tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51856289076110749342024-03-14T08:31:23.792+04:00Sujatasujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.comBlogger140125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-52248969419787296262018-11-16T11:20:00.000+04:002018-11-16T11:30:29.727+04:00Slipping through my fingers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhEuOy3FhUIhFzN869SnHNrRfvLuty64IXhNeXg5BnzTb95askt5nkKmz1nTt89CSD583mt944p_JUIjW6ErEJiu4HjvxZZT1wnbGheDgutYJ2nSl0vogv4xjqLZNRQTilhqC0sObnfs/s1600/grad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1145" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhEuOy3FhUIhFzN869SnHNrRfvLuty64IXhNeXg5BnzTb95askt5nkKmz1nTt89CSD583mt944p_JUIjW6ErEJiu4HjvxZZT1wnbGheDgutYJ2nSl0vogv4xjqLZNRQTilhqC0sObnfs/s320/grad.jpg" width="229" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A suitcase
was packed that night as well, a small case with functional items. What was not
in it and yet bore heavily on me was a bitter sweet sense of a new
beginning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was heading to the hospital
to deliver my first child. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The baby
ready to break free, I scared of the labour, unsure of the responsibility and
missing my freedom already.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It has been
a wonderful 18 years since that night. Multiple suitcases are being packed at
the moment. They all lie open in her room. Shoes, clothes, books and curry
pastes vying for space giving in only to the dogs who want to be packed as
well. The mess always bothered me, all these years I have screamed myself
hoarse about the clutter in her room but now I know the mess shall be missed.
It is time for another new beginning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She is ready to break free again. I am scared to let her go, unsure of
how she will cope in a faraway land and missing her already.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Year 12 for
us has been like the last page of a favourite book, speeding along to the end
of a quest with an apprehensive emptiness waiting at the finish line. Each day
had an adventure of its own, deadlines, essays, scores, mocks, SATs,
applications and not to forget the endless parties, farewells and night outs.
We laughed, fought and sulked through it all in equal measure. Doors were
slammed and horns were locked, however the laughs were easy and often. Each day
she inched closer to her independence. Each day I held on to the past. Both of
us changing, both of us fluid, she in control, I just trying to breathe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Standing
among the accumulation of the life of a little girl she no longer is, I look at
myself in her mirror. Am I too old to enjoy the wonder of the unknown? Too selfish
maybe or just the same old me trying to hold on to things the way they were. She
enters the room with a grin, “It is strange you know how my friends were all
teary eyed today.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flinging her bag on
her bed she flops on the floor petting the dog. “Of course I will miss them,
but it is time to make new friends. Is it not? I think it’s silly to moan. ” I
quickly check the mirror again for an errant tear, god forbid. Sometimes
thoughts escape involuntarily and form words that are audible. I can’t believe
myself saying it even as I do, “You have been home for 18 years, won’t you miss
us?” These are the moments when you want your hand to physically close your
mouth shut. Thankfully the words are not suspended in the air for long and my
girl shows no hint of having caught the immense baggage the lines carried.
“There’s Whatsapp, Skype.. what’s to miss. You will practically see me pooping
if you want.” She gets busy on her phone and the dog and I leave her alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">At dinner
she has her University reading list up for discussion. Over rice and fish we
debate various sources of procuring the 12 books. Amazon wins hands down. It
has got all the books and will ship them in time. Talk about being ready,
everyone seems to be ganging up on poor old me. Not like a few books less would
have made a difference to travel dates, but one can hope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I think of
all the times we lay under the covers reading pop-up books, Enid Blytons and a
host of other mystery stories. In the later years we continued this ritual by
reading each other’s fiction and untold facts. Her legs propped over my body,
her curls always in the way of her reading and my heart in wonder of the
precious time. I take courage from the fact that I can see her poop if I want
and tread on thin ice, “So once you are on your own, will you add me to your
social media?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Are you
serious ma? No way!” she laughs and dinner is done. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She is
ready, happy, and rearing to step forward. Her joy is infectious and a balm to
my spirit. I ready myself to my own journey with a twice cut umbilical cord.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Are all new beginnings this bitter sweet?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-69599100781264692552016-01-18T00:01:00.000+04:002016-01-18T00:01:21.481+04:00High stakes - a fiction based on indian mythology by Toshali<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Draupadi was an Indian princess born out of fire to King Drupada of Panchala. Arjuna, the third Pandava, won the challenge put forth by Drupada for the princess’ </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">swayamwara</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">, thus winning Draupadi’s hand in marriage. When the Panadavas reached home with Draupadi, their mother Kunti, as was her habit, asked the brothers to share whatever they had “won” and thus Draupadi became the wife to five brothers.</span></div>
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<span class="c1 c3" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;">High stakes</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> alludes to the game of dice played between the oldest Kaurava and Pandava princes: Duryodhana and Yudhishthira.The Pandava prince continued playing, in spite of losing his palace and wealth. His pride did not allow him to accept defeat. Finally, when there was nothing else to lose, he wagered his wife Draupadi and lost her too. Duryodhana attempted to disrobe Draupadi in front of the entire court while her husbands watched helplessly. Draupadi vowed to avenge this humiliation and not tie her hair until she bath</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">ed it in the Kaurava prince’s blood.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">In 2014, around a 100 women celebrities ranging from A-listers to D-listers had their nude images exposed on the Internet by hackers who broke into iCloud’s then flawed system by “brute force” attack. The most shocking part of this scandal was the number of people who chose to blame the celebrities for taking naked pictures rather than the hackers who invaded their privacy. This modern day scenario that plagued the western world is in many ways similar to the disrobing of the mythical Indian princess Draupadi. The following fictional story is set in America in 2015/2016 and tells the story of Drew Rudi. Drew parallels Draupadi and AJ and Ray parallel Arjuna and Yudhishthira respectively.</span></div>
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<span class="c3 c12 c13" style="color: #999999; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;">“Draupadi’s eyes flashed fire. ‘I shall never forgive the Kauravas for doing what they have done to me. I shall not tie my hair until I wash it in Dusshasana’s blood’”</span></div>
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<span class="c13 c3 c12" style="color: #999999; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;">- Devdutt Pattanaik</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">28th December, 2015</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Drew Rudi’s name is added to the ever growing list of celebrities </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">whose </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">nudes have been leaked. With over 500 reposts, Rudi’s seems to be the most popular right now. Whether this is due to her position as the CEO of her new company or the appeal of her figure draped over lavish furniture, find out today at - “</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">AJ </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">slammed</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> the TV shut</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“I can’t believe this. The nonsense that the media is spewing these days. How about reporting the mass shootings in the country instead?”, shouted AJ. It had been only two days since the </span><span class="c1 c3" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;">incident</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> and the media was abuzz.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“It’ll die down in a week or two”, sighed Ray from the couch, “Anyways, it’s not like we can do anything.</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“But who could have done this”, responded Drew, “More importantly, how did they get hold of it in the first place? Only two people have ever seen my nudes and well, those two are right here. None of you would do it…”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“I’m ashamed you’d even think that, Drew.Let’s make up for it, date night tonight?.”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">We’ll go to the fancy place down the street,” Ray agreed, “I’ll pay.”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">AJ and Drew nodded their heads in agreement.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Well, I’m off to work now “ , she said kissing Ray and AJ goodbye</span><span class="c12" style="font-family: 'Droid Sans';">,</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> “You two should get going as well. We’ll meet at 9?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Yeah, perfect.”, they responded in unison.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Drew had started her own designer label - Illusions- a few months ago. Followed by the big launch the label had caught the eyes of several haute couture stores and individual buyers. Her designs were inspired by cultures from all over the world. </span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">She had met AJ and Ray</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> soon after college</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">. The three </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">were </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">young and carefree - experimenting with life. A three-way relationship seemed good at the time. Down the years AJ and Ray discovered that they were not interested in each other and decided to “</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">share</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">” Drew.</span><span class="c1 c8" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">It was an open relationship with the men having other partners on the side. </span><span class="c1 c8" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Drew had too much on her plate to think about the injustice of the deal. Moreover, she loved them and wanted them happy. They had fun when they were together and she did not allow her mind to think of the times when they were not. So far, it had worked perfectly.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">AJ was a celebrated actor and Ray was an artist. They were both intelligent, handsome and supportive of her. When they shied away from meddling in the case of the leaked nudes, Drew was not just surprised - she was hurt. The three of them were like a family; they had always had each others backs. It wasn’t as if Drew was asking them to give</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> up their</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> lives for the search; she just needed their help in </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">finding </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">the culprit. Unless one of them had something to do with it.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“May I take your coat, Ma’am?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Drew shrugged off her blazer and handed it to the man. Giving him a tight smile she walked to the table where Ray</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> sat drinking</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“How was your day, love?”, Drew asked, wondering how to confront him.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“I have something to confess.</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> I</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">’ll just wait till AJ gets - ah, speak of the devil.</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Drew sighed and tried to curb her growing anticipation.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Last week, I was down at the bar and it was late and I’d had one too many - it all sounds so stupid now</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">.</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> I was playing poker with the guys when this new dude walked in. Name was King or something. Said he’d bet his bank account that no one in the whole bar could beat him. Well, I couldn’t very well let that be, now could I - “</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Of course, you couldn’t”, sighed AJ, “And he wanted Drew’s pictures in case you lost?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“He had the </span><span class="c1 c3" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;">audacity</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> to challenge me, the greatest player. The one who never loses. ”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“And you had the </span><span class="c1 c3" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;">audacity</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> to agree to his terms!”, cried Drew pushing her chair back, “Did you not think, for even a second, that if this King was willing to wager his bank account, he might have not been bluffing?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“No, yes, I don’t know, Drew. I was drunk, I wasn’t thinking, I was confident that it wouldn’t happen. I could not say no to the challenge</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> and -</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> “</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Well </span><span class="c1 c3" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;">of course</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> you couldn’t say no to the challenge</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">.</span><span class="c1 c8" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">But who gave you the permission to wager me, my self respect? You don't own me, I am not your bloody bank</span><span class="c1 c8" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">account</span><span class="c1 c8" style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">.</span></span><span class="c1 c8" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">With that, Drew grabbed her blazer and walked out of the restaurant into the</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> December chill.</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> She could feel indignant </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">tears</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> pricking her eyes. It dawned on her that the fight for this injustice was hers alone. She had to find King and bring him down. While she felt bare without the support of her lovers, it strengthened her will to win this battle.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Two nights later, Drew was furiously typing away at her computer trying to find “King”. She had looked all over the Internet, asked all of her sources and had even contacted Ray to find out whether the man had provided a first name. It was only when she was flipping through the invitees list of Illusion’s New Year’s Eve party did she finally come across the name again : Dave King, founder of Raves, a rival designing label</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">. </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Some litigation suit had thrown the company off market for some time which was why Drew hadn’t formed the connection. Her eyes gleamed as a plan formed in her head. She dialled up her press contacts inviting them to the New Year’s bash with the promise of a never-before</span><span class="c12 c15" style="color: #555555; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> </span><span class="c15 c12 c8" style="background-color: white; color: #555555; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">exposé.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">The party </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">at the Ritz Carlton was on a full swing. Drew scanned the room for Dave King and found him at the bar talking to a man in a gold suit. She straightened her dress and walked over with victory on her mind.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Mr King, a word.”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Drew Rudi”, King smirked looking Drew up and down,</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Last I saw you, you were wearing less.”</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> The man beside Mr King laughed nervously and excused himself.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“What gave you the </span><span class="c1 c3" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;">right</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">?”, Drew exclaimed in feigned anger provoking him to say more. “What did you even get out of it? How could you, a person with a mother, a sister, a wife even think of committing such a horrendous act?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Hold up, hold up, what am I being accused of?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“You know what I’m accusing you of! For spreading my private pictures online.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Your </span><span class="c1 c3" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;">private</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> pictures? Well if they were “private”, your boyfriend shouldn’t have shared them with me! Once he gave them to me, I could do whatever I wanted with it. That is, after all, my </span><span class="c1 c3" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;">right</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">.” smiled King maliciously.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“You tricked him into sharing those pictures - “</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Tricked him? I won those pictures fairly. He shouldn’t have challenged me and taken the risk”, King responded smugly, “And well, if all I hear is correct, you already have two boyfriends seeing you naked, what’s a few more people, eh? The more the merrier, right?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">The press, meanwhile, was feasting on this exchange rather than the delicious spread. </span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“I’m going to destroy you, King,the same way you got me. I won’t rest till your company is ruined. Did you think leaking my nudes would give you leverage on 2016’s market? Think </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">again</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">”, Drew spun around and pointed to a petite woman who stood self-consciously at the podium.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“I’m Jennifer, Dave King’s former secretary at Raves. Last year I filed a sexual harassment case against my boss but his power and wealth were worth more than my pleas for justice. The company and this monster suffered minimal losses while I have lost all my credibility. So when Drew approached me and offered me the chance to tell my story in front of the press, I jumped at the opportunity. Nothing would make me happier than to see the monster pay for his crimes.”</span></div>
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<span class="c1 c8" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Cameras flashed and journalists typed away on their pads ready with headlines for the new year. The blood drained from </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Dave King’s face as he found no suitable escape from the fate that awaited him. Drew thanked Jennifer for agreeing to be present on such short notice and encouraged her to press fresh charges against King, assuring her of all support.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">1st March, 2016</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Raves shuts down as King found guilty of sexual harassment charges on more than one account</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">.</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> His downfall began with him being revealed as the man behind Rudi’s’ leaked nudes and- “</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Drew switched off the television and sipped her coffee with a smile</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">.</span><span class="c1 c3" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;"> </span></div>
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sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-71924516414509156032016-01-13T21:14:00.000+04:002016-01-13T21:14:04.801+04:00Medusa by Toshali<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It feels great when your child shares your passion. I am lucky that my girl is keen on books and enjoys writing fiction.<br />
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This is one of her stories that I have shamelessly copied here.<br />
