into the future, “You are still a student, bubby” Her habit of flicking off the TV for a second to see him in the screen, sipping the cup of tea for sweetness. The way she raises her voice stern and firm, when he is all bugging about ,”Bunk today, Please.” The memory of a woman checking her Kohl in the mirror as she gets ready for work.

Those evenings, when they all huddle together on the floor around the sofa, Tea, snacks, Wine, endless chatter and banter, the movies, the cards, the board games, those dumb charades. Its the time, when all he looks is for a moment when she would little brush against him as she gets up to leave or snuggle quietly into his lap, humming along a song quietly, as she winks at him. Those myriad memories of her. As F teases him, “You are way too smitten,” And remember, “My Sister always thinks; you are a complete mess in your head.”

To meet and part; To part and to meet. And the final memory as she closes her eyes and sings in a soothing voice and in tune with the pitch as she raises in the timbre,

Kaatru Veesum Veyyil Kaayum Kaayum Athil
Maatram Èthum Illayae.. Aaaa..
Vaanum Mannum Nammai Vaazha Chøllum Antha
Vaazhthu Oayavillai Èndrendrum Vaanil..,”

In that Ephimeral bubble of eternity, he rests his life as she opens her eyes with a smile. The unmistakable sad silt of her head with the twinkle of a small sigh.

Those days!!!

Like the toddler, crawling to its mom, Your thoughts keep crawling towards me. I decided against to let you know. I don’t want to stand and see it getting messed up. Instead I chose ignorance for you and Peace for me. Unlike the surprises, I don’t want love to wither in predictability. I smile within, for an unhappened moment of love. And One Day.”

a few memories of an unknown you, an hardly acquainted stranger, haunts me enough in the vacuum of our closeted dreams. Time and again, i have been asked, Time and tide asked me again, i smile knowingly about the unhappened, wistful probability of a We. Contemplating about our unmade love says it– Peace out

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After Twenty Years,

The smell of the stuffed oil aubergine, ghee, dal and keerai gently waft in from the kitchen and filled the room. The cutlery in blue and white is carefully juxtaposed and kept along the few candle stands. The Dinner table is set like always, with a milk jug, a pot with orange juice and a small wooden tray with sliced pine apple and papaya.

He was on his reading chair, lost in the world of J M Coetzee. She was in the kitchen with music plugged in, doing odd little things here and there, checking the pan in the stove and peeping into the dining room, now and then.

What brought them together in life is the unknown. Like the every other in a fairy tale, he at one point of time believed in a happily ever after life. But life had other plans, just to mock at them. Yet they journeyed together to where they are now.
From the corner of his eyes, he would look at her, his woman of two decades. He could only wonder, at what age had done to her. And still there is a child-like aura about her.

Like always, Kenny G was playing in the background. He always had it playing in his head on and off, while she was deeply immersed in the magic of Yanni, unmindful to the melancholy of life.

From the corner of her eyes, she sees a photograph in the frame. A picture of them from many, many years ago and surrounding them were a kaleidoscope of different images from his and her life and then their life. Those were their precious memories, a few, which she cherished so much, for they were the missing pieces of the life she had only imagined about him. And then there was this one photograph of his, in his late teens, tall and lanky with his easy smile.

Perhaps sometime later, she told herself, she would have another one made, a ten by twelve that would sit on her nightstand. Each photograph was from a different time of their lives. Most of them were from the times when we they were young and together, really troubled by feelings of many kinds. And yet when you look at the pictures, you look at two people who were so much completely in love.

The dishes are set on the tables. He is there filling their glasses just the way he has been doing it for all those years together. For no particular reason, and yet for too many; for one precisely down, she smiles in her mind. He grins, reflecting on her smile. She catches him gazing at her reflection in the mirror and looks back.

The young twenty something girl scribbles these thoughts in her mind, and takes out her note pad from her bag to jot them down. On a second thought, she decides not to, and looks at him sitting opposite in the table with a stupid grin. There is warmth in the day and winter is set to leave, and people are no more clad in their sweaters.

She could see the maze of words hanging, dancing to the divine music in her mind, most of them were his words. She could not comprehend them for what they mean. All she did was try to concentrate on the drizzle outside the window, listeningly intently to the rain drops falling on the window-sill and weave a story in her mind. Still she found herself incapable to string them together to make complete sentences.

Jolting out of her pensieve mood, she awoke herself to the innocent blush on his cheeks, the music in her head and the people hustling outside the café.

This was the feeling they shared. A feeling of uncertainty at their first meet; she took a sip of her iced tea and washed down her restless thoughts with his re-assuring smile. She cupped her fingers over her ears, careful not to let any earthly sound disturb the divine music playing inside her. She let the music play.

Hmm, if I were to rip this page off my scribbling pad and give it to you, if I told you that you were the guy in there and this is the sum of things I really want and say all it matters to me is, making that meal for you from twenty years of now, would you give it to me? Huh?

Would you?

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soulfully yours

Life is right happening here, all I did was, lived it a moment, a minute, an hour , a day. And Just the same overwhelming me. Well, before anything goes amiss and I miss anything. Sorry, That I couldn’t catch up with many of the blogs. Really sorry for that. Just caught up here. Exams gonna start from tomorrow. And fine after that, I have no clue. except that there is more looking forward to life….