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<span class="c4" style="color: #999999; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;">"With the one, Medusa, dark-maned Poseidon lay in a soft meadow and amid the spring flowers”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Ssh, keep quiet! It’s Don!”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">A group of giggling girls scrambled past Mimi as she was on her way to class with her best friend Henna.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Mimi, did you hear what Don did this time?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“What? Got elected to run the state?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Haha, no, he got awarded the student of the year award. Pretty impressive for a new student, right?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Hmm yeah, I’ve seen him around but don’t know him very well.”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Oooh, I would</span><span class="c1 c6" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;"> love</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> to get to know him. He looks delightful. And his voice...oh my god would you look at the time! I’m late for class! See you at tonight’s New Years Party?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">With that, Henna took a left and disappeared from Mimi’s sight leaving the girl to her own </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">thoughts</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">.</span></span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">LOUD -There was no other word to describe the rowdy scene in front of Mimi’s eyes. The music was overpowering and the leers from the guys in the crowd made her skin crawl. She tried searching for Henna but to no avail.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Hey, you’re Mimi right?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">She jumped and turned around to see Don standing behind her with a beer </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">in his left hand and his other outstretched towards her.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“The music is deafening in here, want to ditch and drive around the city instead?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Uh, yeah, I guess. Sure. Don, yeah?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Yep, don’t worry. You’re in safe hands.”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Don chuckled and they walked out of the venue hand-in-hand and moved towards Don’s bike.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Wow, fancy stuff.” , Mimi whistled.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Well, being the minister’s son does have it’s advantages”, said Don winking, “ Now, where can I take you?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Wherever”, smiled Mimi.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">They </span><span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">zipped down the Marine Drive with bright lights flashing in their eyes and laughter playing on their lips. The city of dreams had gained another dimension of beauty, anything seemed possible. It was 11:45 - 15 minutes till the fireworks.</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Don pulled up near an old, crumbling church and got off his bike.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“If we climb to the top there’s a room where we can watch the fireworks from. No one else knows about it - no one will see us.”, Don said while helping Mimi get off the bike. She nodded in reply and began to scale the staircases to the top of the church until they reached a dimly lit room at the top. The room itself was nothing fancy, a plain door, large stained glass windows and a small </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">altar</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> by the side of the room. The most spectacular feature however was the view. The city looked dazzling</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> and the uproar of the roads became a distant hum. Don brought out two bottles of beer and laid out a mat.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Five more minutes, jaaneman.”, Don whispered, “ What do you want right now?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“To rule the world”, grinned Mimi, “And you?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“You.”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">With a single syllable Don closed the gap between the two of them and forced his lips on hers. His heavy breathing suffocated Mimi but there was no one she could call out for. That’s when the slow throng of a city counting down the minute to a new year began.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“59, 58, 57…”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Don’s hands were snaking behind her back to unbutton her top.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“45, 44, 43…”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Kicking and screaming, Mimi tried to escape but she was only gagged in response.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“32, 31, 30…”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">The rip of fabric echoed through the room.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“24, 23, 22…”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Her cries for help turned to whispers to a god, any god, for mercy.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“12, 11, 10…”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Mimi could not see anything anymore, hot tears blurred her vision.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“3, 2, 1…”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Fireworks exploded in the distance as Mimi shrieked in agony. Her cries for help were muffled by Don’s sick grunts and the cheers of Mumbai. The last thing she remembered was hot, white pain and the monstrous look on Don’s face.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">A door creaking open woke Mimi up the next morning. She sat up immediately and grabbed the closest thing to her - a delicate dupatta. Tears welled in her eyes as reality hit her. She, Mimi Das, the pride and joy of her family, had been raped.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Hookers these days! “, a voice cried sharply, “Do you have no shame? Committing such atrocities in the house of god! Leave immediately!”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Mimi staggered to her feet clinging onto her dupatta. Mumbling something incoherent she tried to run away as fast as her frail body would permit. Not a single vehicle on the busy road outside stopped to offer help and so she walked back to the hostel, flinching with every step as the events of last night replayed in her head. She finally reached her hostel and was greeted by friends rushing towards her with questions in their eyes.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">She could not do this right now, she wasn’t even ready to accept sympathy. Her protection was her dupatta and with that as armour she walked on.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Mimi! We’ve been looking for you! Even Don said he had no clue as to where you could be!”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">At the sound of that vile beast’s name, fresh tears filled her eyes and she pushed through her friends to run to her room. Switching the heater on, she stepped into the scalding water intent on scrubbing off the filth that seemed stuck to her body. Like thick, black tar it refused to be wiped off by any amount of cleansers. After two hours, she walked out of her room in a fresh set of clothes and a blanket wrapped tightly around her to be greeted by Henna.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Oi, why didn’t you allow me in? I’ve been waiting for</span><span class="c1 c6" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans'; font-style: italic;">hours</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">.” Henna teased, “Arrey, now don’t cry. Sit, sit. Do you want some tea? What’s up?”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Henna he - he to- touched me. It was - he - midnight - at the church. Henna he - he ra- “</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Oh my god, Mimi, no! Don? He would never! Anyways, do you know how many girls would die to be in your place? What are you even crying about? </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Look, you just need some rest. Probably just a hangover, it’ll pass.”</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Time and tide wait for no</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> man and they certainly didn’t for the girl who refused to let go. She used the same dupatta to shroud her face, trying to protect an already infiltrated fort. She had tried to fight for herself, even file a case against Don but he had been right - being the minister’s son did have its advantages.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Mimi’s father refused to look at her and barred her from the house. Don’s popularity in the college had blinded her friends as well. They</span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> </span><span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">refused to believe that such a genuine, charismatic person could have any hint of a venomous spirit. The lack of support from friends, family and society pushed Mimi to the brink and led to many a sleepless night and hallucinations. She woke up screaming, sensing snakes slithering over her body whispering obscenities into her ears.</span></div>
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<span class="c1" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Society is not kind to a rape victim, and even less to a pregnant rape victim. So Mimi went to the only person who would have to listen to her - her mother.</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Maa, I have something to tell -”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“How dare you even come here? How dare you step into this house? Have you not shamed us enough?”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Maa, please. Maa no one speaks to me anymore, even the nuns don’t allow me in to pray. I have to tell someone otherwise I might just die.”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Die? Would that even be the worst of it? What do you have to say that could shock me anymore?”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“After that night...I am pregnant, Maa. With his child.”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“You are WHAT?”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“I don’t want it. I want no part of it growing in me. I tried distancing myself from him for three months only to find that I still have a part of him inside me.”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Well, I’m not letting you go to the doctor for this. The Das family has already became the joke of the city. I refuse to be humiliated even more.”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“I can’t keep him, Maa. Not even for these 9 months. I cannot, I cannot - “</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Fine, then. I’ll do it myself. Although remember Mimi, this child might be the only thing that loves you.”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Perhaps, but I could never love it back. It’s every breath would be a painful reminder of him.”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"></span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Her mother called her up a few days later informing her that the supplies were ready. Mimi was nervous, but what was the worst that could come out of this? She walked into a dark room and laid down on the bed.</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“I hope this works out for you.”, her mother whispered while sterilizing a scalpel, “It might cut the strings holding you back.”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Thank you,” Mimi smiled softly, “Maybe there still is hope.”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">Mimi sat up to hug her mother</span><span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> but failed to see the scalpel.</span><span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';"> There was an audible gasp and the metallic smell of blood filled the </span><span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">room</span><span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">.</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“Oh god, what have I done!”</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">“It’s ok Maa” , responded Mimi weakly, “Isn’t this what you wanted?” With those words she sagged in her mother’s arms and breathed her last.</span></div>
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<span class="c0" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Droid Sans';">It is said that when people die, their life flashes before their eyes. However, all Mimi saw was tragedy and punishment. Perhaps that’s what you deserve for being born a woman in today’s world.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Droid Sans;"><span style="background-color: white;">By Toshali, grade 10</span></span></div>
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sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-91613917801572616182015-12-31T11:49:00.000+04:002015-12-31T11:49:24.498+04:00Diary 1 - leaving the kids home alone<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have taken vacations. My kids have always been a part of those trips. As babies they have slept peacefully enroute and gurgled happily to strangers in foreign lands. As toddlers they have walked away hand in hand with anyone who had candies on offer. As pre teens they have kept themselves occupied with diaries, sketch pads or cameras. In short they love to travel as well. So it came as a bit of a surprise to me when this time they wanted to stay back. The reasons could be many - we were going to Kolkata and not some exotic land that was part of their 'to visit' list, Most of the trip would involve ailing, elderly relatives and the one place that held promise of joy with cousins was already struck out as <i>'been there, done that'.</i><br />
<br />
"Are you both sure?", I asked one last time.<br />
<br />
"Yes ma," they said in unison.<br />
<br />
And so it was that I left my 16 year old daughter and 13 year old son for a ten day visit to Kolkata and Shantiniketan. They were not completely unsupervised. My maid stayed the nights and our dogs - all the time. That was safety enough for me. My husband seemed to think I was in charge of this decision and left me to think it through in whatever limited capacity he feels I possess.<br />
<br />
<b>The day before the trip :</b><br />
<br />
"Breakfast?"<br />
<br />
"More like brunch, ma, we won't be getting up before whatever.."<br />
<br />
"Okay brunch then.. any ideas of what you want me to cook?" I asked ticking breakfast off my list.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry, we can make maggi, toast and eggs. Also we love milk and the corner store is open 24*7," said one while the other nodded consent.<br />
<br />
"I will keep some frozen parathas just in case you feel like.." I said thanking almighty that Maggi was back in stores.<br />
<br />
"Whatever.."<br />
<br />
"What about dinner? Sangeetha will cook dog food and she will make the basics like rice, dal and some vegetable for you both. She will not know fancy stuff, so tell me and I can cook and freeze now,"<br />
<br />
"It's just ten days ma, you make it sound like forever. We can survive on dal and rice. Food doesn't excite us,"<br />
<br />
' I am sure' I thought feeling a little silly. 'Think of things that excite them and then forbid them from doing those' my instincts told me. 'Aaah so now I am being clever,'<br />
<br />
"So what do you guys plan to do while home alone hmm?"<br />
<br />
"Not like we can party, so just sleeping, watching movies on the laptops.."<br />
<br />
"Hmm are you planning on calling friends over?"<br />
<br />
"They are all travelling, well most of them are.."<br />
<br />
"Well, rule number 1 is that you guys are not going to anyone's house and neither is anyone coming home. Okay?"<br />
<br />
"Sure.."<br />
<br />
"It is just 10 days and it will pass, once I am back I will take you around,"<br />
<br />
"Okay," they said and I walked away wondering if I had missed something.<br />
<br />
I did take them shopping for supplies and for someone who said <i>food doesn't excite us</i>, they managed to buy two cart loads of junk. On the drive back home I went through the drill once again.<br />
<br />
"Check on all the doors and windows at night. Switch on the lights after sun set, don't read in the dark, please, I don't like to think of you both in a dark house, it's so gloomy the way you just stay on and on without switching on the lights.."<br />
<br />
"We do switch on the lights ma, it's just that our eyes can see better than yours.. " they giggled at their joke.<br />
<br />
"Not funny.."<br />
<br />
"Walk the dogs and always have clean water in their bowls,"<br />
<br />
"Will do," they said ripping a bag of chips from the rear seat.<br />
<br />
"All the emergency numbers are stored, right?"<br />
<br />
"Yes," they said giggling at some private joke.<br />
<br />
"I will be in touch, ofcourse, keep your phones handy," I said not expecting a response but did catch the eye roll on the rear view mirror.<br />
<br />
<b>Day of travel :</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
We were packed and waiting at the front door for our pick up. The dogs were stressed about the suitcases and pranced about the house trying to decide which one of us was travelling and which one was responsible for their food now. They finally reached the correct conclusion and settled at my daughter's feet, vehemently licking her.<br />
<br />
My husband hugged the kids and so did I. Mine lingered till they let go. The car honked and we were on our way. The kids waving in their night dresses, the dogs panting with tongues out and the winter blooms cheerful.<br />
<br />
Then like a flash a thought struck me. I had in my best ability ensured that the stay here was as safe as possible for my kids but what if our plane crashed? what then would happen to these two, alone in a country far away from everyone. My throat dried up and I knew it was too silly a thought to even share with my husband. I allowed it to tide over me and eventually pass.<br />
<br />
An over active imagination is not very wholesome when you have kids.<br />
<br />
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sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-3737873712432891802015-12-18T09:59:00.001+04:002015-12-18T10:00:04.870+04:00Holidays<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Traveling to be with my cousins for 10 days. Will return with diaries of a wedding, a trip and time spent without my kids.<br />
<br />
Happy holidays everyone. </div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-79038657730030974322015-12-11T10:57:00.003+04:002015-12-11T11:04:52.375+04:00Moms and teenage boys<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Being a mother is not for the faint hearted. The journey is back breaking but let me assure you there are views to melt your heart after you have climbed the hills and crossed the mud. Even in between the cross roads you might catch a butterfly taking flight, if you have the eye for it.<br />
<br />
But that is me being poetic, the real version in my house now is slamming of doors, seized gadgets, negotiated homework times and bedtimes, endless pep talks that leave me pepped and the children frozen. When they are not fighting with me they are fighting with each other and then there are the days when dad steps in the game and turns on the heat.<br />
<br />
Officially at 13 I have internally declared my son to be a young man. He is hovering over manhood. On certain days he takes massive steps towards independence - both likeable and "flinchable" (I coined that word right now). He comes forward to carry the grocery for me or open doors and pull out the chair which I like, and with equal elan, on other days, he slams the door of his room on my face and stays in bed for hours at end breaking the family rules all at once - flinchable. It is a struggle for sanity and equilibrium. Puberty is a process and does not happen overnight. When I see him as the young man that he is physically, I have to remind myself to also see the child that is not completely gone yet. The two are so blended together, each taking an erratic dominant front that it leaves me confounded.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "century" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">My husband doesn't understand naps, and associates them with laziness or the elderly. If my son is in a moving car without distractions, he easily passes out asleep. On weekends, he sleeps till we are tired of him sleeping. I know that I should be worrying about this if he was 29 and living in my basement unemployed and sleeping all day but at 13, his body is telling him it needs more rest. On most days I don't remember this and I assume that the sleep is a reflection of his lack of ambition and end up feeling like the mom of the unemployed 29 year old.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "century" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "century" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">He is a growing boy for sure. The fridge empties in the wink of an eye. He has his "I love.." foods but he is willing to grab anything that his hand can reach and then work his way down the shelves till even the salad dressing is empty. He can cause severe embarrassment in front of guests when I offer them goodies only to find empty packets and jars in the pantry. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "century" , "times" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="color: #333333;">I've always been very open in our home and use the real words for sexual acts and body parts. It seems a long way from </span><a href="http://sujatasengupta.blogspot.com/2012/08/balls-and-more.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;"><i>this incident</i></span></b></a><span style="color: #333333;"><i> </i>and as a mother of a teenage boy I</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "century" , "times" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> know that at some point, we come to a fork in the road. I can talk about emotions, feelings and respecting your partner. I can also hit on the staying safe parts. The how-to-actually-do-this-stuff questions go to his Dad. Really? They obviously go to his friends or youtube.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "century" , "times" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "century" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">My son was one of those kindergartners who had to be carried to school. He thrived on hugs and kisses. Now he walks three steps ahead of us in public.He still freely comes up to me and gives me the odd hug. The difference of course is that he does it when no one is looking. Dads sometimes don't read the signs so well. Unlike other cool dads, his dad can't stay in the stands and watch his game. He is on the field shouting his head off - a source of incessant embarrassment.Parents, as a rule, should assume invisibility when their own teens are around.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "century" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "century" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">He guards his space as furiously as his 16 year old sister. He might not demand it the way she does with a PMS sulk, and being careless and forgetful he might not remember to hide away his personal things beyond the eyes of his helicopter mom, but incidents of him busting me are more than I would like to admit. Previously it was fine to be arranging his things, looking through his books and bed. Now the same action rubs him the wrong way and hell breaks loose.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "century" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "century" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">This is just the start, I am told. It is a long way ahead. The journey of hills and flowers, rains and butterflies is tedious and exhausting. I wish I had the map of Dora and could be as adventurous an explorer as her. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "century" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span></span>
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sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-46461504394528608752015-12-04T12:56:00.002+04:002015-12-04T12:56:30.572+04:00Raja Rani ki bakwaas kahani (An apology of a love story)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i><b>“Sorry, she is around. We are discussing
some issues plus she wants me to sleep early and workout tomorrow. Can’t chat.
Later.”</b></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She felt it like a blow in her gut. Drained
of all her energy that usually built up over the course of the day to finally
find a release during this time when she had him to herself. The door slammed
on all of that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i><b>“Goodnight, sleep well”</b></i> she messaged and
creeped out of her toilet with the phone tucked in her bra. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Stealthily she
crawled on to her side of the bed and lay down no different from the
creepy crawlies of the night she so hated. Her husband of 20 years slept
peacefully, or so she assumed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The misadventure had started on her last
trip home. It had been a devastating trip on every account. She had rushed to
India at the news of her brother’s death and in the month that she stayed there
she met the man who had left her at the altar 21 years ago. She told herself
that she was vulnerable and it was natural to find solace in a man who had
courted her relentlessly for years and so she agreed to one lunch and
then another and then a few more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He said he realised, now, what a mistake he
had made when he succumbed to family pressure and married a rich girl instead
of her, and she believed. She felt good that he realised, that he found her
attractive still to say this. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">They chatted every opportunity they got,
reliving the past and making the present selfishly messy. The future – did not occur to them. Love they called it. <i>‘Reconnected’</i>, <i>‘meant to be
together’</i> were the phrases used. It suited them well; it justified the
mindlessness of it all. And then she went back to the country and to the man
who had taken care of her broken dreams and helped her carve out a life for
herself these past 20 years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She came home like an empty shell. Her eye was always on the phone, every beep raising her heartbeat,
every request for a picture making her change umpteen dresses and shades of
lipstick. The selfies with the unnatural pouts filled the gallery of her phone
and she slept less and less each night. The phone that never had a password now
had one. It was a ticking bomb ready to explode on all that she called her own,
three kids and a devoted husband.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Her day revolved around his messages. She
waited like a dog waits for a bone thrown his way. Initially he was eager, he
stayed awake till the wee hours to chat with her, but now all she got was a
maximum of 5 to 10 minutes a day. Curbing her self-respect she asked him why.
<i><b>“Busy,” </b></i>he said and she believed yet again. Her life though she had blissfully
changed to fit him in. She was never busy for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When pouts didn’t work, she played mind
games. She controlled her urge to message him and suffered withdrawal symptoms
like an addict. If he still did not get in touch, she sent a causal joke hoping
to sound breezy and yet get noticed. She changed her profile picture and put up
a loaded status message. When he did take the bait she felt like she could eat
again, breathe again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><i>“Rajja I still love you…”</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><i>“Say it again, just one more time...”</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><i>“I checked the tyre pressure in your car
and got the tank full. Going now, your breakfast is on the kitchen table. See
you in the evening,”</i></b> the husband said from outside the toilet door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><i>“See you,” </i></b>she said in a matter of fact
voice her fingers flying over her phone’s keypad. It was the time she had him
just to herself. She was lapping up the treat that had been thrown her way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-68380741409273554022015-12-03T09:00:00.002+04:002015-12-03T09:00:53.919+04:00Special - you and I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In a room full of people speaking Russian,
you are the only one who does not speak or understand that language. Some are
loud and boisterous, some tensed and a few roaring with laughter. What do you
do? They are looking at you, pointing towards you, asking you questions you
don’t understand, making gestures that you feel incapable of comprehending as
they vary across cultures. What do you do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You look for visual cues, for a kind face,
a smile, a quiet place to organise your thoughts. You try and seek the familiar
amongst all that is otherwise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Every day a special child is faced with
such a situation socially. He is pushed out of his comfort zone into the
unknown and just like you he hopes for a kind face, a smile and a hand that
says, ‘We can try together – you and I’.
If you are willing to be that face and that hand for him, he can also teach you
so much more than you ever thought possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Just by being around them and seeing them
try so hard, it becomes difficult not to exceed your own limitations. I am a
quiet person. I can address issues on mail, I can write stories and I can make
posters about autism awareness, but when it comes to advocacy in the form of
public presentations that involve talking in front of a crowd (read more than 3
people) I panic. That’s usually when I
think of all the special children I know. I am not thinking of just their
needs, I am gaining confidence from them, from seeing them try to make sense of
a world that does not function in a manner they can follow. I tell myself,
“Just like them, I can do this” and I let the first words flow out of me. It is
a gift to be working with special children and I feel lucky that I have the
opportunity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This post is dedicated to the special people who help us to look at the world humanely. They give another angle to the debate of intolerance, they jump out of their boxes and pull us out of ours. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-87841067138443025622015-11-18T20:14:00.002+04:002015-11-18T20:14:06.548+04:00Invisible strings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Sophia
was diagnosed with autism just a month after her third birthday. Diagnosed as
“non-verbal, low functioning” Autism. The parents didn’t know what to expect.
Today, Sophia is a beautiful girl of nine and in the third grade. In class she
spends a good portion of the time with her peers, reading books, and writing.
She recently started doing double digit math and subtraction. Every day is a
bit of a miracle and a lot of resilience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">“Being
home during the summer meant being somewhere so familiar that I had long since
acclimated to the sensory data of the surroundings. The lighting, sounds,
tactile variations…my mind was used to it all and did not have to work as hard
to process the never-ending stream of incoming data.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">The
familiar is peaceful. Change is the opposite. Change means the senses are raw
and exposed and under attack. School was
always that opposite after a summer immersed in the sensory familiarity of home
to Edwin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">A new
school year would mean not just a different setting, but one that included a
huge number of different rooms and activities. The classroom had one set of
sensory experiences (the sound of pencils being sharpened, the peppery scents
they caused, chair legs scraping floors, etc)…the hallway had another set
(rowdy kids, their echoing voices)…the playground had its own range of sensory
experiences, as did the lunchroom, the bathrooms and so on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">It
takes Edwin’s mind quite a while to acclimate to any new environment. And school
is a dozen new environments all rolled into one. He puts up a brave front and
gets on the bus every day. He looks away when his parents wave. He constantly
leaves the comfort of familiar to the awkward and prickly pressures of the new.
I can understand his not wanting to wave now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">-------------------------------------------</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">“Every
school day I stand by the bus as my twins get buckled into their seats. I wait
and I wave. When Grandma is there she watches me and says something like, ‘Do
they see you?’ or ‘I don’t think they care about waving today’ and I never
answer those statements. I wave goodbye every day until the bus turns left, and
they can’t see me waving,” says Patricia, mom to a set of twins, both on the
spectrum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">“Have
my two autistic daughters ever waved back? No, not yet, but I still keep
waving, because I’m mom, and that’s what moms do. Because one day, my girls
will wave back; one day, “bye-bye” will be part of their social world. Or,
because one day there will be another moment, like when Angel looked directly
into my eyes with recognition and pushed her tiny hand against the bus window
as I waved. She kept her hand on the window until the bus turned left and I
couldn’t see her anymore. So, yes, I wave. I wave every day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Today’s
post is my gift to all mothers of children with milestone delays or delayed
development. They strive every day to teach their children, to presume
competence, to hold their expectations high enough, to embrace their child’s
differences and yet carefully recognise the fact that it could take up to 2,000
repetitions for a child with special needs to learn something that a typical
child will likely learn in 200 repetitions. They balance expectations every day
— not too low, not too high and realise that in addition to being Moms, they
get to see miracles at work and play.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-25274898495992208832015-11-05T18:12:00.001+04:002015-11-05T18:12:09.382+04:00Two lives<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="_1dwg" style="padding: 12px 12px 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
She works hard from daybreak to nightfall. Some households treat her well, give her a cup of tea when she looks frail, others not so. She still wishes them each day for her bread is earned from them.<br />The children go to school because of her. The daughter is quite a good student and has dreams, the son is not too keen, a bit spoilt like in most households.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<br />She walks home through the shanty town alleyways with a small bag of vegetables and a bottle of kerosene. Street fights, drunken brawls, cat calls and leering gazes greet her. She dreads to think that her daughter faces the same. Her little corner of the earth is visible now and her steps quicken.<br />The metal sheet that serves as a door is ajar. The fragrance of fresh garlands and incense greet her. Her son takes the bag and the bottle from her hand talking a dime to a dozen.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: left;">
<br />She looks towards the stove, her husband smiles. His legs paralysed after a factory accident, he is cooking their frugal meal. He gives her a glass of tea and a fresh jasmine string for her hair.<br />The evening sets into a multitude of stars.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; text-align: center;">
---------------------------------------------------</div>
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<form action="https://www.facebook.com/ajax/ufi/modify.php" class="live_10153192130393450_316526391751760 commentable_item" data-ft="{"tn":"]"}" data-live="{"seq":"10153192130393450_10153192888563450"}" id="u_jsonp_20_1r" method="post" rel="async" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<div class="_5pcp _5vsi _52i6 _4l4" style="color: #9197a3; margin-top: 12px; padding: 0px 12px 4px; position: relative; text-align: center;">
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The deal had been successful. A big round of applause and firm hand shakes mingled with tinkling crystal. Soft laughter and polite conversations matched the heady opulence of the decor as well as the wine list. She felt at ease here. Suitably cocooned in her Prada suit and Jimmy Choo stilettos, she felt confident.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her mother always said, "If you don’t study, you wouldn’t get a job and end up marrying a man who might not respect you. A woman dependent on her <span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">man for livelihood is no good than the flesh at a butchers shop."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
She had done better than that. She savoured her moment with a sip of the finest champagne. Her mother had long passed away but maybe she would have been proud, maybe not. She had always been tough to please.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Between the serve and volleys of casual flirtation and the negotiations on budget approval, she decided to call it a night. The drive back home for her, unlike the others, was a long one.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