Will catch up everyone soon in their space. Take good care folks. Wish me good luck. 
Life beckons….. 

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Hiatus, Life-a stand-still Race, Books, Friends, Home, Diwali, Lessons & Philosophy, The missed November rain and a lot more for a cozy-catch up…

Can anything be more lively than the life which is lived. I ask this question a thousandth time to me, just to make sure that i still don’t have an answer to it, Well At times, the answer to many questions in life is that there is no answer.

But there are many a re-assurances. I knew that, I learnt it… To all those reader-friends cum family. I owe this. I thank for the moral support. Archu, Uma akka, anu akka, rakesh, Vinesh anna, Vins anna, Nikhil, Mili, Priya a.k.a Supergirl, Preethi anni, Jeevan, Sonu, Ritu chechi, Ani, Raj anna, Thanks a ton for staying with the Jobless blog and the wonderful words of comfort. I pray for the strength.

I knew that I’m completely broke when I enter a Bookshop, be it emotionally or financially and that too for a bookphile like me, words just cannot describe the plethora of emotions I go through in me when I’m in a bookshop. From excitement to anxiety, near faintness when I get hold of a book. The joy which cannot contain itself it in me blooms itself into a mischievous knowing smile that I smile inside me. The empty feeling knowing that I’m broke just disappears when I know that I’m in a place surrounded with books. It is not just books, but more to it. A place where the righteous part of me rightfully belongs to. A place that can violently turn into an invisible dagger, which stabs me peacefully with a painful guilt. Wish I can freeze time, so that I can afford to spend a chunk of my life in reading. The Knowing joy that I’m gonna indulge is all the more intoxicating.

What can be done about late assignments? They’re already late. I seek an extension for a submission of an assignment, which should have been submitted last Tuesday. With all due respects, I got an extension till Friday i.e weekend (I consider Friday as weekends which exclusively ends on the eve of Tuesday for me).Considering the fact that Sunday is an holiday and I cannot hand over the paper in person, I naturally have to do that on Monday, which happens to be Diwali back home, I stay back to regale in the regional festival. And Tuesday happens to be Diwali in Andhra plus a local holiday, which pushes me unceremoniously to submit the paper on Wednesday. With all this it just happens to be late by a day. Well now you understand my logic of working and deadlines. Life is made simpler.

There is no downpour here. It looks like a summer, rather feels like summer in the broad daylight and the temperature drops to freeze you at night. No November rain here, only the academic November pain, the last minute rush to call the semester off. I wish for a vacation now. Anybody out there feeling the same. Join the club.

People knew me well. If they thought I had enough and spoke enough. The one obvious question to put me off is, Baratha! What happened to your blog? I knew I had been quite for a long while. But I never intend to be. Well Logged in.
“Barath! wru, drop in our school. Need to talk wid u, reg the docu. C u in 10 mins. Cm fst na.”
“can u cm here n gimme the key.”
“hey u free na, we need to talk abt our proj.”
“chaai kudika poovama?”
well all I could do was. “Yours obediently, Main hoon naa.”

I badly wanna go home. See some tons of missed out movies, leisurely lay back at home, be with puppy, blog till my heart’s content, read n read n read n write. Take a neva-ending vacation, meet grannies, be at the place where I loved and longed to be. Meet people, only the ones who can bring a smile in my face. Go deaf to all others. I wish I can live a life like this at least for a short while. I wish that I could really wish.

Anna moved to Bangalore, appa still doesn’t mind my frequent indulging in books, which means I can indulge more, I learnt that one bad !dea leads to another good !dea. I still didn’t inform many about my recent change from !dea to BSNL. Nik n chundha left to UK. Nishu is quite okay. I seem to be lost in oblivion. Ankit got a new bike. It’s going to be a month that me, adil n winny boy had ice cream ceremoniously (read it three dogs fighting over a family pack). I joined face book. I still haven’t watched dark knight. Annil doesn’t write poems anymore, I don’t talk anything other than CAT to raul, Abbyyy and archu, raj, karthik, sonu and mano are not writing regularly here. Mano missed his train that day. I realized that I didn’t have any crush for the last two months. Met karthik here in Hyderabad after a long time. I still didn’t call up navin anna. I didn’t post that letter still. No signs of fellow ship in the near future. Met diviya at last here in hyderabad itself. Singer senior anna and Psycho-sisters have been out of contact for a long-while. Its Thalai Deepavali for joy anna and janani akka. Does reading of Diwali special editions count under diwali celebrations. Do I have a diwali? I don’t GTalk properly when I’m online.

I plan to write more, but before that Two Term papers, Two presentations, A research project on blogs, a documentary, an exam, semester finals, Some unkempt promises, some broken words and hearts to be mended and put to heal, a wedding to be witnessed, and things to be considered, a past to be shut-out, an effortlessly effort ensured to move-on, a life to live and the side-effects to be experienced. With all this I type this blog post at an unearthly hour making sure that I start my term paper right after this. Take care. Life beckons……

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