An hour's drive at a steady pace of 120 kmph got her home. The bedroom light was on. It was past 1 am by her watch. She smiled as she unlocked the door and walked through the foyer and up the stairs. Walls lined with memories of baby squeals, awkward teenage years and smart graduation celebrations unfurled upon her.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
She softly opened the bedroom door.<br />"You are awake, " it was not a question, just a pleasant surprise.<br />He looked up with no recognition in his eyes. She was already going through the process of undressing him.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Gently the tie came off first, followed by the blazer, the socks and the shoes. She spoke to him about her day and he sat there looking at her trying to make meaning of her words.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
"Let's go to the toilet, shall we honey? and then we will be ready for bed," she led and he followed.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
She slipped the brochures advertising the care homes for alzheimer's patients in the bin by her bedside, turned off the lights and put her arms around her husband.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
She could be at ease anywhere but she was home only where he was.</div>
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sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-27731145222686591862015-10-28T21:01:00.000+04:002015-10-28T21:01:01.990+04:00A journey - final part<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
That night she and Bob went to a pub that played karaoke every Thursday. It was a lively crowd and they sat getting acquainted with each other. Bob had never been married. He was American and had long retired from his army career. He owned a sail boat and a small place by the ocean. He had no regrets he said.<br />
<br />
"Decide on a song from the list Alanah. I would love to hear you sing."<br />
She was going through the list offhandedly since they had been given the list. She looked up and smiled. And wrote a number to the bartender.<br />
<br />
Now you say you're lonely<br />
You cry the long night through<br />
Well, you can cry me a river<br />
Cry me a river<br />
I cried a river over you<br />
<br />
Her voice was mellifluous and carried the poignancy of the lyrics beautifully. Bob was quiet after the song.<br />
<br />
"What happened to Pegaso?" he asked as he drove her home that night.<br />
"Another day maybe. If we meet again." she smiled<br />
"A man can hope," he said as he stopped at her gate and she got off and waved.<br />
<br />
The next morning Lila arrived. <br />
<br />
"Mom you seem distracted, are you okay?"<br />
<br />
"Distracted, how do you mean?"<br />
<br />
"Well for one, you have not spoken about Hazel like I thought you would."<br />
<br />
Lila seemed upset. Alanah looked up from the plate of salad at her gorgeous daughter. Youth glowed on her face. The skin aflame, the eyes ablaze, how beautiful Lila was she thought.<br />
<br />
"I am not talking about Hazel because I don't want to upset you more than you already are my angel,"<br />
<br />
"No, it's something else mom, I can feel it. You would have been distraught, besides yourself, but you are not. Your mind is not even on our lunch date. You are elsewhere Mom. Talk to me," lila coaxed holding her mother's hand across the table.<br />
<br />
"Well , if you really want to know, I have met someone," Alanah shrugged with a smile and an eye roll.<br />
<br />
"Good for you Mom. Do you like him? Who is he, is he from these parts?"<br />
<br />
Alanah nodded to all the questions but kept looking down at her plate. She felt she needed time before she could really talk to her daughter about this. But Lila was excited and that was her age.<br />
<br />
As they walked inside the house after Lunch Lila asked if she could meet Bob on this trip.<br />
"We will see," Alanah said casually. She had not allowed herself to take it to any other level than karaoke night.<br />
<br />
"Will you unpack the boxes in your room sweetheart and take the things that you care for. I really must sort things out and clear out unwanted junk. The boxes have been there for ages," Alanah told her daughter. They were sitting in the patio looking at the sun set over the sea.<br />
<br />
"Lila nodded and got up, " better late than never Mom," she smiled and went in.<br />
<br />
It must have been a while before Lila's voice woke her up from her slumber. She had dozed off in her rocking chair on the patio.<br />
<br />
"Mom look what I found,"<br />
She was holding a picture of the three of them. It was taken in this patio and everything was the same including the furniture placement. Only time had passed. Alanah looked younger than Lila was now and Lila was a baby gurgling in Pegaso's arms. It was a very happy picture.<br />
<br />
Putting on her glasses Alanah took the picture in her hand and looked at it. She made her daughter sit beside her on the sofa and said, " I loved your dad. You know that, don't you?"<br />
<br />
"Of course mom. You were the best thing that could have happened to him and to me."<br />
<br />
"I still love your dad sweetheart, I always will. No matter what I choose to do in the future. "<br />
<br />
"Mom I am surprised that you didn't like someone earlier. I am delighted for you Mom and please don't think otherwise"<br />
<br />
"Dad left you mom. He went away to find his happiness. He chose someone over what he had with us. You deserve the same. I don't know what took you so long mom,"<br />
<br />
Alanah laughed softly at her daughter's youthfulness, "Life is a bit more complicated than that darling, and love, well, love is a different game altogether. There is no place for spite in it. It flows in and out of your life like a river with a mind of its own. You cannot control it, only accept it when it comes knocking on your door. You will realise one day."<br />
<br />
Bob and Alanah waved as Lila went in the airport to board her flight back to Ireland. As the airport gates closed behind Lila, Bob put his arms around the frail woman beside him and kissed her softly.<br />
<br />
"Would you like to go sailing with me?" He asked.<br />
<br />
"Yes," She nodded and they walked back to the car hand in hand.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-90978312307111677752015-10-24T12:35:00.001+04:002015-10-24T12:35:58.306+04:00A journey - part 4<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Why don't we girls take a cruise? Who all are game?"<br />
<br />
"Hmm, sounds interesting. What month do you have in mind Carol?"<br />
<br />
"How about next month? There is a cruise ship stopping here, we can book tickets. A month long cruise with the best luxury money can buy. Aaaah, I think it is well deserved."<br />
<br />
"Count me out, I get terribly sea sick," said Rosa.<br />
<br />
"Alanah why are you so quiet? something on your mind?"<br />
<br />
<br />
It was the regular bridge and lunch date the women had at the retirement complex up the golf greens. Alanah usually enjoyed the company of her friends. Today she was occupied with thoughts of the past and the future.<br />
<br />
"Hmm no no. I am right here with you all. What was it you were discussing? A cruise.. heavens no! I am not going on any cruise. Especially with cantankerous old ladies like you," she laughed gently and evaded the topic.<br />
<br />
Her eyes met across their table to a man seated at the far end. He had grey hair, a weathered and swarthy tan, smoking a pipe he sat reading the newspaper. He tipped his head at her and smiled. She looked away and chided herself at being so childish. The rest of the afternoon was smooth with laughter, shared memories and some community gossip.<br />
<br />
"Hello there, I hoped to speak to you back there,"<br />
<br />
"Oh hello. Yes, yes, I did see you at the greens the other day,"<br />
<br />
He smiled. It was a gentle smile not revealing much apart from white, even teeth.<br />
<br />
" I am Bob, I am new here. I was wondering if you would be free to have lunch with me?"<br />
<br />
Alanah looked at her watch, "Oh hi Bob, I am Alanah. Uhmm it is time for lunch, why not," she said.<br />
<br />
He laughed a hearty infectious laugh, " No, no. I didn't mean now. I will ask you out properly. This is no way. Give me your number, I will call you,"<br />
<br />
A bit taken aback, a bit flushed, she felt also a bit foolish. Yet the laughter pulled her and she decided to get into the game. "Do you have a pen?"<br />
<br />
"No, but I have a great memory,"<br />
<br />
"Well then, here goes, 99-563-8435"<br />
<br />
"I will call you," said he as he drove past.<br />
<br />
She smiled and entered the supermarket for her weekly groceries.<br />
<br />
It had been fifteen years since she had been out with a man. She had not missed the company. The initial years she was busy with the upkeep of the garage and Lila was young as well. She had her hands and mind full and the hours in the day seemed less. But now things were different.<br />
<br />
She had sold the pump to a good price and invested the money wisely. Lila had a life of her own. The days were long but she prided in sticking to a routine and kept herself physically and mentally occupied. She had her garden, her friends and most importantly, she had Hazel. The thought of the dog made her sad. Hazel was not keeping well at all. She would have to take her to the vet and put her to sleep. Alanah was preparing to mourn again, to say goodbye.<br />
<br />
<br />
She put on a record that evening. She had forgotten how well she sang and how much she loved music. With Pegaso at home, music was never far. There was always a record playing, or he teaching the Ukulele to Lila. She missed it, she thought now. With her wine she sat in her kitchen going through the old pictures. Hazel sat on the rug, eyes closed, laboured breath. She would miss her pitter-patter steps down the stairs, following her around the house, getting the newspaper, her snores on her bed, her warm coat and her soft breath. She continued to look at the album and she let herself get lost in those faraway memories.<br />
<br />
The ring of the phone startled her. She looked at the watch, it was 8 in the evening.<br />
<br />
"Hello," she greeted, keeping her voice steady.<br />
<br />
"Hi Alalanah, this is Natalie from the vet clinic. Have you decided yet? I am sorry to rush you like this, but the more she stays, the difficult it will get for her. I hope you understand,"<br />
<br />
"Oh yes of course, Natalie. I am sorry, I did mean to give you a call today, I guess I have been evading this. Uhmm, I will bring her in tomorrow, is that okay? One more night with my Hazel"<br />
<br />
"Yes of course. I will set things up for 9 tomorrow morning. I am sorry Alanah. Goodnight."<br />
<br />
She put down the receiver, closed the album, checked the doors, switched off the lights and slowly walked up the stairs with Hazel. That night, after many years, Hazel put her head on her lap. She had stopped doing this since she was a pup. Alanah was awake most of the night, talking to Hazel, telling her about the wonderful new place she would be going to.<br />
<br />
She woke with a start, it was just before 6 in the morning, her alarm had not set off yet. She must have slept off. She looked around her. "Hazel, Hazel" she called out gently. Getting out of her bed she walked down the stairs still calling out for her.<br />
<br />
Hazel lay by the door, alone. she didn't move, didn't look, just lay there with her breath coming in spurts.<br />
<br />
She was a big dog to carry, but Alanah managed. While driving to the clinic she called Natalie. They were ready for her when she reached. She got time alone with Hazel to say her final goodbye and then they injected her to ease all pain.<br />
<br />
It was a totally empty house Alanah came back to. She put down her keys, her sunglasses and her bottle of water on the table top near her front door. She removed her coat and hung it and all the time her ears were alert to the footfalls of an eager pup who ran to welcome her in , familiar to the homecoming sounds. She took the small, ornate box of ashes that she had got back from the crematorium and put it up on the mantle next to the family pictures. Hazel would stay there from now. She must call Lila and let her know, but not yet. Let her have some more time.<br />
<br />
It was then that the phone rang. She looked at the time, it was 9.<br />
<br />
"Hello Alanah, Bob here. I did remember your number," He laughed a soft laugh.<br />
<br />
<b><i>to be continued...</i></b></div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-80390925571186745792015-10-19T20:04:00.001+04:002015-10-19T20:04:02.200+04:00A journey - part 3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She had let go of her country and her
family, but she could not let go of her penchant for Irish stews. Every night
whatever be the weather, she made a pot of stew. It brought back memories of
her mother and cold Irish nights. She sat outside with her dinner, the courtyard looking out
to the sea with fairy lights twinkling on the fence. On nights like these Pegaso didn't seem gone. She missed his salad of potatoes and feta that complimented her stew so well. She missed his d</span>ark tan, unruly black curls and his broad, unlined face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Alanah had been happy in her marriage. Pegaso
was not lazy like his other friends. He did not waste time at the local bars.
He had his moods, but he also had his endearing ways. He loved to sing, he
played the ukulele to Alanah often, he cooked for
her whenever she was over-worked, and he was patient with her on nights that
she cried for her parents and family back in Ashbourne. He loved to play with
her long red hair, arrange bluebells in them, braid and un-braid them till he was
asked to stop lest they got tangled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Events had shaped her life throughout. Some she had an active hand in, others she stumbled upon. After six years of leaving Ireland, Lila was born. It had been a very difficult pregnancy. Even the birth of their grand daughter had not been able to soften her parents stand. It had been a busy time, but a happy one. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ring of the telephone broke Alanah's reverie. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Hello"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Hello, mum. Where have you been? I left so many messages for you. You did not call back. Are you okay? I got worried"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Oh Lila, yes of course, sorry, I just forgot...."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Oh well, so is it okay if I come to visit? I umm need to book the dates"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Yes, yes, it is. Please do come. It has been a while since you visited darling."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Okay mum, see you soon. Did I interrupt your dinner?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Not really sweetie, I was done. See you soon."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Well then nighty night"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Good night darling."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiled as she put down the receiver. Who would have thought that Lila would choose to live and work in Ireland, a few hours away from the street she was born and raised in. She listened to</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the radio as she tidied up the kitchen. Taking a glass of wine she slowly walked up the stairs to her bedroom. Hazel followed a step behind. The window of her bedroom overlooked their garage and pumping station. It stood proud, a testimony of her hard work and determination and also sadly the venue of another defining event of her life. But today she would not think sad thoughts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alanah opened the book to where she had left off last and patted hazel. She perched her reading glasses over her nose, sipped from her glass and started to read.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>to be continued...</i></b></div>
</div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-46372404872540690352015-10-16T12:44:00.000+04:002015-10-16T12:45:14.903+04:00A journey - part2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The house was silent except for Hazel snoring. The early morning light filled the window frame and the sea glinted blue at a distance. The alarm buzzed like always, it was 6 am. Alanah woke up and patted hazel, "Did you sleep better last night?" she asked the dog. Hazel was getting on in years and slept uneasy mostly.<br />
<br />
Climbing out of the bed, Alanah pulled a cardigan over her shoulders and knotting her hair she stood at her window looking out at the blue bell sea. It never failed to take her breath away. She had lived a lifetime beside it. Hazel followed her down the stairs to the kitchen. she let her out and put on the kettle. The phone was blinking and she switched on the voice mail to check for messages.<br />
<br />
"Hi Ma, I was wondering if it was okay, umm, if I came home for a couple of days? I got a free ticket against my frequent flier miles and umm thought of using it to come and visit you. Will Tuesday be fine? lemme know okay.. bbbyee"<br />
<br />
Alanah smiled and went to the patio with her tea. She had always loved the mornings. Her days started early and the freshness of the flowers and the view of a beautiful new day being born cheered her up. Lila would be thirty soon. Gorgeous Lila with her clear blue eyes and dark hair, so different from her own. Putting down her cup she rose to start her walk and Hazel followed. Both lived a life of solitude and routine. They had come a long way together. Steady steps downhill to the town, a woman of sixty with more salt than pepper in her wild mane carefully tucked under a sun hat now and a Labrador retriever of 12 with painful joints but an eager heart. The quaint island of Lipsi stretched out languorously in front.<br />
<br />
"Hey there, I knew I would catch you around here," waved Rosa,"will you come for the event tonight at the club?" she panted walking towards her friend, " Carol and Lucy will be there too, it will be so much fun. I just can't wait myself."<br />
<br />
"What event," smiled Alanah, "oh, you don't mean the twenty second dating game do you? For heaven's sake Rosa spare me."<br />
<br />
"And why would I do that? It is fun, it is called socialising. We meet men who are our age, we chat and heaven knows, we might come across one that we want to talk to for more than twenty seconds. What is the harm in that?"<br />
<br />
"No harm, no harm. Just leave me out of it please, will you. I will see you girls for our regular bridge session. You can fill me on the juicy details then," Alanah smiled with a twinkle in her eyes as she patted her friend's hand and walked on.<br />
<br />
Life had not been easy, but it had given her enough. She was not searching for anything anymore. She was at peace with her existence. "I must not forget to call Lila," she reminded herself. Hazel followed her at a much slower pace and she had to wait once in a while to prod the dog along with her gentle words. She remembered the day Lila brought her in, a few weeks old ball of fluff that blinked at her with her toffee coloured eyes. They had bonded instantly.<br />
<br />
It would be extremely difficult to part with her, but as the vet kept telling her, it would be soon now. She must be prepared to let go. She smiled at the thought. letting go, she should be an expert by now on that. She felt a oneness with the island she lived on. Like the cruise ships that came and left its shores, so had people come and gone in her life. She had loved and she had let go.<br />
<br />
Starting with her parents back in Ireland and of course her sisters. She had tried for many years to keep in touch, sending them pictures and letters along with her monthly payback of the money borrowed. She had never received a reply. Her brow creased as she thought of her father having left the world without giving her a chance to say goodbye. Her mother had been kinder, she had spoken over the telephone with her, though in short, hesitant tones. It was the only call she received from Ireland in all the years and soon after her mother had passed away too.<br />
<br />
At a distance she saw the greens of the retirement home and the adjoining club. She smiled at the thought of her friends and their excitement about the event tonight. "Was it possible to love again, the same way that you did the first time?" she asked herself, "Was it possible to see Pegaso in some other man? To hear the tunes of his flute, to see the crinkle of his eyes, the dimple in his chin? Would the flowers always be blue bells? Would he know that she liked her tea with a bit of lemon and no sugar? Was there time to find out anymore?"<br />
<br />
"Come Hazel, time to go back home"<br />
The word home always made the dog trot a little quicker, her eyes gave the toffee twinkle and her mouth broadened into the sweetest grin ever. Yes home was a joyful word.<br />
<br />
<i><b>to be continued</b></i></div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-34056266252335269132015-10-13T17:12:00.001+04:002015-10-16T12:45:27.754+04:00A journey - part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The room on the first floor was her
favourite. It was always warm and smelt of books and memories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Alanah,” her mamma called from the
kitchen, “come on down now lassie, you will be late.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She collected her things and swept another
look at the room, taming her wild, red hair into a presentable
form, she flew down the narrow steps to the kitchen for
breakfast. </span>The others were already halfway through the
first meal of the day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Late again, my little one,” smiled her
father, “now you will hurry with your porridge and leave it unfinished.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Look at all your friends, this summer they
have all shot up and filled out. And look at you- all that is getting any
nourishment is your hair,” said her mother from the counter packing apples and
bread for her children’s lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Rapunzel,” teased her siblings. She had
two older sisters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The little town of Ashbourne was where the
O’Rourkes lived, a regular, religious, working class Irish family. </span>The usual banter of the morning always had
Alanah taking part with witty repartees but things were a bit different now. She had met Pegaso. He was from beyond the
land of her text books. He was from Greece. Tall, dark and unimaginably handsome, Pegaso was foreign to her part of the world. The mystery along with his looks was
intoxicating.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Pegaso worked at the nearby garage. She saw him every day on her way to school. He was exciting, nothing like the boys
in her class and he always had a ready smile for her. One
day as she passed the garage, he stood there with a bunch of
wild flowers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“For you pretty girl,” he said in a
faraway accent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Unsure of herself and conscious of her
friends, Alanah walked away without a backward glance. Evening saw
those flowers on her doorstep, a sweet reminder of the morning. His words played on and on in her mind as she helped her mother
set the dinner table, as she studied, as she sat listening to her father talk about
his day. Never once did the smile or the blush of her fair skin abandon her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There was nothing much that interested her since then. Her world started spinning around the morning smiles. She hoped to
have a lone chance meeting with this stranger, but never once did her cackling
friends leave her side. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I am running late today, you all carry on,
won’t you? Will meet you later’” almost begged Alanah to her friends<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“It’s alright lovely; take your time, it’s
just school we have to go to, not a party. There’s no hurry,” said her friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">With a sigh and a grunt she met them for
her walk to the school. Love can be many things, it can affect the young heart
in many ways, but it is always beautiful in its first tentative steps. And so
it was for Alanah.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On days she saw him cycling behind her, at
a safe distance. On certain nights if she looked out of her window she spotted
him looking up at her. She often imagined a meeting with him. She thought about
all the things they would tell each other. She wanted to know so much about him
and yet it never happened and she didn’t know how to arrange a meeting with
this mysteriously beautiful man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> Irish
winters are known to be mild. But that year the nights turned icy. It had been
quite a few days that Alanah had not seen him. She was worried. Had he left?
Was he ill? She could not stop thinking. On a cold, dreary night Alanah gathered
her billowing skirt and her courage and swept across the streets from her home
with a blanket tugged under her arm. She reached the garage and knocked at the
side door with a drum beating in her heart. The door opened and Pegaso filled
its frame. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">He smiled, a lop-sided grin that crinkled his eyes and she was at a loss of words. Her imagination left her. Holding onto the blanket she stood there; a funny, little picture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> “What have you here little woman?” asked the
strange accent. “Come on in, let me make you a cup-o-tea, its cold out there,”
the voice continued. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> Alanah managed a shy smile and thrust the
blanket towards him and ran into the darkness, her hair a halo behind her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Unknown to her, life had taken a
turn that night. She would grow with this, she would learn, she would travel
outward and deep inside, she would gain, she would lose, she would reach her
core and grow again. She did not know all this then. She was not even 18. Her
pale cheeks had a glow in them. Her eyes shone like emeralds and her hair
carried the spring of Ireland in them while her heart carried the love of a
stranger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Spring turned to summer and before she knew
it, the school finals were looming in front of her. At times when you love
someone, you distance yourself from every other relationship. It’s sad, but it
happens. Love can be selfish
in its naiveté, love can be ruthless in its single mindedness and love can be foolish
in its blindness. Alanah had set her mind on travelling with Pegaso to Greece.
Exams were not on her list at all. Her friends tried to talk her out of this,
but to no avail. S</span>he fought with her mother. Her
father was quiet, ashamed that his offspring could betray his trust in such a
manner. He distanced himself from Alanah. It hurt her
to see this and yet she continued.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“What is Greece like? Is it as beautiful as
Ashbourne?” asked Alanah one day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“It is like the bluebells I pick for you,”
said he as he clipped one on her hair “Like the sky of the summer
afternoons here” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A dream was being spun on a spindle with
blue and white yarn. Alanah was determined to start her life in Greece.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Every evening at 7:30 a bus left for
Belfast. The summer of 1970 saw Pegaso and Alanah take that bus out of
Ashbourne. He had a small case, he gathered no moss. Alannah had a big bag
plus a case. She had taken all the money her father, a school teacher, had
saved for her university education and marriage. She would return them, of
course, as soon as Pegaso's petrol pump became a success in Lipsi, the island
in Greece he called home. The island that would be home to Alanah much more
than Ashbourne ever was. Her friends and also her sisters had come to see her
off that day; they gave her cakes and sweets for the journey and wished her
well. Her journey began the summer she turned eighteen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span lang="EN-GB"> To be continued<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
</div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-32956770057021509902015-10-09T12:30:00.001+04:002015-10-09T12:30:17.814+04:00Raising hell<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Being a teenager is hard they say, but
nothing is harder than being the parent of a teenager. The angelic kid of
yesterday now has horns like prickly pears and skin that breaks out into a rash
every time I enter her domain. I feel like I am constantly looping in the wheel
of her rejection, neglect, or artful critique. Let me add, being pushed away is
only the half of it. Raising teenagers becomes that much more stressful and
confounding when teenagers interrupt weeks of frostiness with moments of
intense warmth and intimacy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It goes something like this. My daughter
gets so busy with her friends, schoolwork and activities that I hardly see her
for days. When I do connect, it’s only because I’ve cornered her to run an errand,
which she does with an eye roll and a sigh or she has recruited my help with
what might literally be a thankless task. Then something knocks her off balance
– a run-in with a friend, an unexpected defeat – and she comes in close. Like a
swimmer grasping for the edge of the pool after a rough lap, she clings to
catch her breath. Bonding supplants eye-rolling, and she shares details about
her trying day instead of the usual one-word report. She entertains my advice
and may even throw in some gossip. I touch her hair tentatively to feel her horns;
they surprise me with their purr. It feels like a dream, almost sinful. She is
listening to my words of wisdom and drawing comfort from my physical presence,
yes, totally sinful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Then she pushes me away, hard. She has her
breath back and wants to return to the water, her world away from me, and she
gets there by pushing off the side of the pool. She might pick the
dumbest-fight-ever or criticize me in her sarcastic best (almost gold medal
worthy, if there was a competition), or abruptly walk away mid conversation. I
might still be stretching in my glorious and sinful dream but she needs to push
away as soon as she is restored. To linger feels babyish, which is just about
the last thing any normally developing teenager wants to feel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I sulk, throw a fit, behave like a teenager
and slam a few doors. I ignore her and praise the son; over feed the dogs, have
conversations with my husband, I do it all and then some more. I muse on
becoming unavailable to her during her need. “Why am I doing this to myself,” I
ask, “Let her notice my absence, let her want for my company. But being
unavailable comes at a cost. Do I really want to miss out on some wonderful, if
brief, moments with my daughter? Worse, should she be left without a wall to
swim to and have to navigate choppy waters all on her own? I can obtain a
measure of protection by readying myself for the kick that will certainly come.
When it does, I can strive to be the adult and say, “Hey, that’s not nice”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ve heard exasperated parents refer to
their teenagers as “toddlers on hormones”. Nothing seems more difficult than
coping with adolescents who are trying to liberate themselves. It tests the
strongest of us, even on good days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">With my daughter’s horn changing shade and
texture every month, I am set now to see my son grow his own pair of stubbly
horns. Is the second time around easier? Will I be more prepared, more
accepting perhaps?</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS8v1UukQ7i0OYVHCU_cIxHgtV3PCUi1YcJr7hf6t71LK-k1Y5o_wwqNWUwU6gczvUXx_yEGuVAMPwirlaOf4Vnmheiccl44kjDV4b6b5J-m1TtxliVnrmKWbtu7Pq5PeZ1zvRze7u4LI/s1600/SSG_6375.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS8v1UukQ7i0OYVHCU_cIxHgtV3PCUi1YcJr7hf6t71LK-k1Y5o_wwqNWUwU6gczvUXx_yEGuVAMPwirlaOf4Vnmheiccl44kjDV4b6b5J-m1TtxliVnrmKWbtu7Pq5PeZ1zvRze7u4LI/s400/SSG_6375.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p></div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-46135448361532189462015-10-05T15:33:00.002+04:002015-10-05T15:33:27.650+04:00Up, up and away...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The photographs are courtesy my husband, Sanjoy. An avid traveller, he also takes pictures as a hobby. These are his thoughts penned by me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">People
don’t do this where I come from. They don’t go backpacking around South East
Asia and they don’t go chasing lost civilisations across the atlas. The reasons
for this are many and complex, to sum it up it is simply not in our culture.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxJgvTyjaTK5Q696R4tJD75dr6uOMXtDspPySP8myYzVwfuK-UYIxPJzCqwvb8c1__OnAS6f8APmZ0Sy24f5YeQc6MCLRkqVva6CH3dJvSVrvYs5qM9UbClfGCp9pJ_HiQKZMCKJ4HuU/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxJgvTyjaTK5Q696R4tJD75dr6uOMXtDspPySP8myYzVwfuK-UYIxPJzCqwvb8c1__OnAS6f8APmZ0Sy24f5YeQc6MCLRkqVva6CH3dJvSVrvYs5qM9UbClfGCp9pJ_HiQKZMCKJ4HuU/s320/unnamed.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 14.3px;">The photographer at Huen Tsang Temple. Sun Moon Lake</span></span><span style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.1;">, </span><span style="line-height: 1.1;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Nantou District, Taiwan</span></span></span></i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
have been living away from home for far too long and the novelty, maybe, of
luxurious resorts and touristy locales have lost their charm to me. I wish I
could say I did everything I ever wanted to do, but that would be untrue. I
only got to fulfil a small fraction of the dreams I held, and in an ironic way,
it seems that as I go about ticking things off my ‘bucket’ list, I add up more
and more at its end. It is wonderfully addictive, in a very fulfilling,
worthwhile sort of way! And although my ‘bucket list’ is now, four years later,
much longer than when I started, that is because such experiences change you in
your very core, teach you things about yourself, your abilities and desires you
had no way of ever knowing before. I consider myself privileged and feel
extremely thankful for everything that led me to the eye-opening experiences I
had, the people I met and all the marvellously diverse things I learnt from
them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">A photograph captures not only a snapshot in its best light, but it also captures memories of the grains that come off the temple walls on my fingertips as I trace the etchings, the Buddha face, the teeth of the Guardian Lion, how hot the sun felt as I climbed the steep and uneven rocks to capture a sunset. A photograph is all of that and more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU622arutwZ9mqAU4tvp7ukmUvQiLurjmHIdIIiOK98lyF8ThdTlGXJ3hBUmuWPiwOT5eRqZXtnxMCGcM8Lc1a3wloVSt-aF0OatXDzJgKUxw0FuhpFQ9pjfBiFwd6wWlOVV0a2wVfDag/s1600/%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU622arutwZ9mqAU4tvp7ukmUvQiLurjmHIdIIiOK98lyF8ThdTlGXJ3hBUmuWPiwOT5eRqZXtnxMCGcM8Lc1a3wloVSt-aF0OatXDzJgKUxw0FuhpFQ9pjfBiFwd6wWlOVV0a2wVfDag/s400/%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Apsara dance at Seam Reap, Cambodia</div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18.4px;">The exquisite ancient sites litter our planet like treasure maps to our past. Be it the relics of temples on the Nile or in forests of Cambodia, their artworks, architecture and artefacts remind us about our humanity as well as our mortality. One of my personal favourites among the lost cities that I have travelled to is Petra in Jordan. This desert city flourished on frankincense, myrrh and spices until an earthquake destroyed its water system. It was lost to Western knowledge for 1000 years. Petra's architectural mix of Roman, Greek and native Nabatean buildings are carved into the hillside's red rock.</span><br /><div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQwfpxVOs13IZOYqWvt1iLGytihpavd2HYOePuWIkGrd2K-76Mu5M8fpygu-2pqNJ1pKrOsP7h3Q0JRweHYO3YLzpJW3N-pgiCYc6Sbp52c-GniMPf2MqjcsqD06yyepItrZkrutNlPeU/s1600/%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQwfpxVOs13IZOYqWvt1iLGytihpavd2HYOePuWIkGrd2K-76Mu5M8fpygu-2pqNJ1pKrOsP7h3Q0JRweHYO3YLzpJW3N-pgiCYc6Sbp52c-GniMPf2MqjcsqD06yyepItrZkrutNlPeU/s400/%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hindu mythology on the walls of Angkor Bhat, Seam Reap, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7dSl1U7f_UAlehNlzPEs8yyVke6iQBCHMqGey_riSuzjJSUJ0aIrrHlTTSnQe02SWodsuGQjNO5_aRiAlIU1mnOR2EuATJ28TH2UHd_eJcR9xECHlMgj264h23YFhfwUkiWbct3eO4fw/s1600/%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7dSl1U7f_UAlehNlzPEs8yyVke6iQBCHMqGey_riSuzjJSUJ0aIrrHlTTSnQe02SWodsuGQjNO5_aRiAlIU1mnOR2EuATJ28TH2UHd_eJcR9xECHlMgj264h23YFhfwUkiWbct3eO4fw/s400/%25283%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruins of Luxor, Egypt</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQCY95UlVmHu2NSwmX1R0lj2UX8BRTnTWkdAKArUV2nJ46gxbRjApLOjvJjSOYFTElrSXU6W9ULeNWRiwx01hsCIbqTLZ_Ql88XGxZNX6X9bhxgwnEkj6iy_BqH3CyWe6V6TF0a4mvw4/s1600/%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQCY95UlVmHu2NSwmX1R0lj2UX8BRTnTWkdAKArUV2nJ46gxbRjApLOjvJjSOYFTElrSXU6W9ULeNWRiwx01hsCIbqTLZ_Ql88XGxZNX6X9bhxgwnEkj6iy_BqH3CyWe6V6TF0a4mvw4/s400/%25284%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Facing history at Petra, Jordan</td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One
of the pleasures of my travel is meeting people and getting acquainted with
different cultures. Many are alarmed by some of the countries I have visited.
They only hear negative stories and stereotypes perpetuated by the mainstream
media. And so, it bears repeating: traveling illustrates the inherent kindness
in the world. Yes there are dangers out there, but the friends I met these past
four years have welcomed me into their homes, and generously offered their time
to share a piece of their culture with me. When I take candid shots of people
from various cities of the world, they remind me of the generous hospitality I
received in that country.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzCLF9N-zxrbwbiuIZ9qZz1R6IT1himXI4SraCeoV-cf4eGlsPGseYR3kbUhMhBsNTVSpw_-Y6trdD9_5_DOsrMbyVhZVIISs4qiRrhzLMcINT4_iWUMlcT4rd54_673JhBKz42j5oCKs/s1600/%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzCLF9N-zxrbwbiuIZ9qZz1R6IT1himXI4SraCeoV-cf4eGlsPGseYR3kbUhMhBsNTVSpw_-Y6trdD9_5_DOsrMbyVhZVIISs4qiRrhzLMcINT4_iWUMlcT4rd54_673JhBKz42j5oCKs/s400/%25285%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tattoo guy of Vigan City, Phillipines</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOO9mn1P2X8raUtjCRg8WImwCT9lUhR9pYNM1IyG1clf_r36HfqdSbwFOFcCkGM3VifMo_-6sOD3EBkiweEN-5EwN4bpDLH3hRswnaPt5y24z6UpNtt1lJ8kqUG5BV7LfW-Zx3QBKvKps/s1600/%25286%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOO9mn1P2X8raUtjCRg8WImwCT9lUhR9pYNM1IyG1clf_r36HfqdSbwFOFcCkGM3VifMo_-6sOD3EBkiweEN-5EwN4bpDLH3hRswnaPt5y24z6UpNtt1lJ8kqUG5BV7LfW-Zx3QBKvKps/s400/%25286%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walk on the Great Wall, Beijing, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisdVw1xVtba_pMO8gcESTV2sRkUkac4GfGXQTYN1AvQklytBmpIgLXcZUOH6PRoOJgdefV_UhEtBQxPgAI1QSxF0DzXaa1GfNglQ0PjXS-n7joHnly7-PSmv73lqs6sVRUgu55YewgkI4/s1600/%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisdVw1xVtba_pMO8gcESTV2sRkUkac4GfGXQTYN1AvQklytBmpIgLXcZUOH6PRoOJgdefV_UhEtBQxPgAI1QSxF0DzXaa1GfNglQ0PjXS-n7joHnly7-PSmv73lqs6sVRUgu55YewgkI4/s400/%25287%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Terminal, Subarnabhoomi International Airport, Bangkok, Thailand</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizwbSHm0vKPsA5MRUxcQEwkUiAkpBmw6HIg4jahLsU8OGaV1XgeekCplsrffuJSCbLtYLHGQU30sXpQXqbIQ88uiKo3MJwQk1N4PhNhaT2UZzOq4DoXQ9LNigiVlHePIhslDjsWemZkOY/s1600/%25288%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizwbSHm0vKPsA5MRUxcQEwkUiAkpBmw6HIg4jahLsU8OGaV1XgeekCplsrffuJSCbLtYLHGQU30sXpQXqbIQ88uiKo3MJwQk1N4PhNhaT2UZzOq4DoXQ9LNigiVlHePIhslDjsWemZkOY/s400/%25288%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning at Old Quarter, Hanoi, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlvzHIdYcU-QDeNrozTBYuYAKPbfaC_7smrnCYA8nR-xchGM-rht4HiTwNg7JxO4tfIeHD77lv5bBxh_s3GVGYF3ArQU5NtVDxr_RguWceNNvYGVDBaf3CZ_jYDWcU7vI4RMtZTKTOLv0/s1600/%25289%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlvzHIdYcU-QDeNrozTBYuYAKPbfaC_7smrnCYA8nR-xchGM-rht4HiTwNg7JxO4tfIeHD77lv5bBxh_s3GVGYF3ArQU5NtVDxr_RguWceNNvYGVDBaf3CZ_jYDWcU7vI4RMtZTKTOLv0/s400/%25289%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Architectural wonder, Sheikh Zayed Mosque, Abudhabi</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq0EnlN6o_NdeFWaDLkQy-g9Y_4aRnYFoj9Os7ZsgkesEClcz-1jBTHlnBlXHWTQBT9YVeHcy8yxOZq4Bm6epGhCLj3OAEqeHHQZ8hjBmERdXcOBx3-HnV8AVNs329bVnwFeX_M_PFl0c/s1600/%252810%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq0EnlN6o_NdeFWaDLkQy-g9Y_4aRnYFoj9Os7ZsgkesEClcz-1jBTHlnBlXHWTQBT9YVeHcy8yxOZq4Bm6epGhCLj3OAEqeHHQZ8hjBmERdXcOBx3-HnV8AVNs329bVnwFeX_M_PFl0c/s400/%252810%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Supervision, old lady, Vigan City, Phillipines</td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Last
but not the least; travel is not complete without the wonder of architectural
splendour. Each country offers a variety of landmark monuments steeped in rich
cultural heritage and also in trend setting modernity. From the mosques of the
mid-eastern countries depicting the geometrical symmetry of Islamic
architecture to the Zen like minimalism of clean lines and monochromes of
modern buildings, travel shows us all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTXvmLD2QO18W4Bf8SsPJivGuyms5Zw0-tK2bh9WEFvJKx0cgGxmaQqPi7ZId89S3wbdqanarGDMEn13ng9MqyFNN-0bOKKycjJTCOOeLitemvN0JcbbF_dP5DndcLLrrQgfsy6VlGFDI/s1600/%252812%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTXvmLD2QO18W4Bf8SsPJivGuyms5Zw0-tK2bh9WEFvJKx0cgGxmaQqPi7ZId89S3wbdqanarGDMEn13ng9MqyFNN-0bOKKycjJTCOOeLitemvN0JcbbF_dP5DndcLLrrQgfsy6VlGFDI/s400/%252812%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Rolling hills of Batan island, Batanes, Phillipinesiew from the top, Halong Bay, Vietnam</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieDqjB5zC0_xRVC7lebvIdREvtUqqP_9FOZ_GWjOXuxs2xc91onVghTsxiz4V3S4qzrHe4OxgJ4Voq-vZQKks7rblQcEe47c2lBWRtSZZHHKPTx6KGk1RwdhpPXR7UTha0kEukKu0sNno/s1600/%252813%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieDqjB5zC0_xRVC7lebvIdREvtUqqP_9FOZ_GWjOXuxs2xc91onVghTsxiz4V3S4qzrHe4OxgJ4Voq-vZQKks7rblQcEe47c2lBWRtSZZHHKPTx6KGk1RwdhpPXR7UTha0kEukKu0sNno/s400/%252813%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Misty morning at Sun Moon LAke, Nantou district, Taiwan</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizhZBVLZgabkVNMepTZEPXDzjiRe4eNaR6qsahtMxAjLIynkeXBmfHTTqehEa2KsWsatj8snY4ycUSlFcfqF_seDR_9rIi2xypr56CnUygspGqkrXL_MKtBwGRUKJSgCr0qpItxLPweZE/s1600/11%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizhZBVLZgabkVNMepTZEPXDzjiRe4eNaR6qsahtMxAjLIynkeXBmfHTTqehEa2KsWsatj8snY4ycUSlFcfqF_seDR_9rIi2xypr56CnUygspGqkrXL_MKtBwGRUKJSgCr0qpItxLPweZE/s400/11%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Rolling hills of Batan island, Batanes, Phillipines</span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Travelling
has taught me to respect how different our lives can be, but even more the
shared commonalities. Travel made me look at each new conversation and
experience as a chance to learn something new and carry home a nugget of wisdom
or a nuance of culture from foreign shores.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traditional Balinese dancer, Indonesia</td></tr>
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sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-87237432446538309172015-09-29T14:53:00.004+04:002015-09-29T14:53:54.825+04:00Travellers of the sand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB">They come silently out of the desert – a
herd of camels padding across the sand, snaking in single file through the
darkness. The first lifts its head, sniffing at the smoke of our car engines as
we turn it off and wait. Then, just as quietly as they had arrived, they all
move off, until there is nothing but us, the endless dunes of the Empty Quarter
and a sandstorm up ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The al-Hajar Mountains form the towering
gateway to Oman's interior. A silent testimony to a time of geological chaos
and immense volcanic activity, the range soars dramatically from gravel plain.
Climbing precipitous tracks, our jeep heads into a wild rockscape of giant
ophiolite rocks, limestone and splintering mudstone. We head towards Snake
Canyon and the <i>Wadi Nakhar</i> gorge. <i>Fakhir</i>, my <i>bedu</i> navigator of about 18, points to my left and I see goats graze
precariously on the rock face, feeding on clumps of acacia, wild olive, aloe
and grasses. In his broken English he talks about his nomad family and adds
that his mother makes the best <i>kahwa</i>,
the kinds of which even the hotels of Muscat cannot match.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">After hours of nerve-racking driving, we
reach the lofty canyon rim. Ahead of us is <i>Jebel
Shams</i> – the mountain of the sun. At more than 3,000m above sea level, the
peak is one of the highest on the eastern Arabian Peninsula. A vulture circles
silently above the chasm. We teeter on the edge, gazing at this vast panorama
known as Arabia's "grand canyon". At a distance I can see a couple of
black and red canvas tents flapping in the breeze, tightly pegged to the sandy
terrain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">"Millions of years ago, all this was
ocean floor," says the boy. Had I not known this to be a fact I would not
have believed him, it seems impossible even to imagine. Hopping of the car, I
follow him to a tent. A little girl of about six emerges gesturing excitedly.
Her eyes capture me, the kohl is dark and heavy, heightening her brown skin and
making her look wise beyond her years. She has her hands full with colourful
bracelets, and mountain sandals woven from goat hair, probably she thinks I am
a tourist and she is ready with her sales pitch. In the distance the
yellow-ochre dunes line the horizon. Sand edges onto the forecourt of my
destination of the night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I get busy with my camera trying to capture
as much before night descends. All over the terrain I notice tracks come and
go, but <i>Fakhir</i> knows these strange
billowing sands well. Those taking self-drive tours often get into trouble
here, he tells me. "If you are following the tracks of another vehicle and
the tracks disappear, stop immediately." He points to a large patch of
sand that looks identical to the kind we are crossing. "See there,
quicksand. It's younger and paler than other sand." I can't see any
difference.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Slowly darkness sets in and brings with it
a fierce breeze that makes my shirt flap and pulls at the turban I have around
my head as protection against the sun. Salma, I now know her name, brings me <i>kahwa </i>and I can tell she is fascinated
by my equipment. I am too, of her. We sit side by side, with a wall of language
between us. Letting her fiddle with my laptop allows me a glimpse into her life
as she slowly opens up in her limited English. She shares her spartan tent with
her parents and nine siblings, she being the youngest. She and two of her
siblings walk 2kms every day to the nearest school where they learn to read the
Quran and also numbers. <i>Fakhir</i> walks
in with dates. He now has changed into a long white <i>dishdasha </i>robe with a traditional embroidered Omani k<i>ummah</i>, or cap. On his waist is a sash,
and tucked in it, a curved knife, called a <i>khanjar</i>.
A tassel dangles from the neckline. The oldest of Salma’s brothers, he is ready
for marriage as I am told by the excited sister and then his wife can add a few
drops of perfumed oil on his tassel, she adds with a laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Shooing away his sister, <i>Fakhir</i> sits down and explains that often
there is no water to be found on their journeys, and they drink only camel and
goat milk. “Sometimes, when there is a thick fog at night, we put out a cloth
over a tree and the next morning, we squeeze out some water”. He loves his
camels, meeting friends and family and enjoys the beauty of the shifting dunes
every single day. He can tell from a hoof-mark how long ago a camel walked by,
if it had a rider on it, or even if it was pregnant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Later in the night I meet the mother of <i>Fakhir</i> and <i>Salma</i>, a mere girl she seems. Light footed and gorgeous, she is shy
and has her fingers twirling around her brightly coloured, multi-patterned
clothes. Her face, except her eyes are covered with a cloth mask. On prodding
for the reason of this veil, she talks to <i>Fakhir</i>
in a sing song voice which he relates to me. “The world is open for me to see,
but I choose who sees me” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">A reticent woman, she leaves, before I can
ask her more. The generosity of the <i>Bedouin</i>
people is legendary. Sitting amongst them, sharing their lifestyle beneath
countless stars and towering dunes, I am struck by the contrast between their
gregarious nature and the forbidding hostility of the desert. And no doubt,
when out in such enormous space; be aware why this kind of pleasure in company
has developed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Ready to finally call it a night, I am led
into their half of the tent by Salma. This half is for the women, children,
cooking utensils, and storage. The other half contains a fireplace and is used
for entertaining. The women do most of the work, while the men socialize and
make plans for the group. The material culture of the Bedouin is limited. Their
tents are their main possessions, and animals are very important for their
nomadic lifestyle. Camels are their main means of transportation, while sheep
and goats are bought and sold. They weave baskets of palm fronds and carry
dates to the market in them. From where I lay, the night sky was a rage of
glittering stars and with no city noise to disturb, sleep came easy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Shunning modern existence, these nomadic
denizens of The Empty Quarter live as they did centuries ago, herding their
camel and goats, living in tents made of palm fronds, and animal skins and
wandering in search of water. To them, an unfettered existence, freedom under
the stars and the continuation of tradition far surpass the lure of
twenty-first century conveniences. They bear allegiance only to their families,
their tribe and to the crescent moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Travellers of the stars,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">They weave dreams of straw in the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Peeping into their lives from the city,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Wretched it feels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Living in their threadbare tent, sipping their tea,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">When I view my world outside,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Just as wretched a deal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-30608479406321710132015-08-13T10:13:00.002+04:002015-08-21T21:29:37.405+04:00Wings of hope - Saroj Gupta Cancer Centre and Research Institute, Thakurpukur, Kolkata<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cancer kills. But that is not the worst, it strips a family bare
till what is left is the indignity of it all. The disease and the corporate
hospitals have ravaged my family a number of times. Within their sterilized
walls and behind their stiff linen they have played on sentiments by prolonging
the inhumanity of the disease they well knew was beyond repair.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But then each incident is a step on the learning curve, and I have had quite a
few, so it would be pretty dumb of me not to scratch beyond the flower vases,
the elegant cafeterias and the smug doctors. Fortunately for me, I managed and
learnt with great joy that cancer though quite a killer, need not always
unhinge the likes of me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here is an account of a place that I saw and liked. It has been almost a year that I am volunteering for them and I am yet to see feet of clay. The simple fact that cancer care is affordable and not all hospitals charge medicines on mrp was the starting point of my journey into this facility.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Take a look at their children's centre for cancer care and spread the word.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She is making friendship bands. A little
girl of seven, she weaves the multi-coloured strings with concentration. The
room, a cheerful pink and purple is full of natural light. If it was not for
the give-away face masks, it would be impossible to tell that Shreya and the
other children in this room, so engrossed in activities, are actually undergoing
strenuous cancer treatment.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anjali 10 was diagnosed with leukaemia. No
one in her family had cancer, so her parents were shocked when the body aches
and fever she had for a few days turned out to be cancer. Her mother thought,
at worst, it was rheumatoid fever, which was in the air around that time. A
blood test showed Anjali had acute lymphoblastic leukaemia, the commonest
juvenile cancer—fatal if not treated quickly, but with very high chances of a
cure if diagnosed within three weeks. She spent the next few months in and out
of hospital for radiation, chemotherapy and injections. “If it had not been for
the expertise of her doctors and the therapeutic approach towards Paediatric
Oncology that we received at Saroj Gupta Cancer Centre and Research Institute
(SGCC&RI), Thakurpukur, Kolkata would have been a lost battle for Anjali,” says her mother.
13 now, Anjali has regrouped to her usual routine of school, art and dance,
with fond and not grim memories of her hospital stay. She visits for follow ups
only.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Celebrating 24 years of exemplary existence in Kolkata, India, indira Manik Children's Hospital, a part of SGCC&RI was inaugurated by Mother Teresa in 1991. Modelled on the lines of Disneyland, the hospital stands amidst an amusement park, vast landscaped greens, a fountain and a functional toy train around beautiful water bodies.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Creating patient-centred cancer care<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQljTXHxH-G8T6Ye5gLHJngw_TSC8GUCyh8iehho72Ej9x54iSwmT1KBJTsfWr0FrSSL8gnAYCbEApRXrDVNJoPcNAPYdxm2qMqCCcVv3I6DM5TO2rwfJzBNeTJHGjCx4pGRZxorR7WQ/s1600/dr-saroj-gupta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQljTXHxH-G8T6Ye5gLHJngw_TSC8GUCyh8iehho72Ej9x54iSwmT1KBJTsfWr0FrSSL8gnAYCbEApRXrDVNJoPcNAPYdxm2qMqCCcVv3I6DM5TO2rwfJzBNeTJHGjCx4pGRZxorR7WQ/s1600/dr-saroj-gupta.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
founder of SGCC&RI Padmashree Dr Saroj Gupta is recognised worldwide as a
legendary figure. His life was dedicated in providing the best possible cancer
treatment for all. In early 1973, seeing the plight of cancer patients who
failed to get even a bed, not to mention cancer care, Dr Saroj Gupta, then a
young radiotherapist, formed a Society with a group of doctors, social workers
and philanthropists. His mission was to
form a Cancer Centre for the afflicted patients and their families. SAROJ GUPTA
CANCER CENTRE and RESEARCH INSTITUTE was conceived initially to provide a
sojourn to the distressed cancer patients who came from remote villages for
treatment.The first fund-raising event was a drama staged by a group called
Sikha, based on a story written by Dr Saroj Gupta, where he himself enacted the
role of a poor cancer patient who was denied a bed in the city hospital. Many
in the audience became a part of the Society and joined hands with Dr Gupta to
help him with his fight against Cancer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His
vision is carried forward by his sons, Anjan Gupta, honorary secretary, SGCC&RI
who left a flourishing architectural practice in America to volunteer his
services to the hospital and Dr Arnab Gupta, one of the best surgical
oncologists in India and director on-board, SGCC&RI.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“The best is what we believe in and we do
not compromise on that vision. We are confident of our holistic approach
towards cancer treatment that minimises the emotional and financial drain that
families afflicted are forced to undergo,” says Anjan Gupta confidently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">With world class amenities and a
gifted team we help in treating<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Acute lymphoblastic leukaemia<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Acute myeloid leukaemia<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Ewing’s sarcoma<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Germ cell tumours<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Hodgkin's disease<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Osteosarcoma<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Tumours of the central nervous
system<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We also provide:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Bone marrow transplantation<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB">Non-malignant haematology<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Patient support services<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3KGMPgMNC5YeZ7KYP5jAYcbC98WmkXUmkuOffrMpgp6HFwLnK8ZDil503xYNWIucd_alS44Fnp0JzApnVXBxV8xF-17dpaguCPEXoMe9-V_6bhMym0Ef370fqTiRKbADTQTOYGmjsoI/s1600/children%2527s+centre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3KGMPgMNC5YeZ7KYP5jAYcbC98WmkXUmkuOffrMpgp6HFwLnK8ZDil503xYNWIucd_alS44Fnp0JzApnVXBxV8xF-17dpaguCPEXoMe9-V_6bhMym0Ef370fqTiRKbADTQTOYGmjsoI/s320/children%2527s+centre.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Specialists take care of children and young
adults across a wide range of different conditions. The actual treatment is
supplemented by various therapies, psychological as well as occupational.
Teaching staff are available to ensure that children do not miss out on school
work inspite of long hospital stay. Mothers stay free of cost with the child. A
serene surrounding in the lap of nature allows abundant fresh air and sunlight
to the children. The ones who are not confined can enjoy toy train rides and
the benefits of the amusement park. positives reported by patients include pain
reduction, relaxation, increased energy and a reduction in the side effects
felt from other aspects of treatment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjPZ-knP_zyF3tyLtU37H-KUslmSH2_Dg4Bl4P8uEaMHwXYE4uI3nB2k0lP8g0BaIYayd7z4KHfy8UbR1wjTYpYDqb7v6uKW-0w7td20wQ0qv_B5qyEGueoVbvQ9ZzWL0ktzH_CAbV16I/s1600/picture+with+child+patients.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjPZ-knP_zyF3tyLtU37H-KUslmSH2_Dg4Bl4P8uEaMHwXYE4uI3nB2k0lP8g0BaIYayd7z4KHfy8UbR1wjTYpYDqb7v6uKW-0w7td20wQ0qv_B5qyEGueoVbvQ9ZzWL0ktzH_CAbV16I/s320/picture+with+child+patients.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr Arnab Gupta with his child patients</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My thoughts found an echo here. </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Cancer robs people of their mental peace.
Especially in case of small children, it is agonising for parents to see the
undeniable pain the little ones have to suffer, the ones that should not have
to bear anything beyond grazed knees and scraped elbows. Our team is
continuously trained to keep the children healthy mentally as well as
physically and ensure they are battle ready,” says Dr Arnab Gupta as he hops on
to the toy train with his patients.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-NyQvSA22-99yj1Ovrq3bAlngs6VmrzxYLL5owGfg9v1V5mxXxa_xxk-41couQ_xYECGsaCbTmv2mXmbljP9Ze5uQ6AXzUcZaeX732F6fTtL5CPMi1QRm12Lnkw3H1tYREbODzr9BS4/s1600/children.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-NyQvSA22-99yj1Ovrq3bAlngs6VmrzxYLL5owGfg9v1V5mxXxa_xxk-41couQ_xYECGsaCbTmv2mXmbljP9Ze5uQ6AXzUcZaeX732F6fTtL5CPMi1QRm12Lnkw3H1tYREbODzr9BS4/s400/children.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB">Studies show a direct link between increased urbanisation and childhood cancer worldwide<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB">Only 5 per cent of childhood cancer is hereditary; 95 per cent of the causes are external factors: viruses, pollution, radiation etc.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB">The commonest childhood cancer is leukemia; lymphomas, brain tumours, tumours of bone and soft tissue rank next<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB">Perhaps the only good news about childhood cancer is that, unlike adult cancers, the cure rate is high: 75 per cent of childhood cancers are completely curable.</span></span></div>
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</div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-68372718081199387872014-04-06T16:21:00.000+04:002014-04-06T16:21:56.812+04:00I wish I knew you before I got married...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I was growing up I had no concept of a virtual friend. There were pen pals, but I didn't see the point. A friend was someone I could see, touch and hear, the rest were imaginary.<br />
<br />
However times changed and I, being part of the nineties, embraced this change like no ones business. Social networking became second nature to me. It had its pitfalls but luckily I was an adult and thought myself capable of finding my way on this unfamiliar road. But soon the spell of status updates started fading and the urge to write a bit more began to gnaw. Technology proved to be a step ahead and gave me the platform of blogging. It satisfied my writing needs happily with the need of sharing and interacting with like-minded people.<br />
<br />
Among the very first bloggers that I read and liked was an IIT pass out. The funky name of his blog and his killer sense of <i>desi</i> humour got me hooked. Slowly, interaction grew beyond commenting on each others posts. A sharp mind, a non-conformist attitude and a marathon runner was how I thought of him in those days.<br />
<br />
Days passed and life got in the way. I as is my nature took too many breaks from blogging. The day job plus the children started keeping me busy and the pace of the desktop was overshadowed by the hand held phone. Inspite of all this there were a few blogs that I kept visiting and his was on top of that list. It was during one such visit that I came to know that my friend had found his true calling.<br />
<br />
I love photographs. To me they express emotions, they make me go back and be a part of the cherished past. We have all been photographed many times in our lives. Mostly posed, and a few candid where our eyes are shut or one in the group is yawning. Never had I, so far, come across pictures that made me want to reach out to touch the beauty that was captured. Never before had I come across the marriage of precise technique and the warmth of emotions. My jaws dropped as I got acquainted to my friend's new role, <i>The Shaadigrapher</i> of <a href="http://www.shaadigrapher.com/" target="_blank">www.shaadigrapher.com </a>.<br />
<br />
Every time I look at one of Amrit's wedding shots I realise that however fast new technology might grow it can never surpass the mind that uses it. The play of light and shadow, the beauty of colours, the shower of petals, the swirl of a gown or a tear moistened eye have to be felt and only then can it be captured. No wonder that in such a short spell of time Amrit and his team have carved a niche for themselves in our country and abroad. I take immense pride in showing off his website to my friends and family. Alas we are all long married, but what the heck, our kids are growing up and this team here is marathon material :)<br />
<br />
So this goes out to all my friends who are getting married or know someone who is. If you want the best, you now have an address.<br />
<br />
It takes courage to take the off beaten track, but to excel in it, well maybe it takes Amrit Vatsa!!<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-76314577503983085232012-11-21T10:14:00.000+04:002012-11-21T10:14:21.352+04:00Power of love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQK3sR-_dY-QY7XcSi5ax_XK5t5PxFttTm7XEJkDDOaNat-eMbcvc2WlQCMYcZ_Qs0y-LikD9FHmZAIKBG0s1ye-Aj01WDbSpXl2NjFYfxO7z2ryRsb38lkE3k65oCJWzlekjOYpamHZA/s1600/496.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQK3sR-_dY-QY7XcSi5ax_XK5t5PxFttTm7XEJkDDOaNat-eMbcvc2WlQCMYcZ_Qs0y-LikD9FHmZAIKBG0s1ye-Aj01WDbSpXl2NjFYfxO7z2ryRsb38lkE3k65oCJWzlekjOYpamHZA/s400/496.jpeg" width="400" /></a>There are seven stages of grief, the first being denial and the last being acceptance. How quickly one moves from the first to the last stage determines the person's will to fight and survive. Most get stuck at 'denial' - sad but true.<br />
<br />
As part of a series on women with grit, I dedicate this piece to a lady who has not only come to terms with her personal challenge, but has gone a step beyond. She has opened a school for children with learning disabilities. With every step that she takes in this direction there are many like me who gain courage and inspiration. When most of us get dumbfounded by our personal demons, this lady goes ahead and brings hope to the life of others, similarly affected like her only son.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“If there is
one thing I learned about friendship after my son was diagnosed as a special
kid, it is that it can be very fragile. Being a friend during good times is
easy. Yet it is during the difficult times that we learn who our real friends
are. I am forever grateful to those friends and family members who supported
our family after the diagnosis. They made a choice to accept my son for who he
is and help us in any way they could. Making the choice to support a family
affected by their child having a learning disorder is one of the greatest gifts
you can give. It is also very likely that your act of kindness may turn out to
be one of the greatest gifts you receive back as well,” says a mother of a 12
year old autistic child.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In your
lifetime, you will probably know more people and families affected by some or
the other disability. You can choose to be part of the solution by helping
support a friend, family member or neighbour. Take the time to learn not just
about the disability, but the individual child. Make the decision to accept
children with disabilities and teach your children how they can help by being a
friend too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When a child
is first diagnosed as not socially ‘normal’, parents often scramble to find
appropriate services, doctors, schools and therapists. What we don't always
anticipate is that relationships with friends, family and neighbours often
change. Some will stand by our side, doing what they can to help and embrace
our child no matter the diagnosis. However, some people will either sit quietly
on the sidelines or abandon the relationship altogether. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So what
happens when you find out that your friend, family member or neighbour has a
child who has been diagnosed with a learning disability? How can you help your
friend? How can you help their child?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are many ways you can assist, from talking to offering a play date.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Be there;
spare a few hours every week to reach out to families who are facing this
challenge. It sounds easy enough, but parents of such children need someone to
listen and ask how they are doing. As a friend, you may not understand all the
jargon, but you can lend an ear and also learn in the process. Offering to come
over for a cup of coffee or to get together just to talk can be one of the best
ways to help your friend get out of his/her bubble and combat the isolation. If
not a friend, you can also contribute your time to non-profit schools and
organisations that are catering to these children. The schools need more than
trained staff, they need people to paint their benches and mow the lawn. These
schools are doing a great job and you can be a part of it by just being open to
the idea.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Bring forth
a smile, have a play date. Play dates with special children might not be like a
typical play date. Even if the play date is a little out of the ordinary, it
will offer the kids an opportunity to learn typical social behaviours/skills
from other children. For the typical kids, the play date may provide a lesson
in acceptance and tolerance of people who are different from them. Acceptance
is a lesson that is learned best by doing, so your children will benefit as well.
It can be of great experience for both families. As neighbours to affected
families go a little beyond sharing a cup of sugar. Invite them over with their
child and be open and accepting of the family and the related issues. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Offer
respite, it is the best help you can give. Whether the child is a toddler,
adolescent or adult, respite is often a complicated issue for parents. Many
parents who have children with disabilities are overwhelmed with the day to day
responsibilities. Some children on the spectrum do not sleep well during the
night and that further adds to the exhaustion. However, when you have a child
with special needs; it can be difficult to find someone you trust to watch your
child. An offer to provide brief respite from a trusted friend or family member
who knows how to appropriately interact with the child with special needs is a
great gift. Whether it be one hour or a night, any offer would be a gift for a
friend in need. It seems like a simple favour, but it can mean everything to an
overwhelmed parent to have a few hours to go grocery shopping or to just spend
some alone time with their spouse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The gift of
money is as important as the gift of time. Not all afflicted families can
afford the best schools and the best teaching techniques. Does that mean that
they have to forgo the latest tools available to help their child? No, they
won’t have to, if you step in. As a non-profit organisation, many of the
schools for children with special needs rely on the support of community volunteer
to help accomplish their goals. If you get in touch with the schools near your
community, you will be aware of the ways you can help fund a child or a tool,
or even help in raising funds for the school. Donations need not always mean
truckloads of money, your change that adds to the weight of your wallet can
also go a long way in bringing simple joys to the children whose parents are
finding it tough. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are various
opportunities to offer your aid, you just need to be aware and willing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Joy is a
simple thing. The quantity you spread is almost always proportional to the
quantity you feel. Light up a smile today, extend your hand, embrace joy.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-89447796028377830532012-10-20T13:37:00.004+04:002012-10-20T13:37:49.233+04:00Mom's the word<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcM6OMucABkXdUnKohGdg1l6Ei1z2aHifZuAiDv5OW8nmrbSjNhgxXn4LK8NdubWkOirL61zwyGJMxFwJws8kvEwVturgpqf9q7tQMyag8dKG7fCfxYJ5Nrr4DeFQpEGqOZ9WRHVMKoqU/s1600/therapyface_new.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcM6OMucABkXdUnKohGdg1l6Ei1z2aHifZuAiDv5OW8nmrbSjNhgxXn4LK8NdubWkOirL61zwyGJMxFwJws8kvEwVturgpqf9q7tQMyag8dKG7fCfxYJ5Nrr4DeFQpEGqOZ9WRHVMKoqU/s320/therapyface_new.jpg" width="320" /></a>At the age of 35, how many of you would like to start school all over again from kindergarten? Not many, I presume. There is so much to do at that age. There is a husband and a house to take care of, parties, night-outs, romantic holidays, shopping and of course the self-defining career. To start school again is not something that would feature on the list of priorities of a modern 35 year old woman.<br />
<br />
But I know a lady who did this. As a mother of a five year old son, diagnosed with autism, she decided to join school again. No school was willing to admit the boy. <i><b>"There are schools for children with special needs, please take him there,"</b></i> they said. The special schools were quite a dampener. They did nothing more than babysit the child. This was unacceptable to the mother, who was neither in denial of her situation, nor willing to give up on her son. One reputed school following the international curriculum accepted the kid<b> </b>on the condition that the mother was willing to take all the classes with him. And so she did. giving up on her career, her personal joys, her 'me-time' she started school again with her son.<br />
<br />
Autism is viewed as a tragedy. As a disorder that robs children of their lives and parents of their children. It took a lot of courage and tenacity for her to grapple with her son's development, autistic diagnosis and finding the right help.School in the morning, followed by some recreational activity and then therapy in the evening. Life revolved around this routine. She must have missed movies, she must have had to forgo reading the latest bestseller, she would not have had time for beauty sessions and dress trials. The things that we take for granted had stopped for her. But she had the joy of being useful to her son, of being able to help create a future for him. To start him off on a path that would eventually make him self-reliant in her absence. I think she saw that as a better trade-off.<br />
<br />
<i>"A happy and expressive child, becomes visibly confused and
uncomfortable, while therapists curiously look on and continue prodding
him,"</i> she wrote in her diary, during the early years of therapy. I can only imagine the frustration and stress of
wanting to help her child while protecting him and letting him be
a kid. She continuously
felt torn between listening to her maternal instincts of wanting a happy,
relaxed childhood for her son and listening to the professionals who advocate for stringent treatments. She must have felt helpless not knowing what her son needs and wants; never
truly knowing what he is thinking. While he made great progress some
days, other days, it would have felt like taking several steps back. The school was always encouraging, she said, the therapists rarely so.<br />
<br />
When the focus of a woman shifts from the husband to the child, it takes effort from the husband to keep the marriage alive. In this case, the focus was centred on the little boy, everything else seemed hazy. The relationship between the couple suffered and grew distant. A lot of things had to be forgone, like moving to a new city for a better job, social interactions were not easy, couple-time was less as the mind was occupied and the body, tired. The result was a woman who did not want to see this gap and a man who delved deeper into his work. As parents, however, they continued to be the band on which the little boy could always hop and play.<br />
<br />
She was jealous of the little worries that the other mothers at school had. She, at times, resented other mothers who eased through decisions for their
children and worried over whether the birthday gifts would be liked by the child, or whether it’s time to move out of the crib and
into a big-boy bed. She did not have the luxury of such indulgences. When she was done with the day's study with her son, she worried about supplements and
approaches to try and encourage him to eat food. She lay in bed and
wondered how her son would ever be okay in the world, how she could help
him love who he is and have his needs met. She could never be easy. She could
never be still. Always, she was running, moving, searching, finding.
Always, she was fighting against the unbearable default of failing her son.<br />
<br />
Years passed, some were filled with angst, but mostly they were years of learning and being happy in small joys. Last year she graduated with her son from school. As they shared the stage with their degrees, a woman of 53 and a boy of 23, the entire crowd erupted in applause, and why not! This was a journey that tells the story of an exuberant boy,
who loves art, reads music, sings “Bohemian Rhapsody” in its entirety,
makes videos on his computer, hugs and cuddles his parents, and is much more than his diagnosis;
and it is also the story of a mother who believed that she could help her son. <br />
<br />
As we celebrate <i>Durga Puja</i> in all its fervour and gaiety, and especially today, <i>Maha Shashti</i>, which is a day that is dedicated to the well being of the children, I dedicate this post to the mothers of children with special needs. The power, the energy, the fighting spirit is not always found in myths and legends. They are, in fact, a depiction of mothers like these who never say never and strive continuously to make life better for their children. <i>"There is no tragedy if you don't choose to see one.."</i>, she says, and I believe.</div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-40519584126573858692012-10-07T14:10:00.001+04:002012-10-07T14:10:35.397+04:00Faith holds<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There was a rickety, wooden chair in my house. As a child I sat on it while my mother plaited my hair each day before school. It was a ritual. Unruly tangles giving in to the firm strokes. There was a wince now and then followed by a tap on the head with the back of the comb. The result was two neat plaits, ready just in time for school. I did not have a mental alarm those days, maybe my mother did. What I had was faith that I would be ready in time for the bus. I sat without a worry in my head on that chair each morning.<br />
<br />
Many summers passed and I got married. Not to a boy I had known since high school, or a guy I met at a pub, Nor a colleague, neither a client. I married a stranger. No courtship apart from a few formally arranged dinners with older chaperones. Suitable age, suitable boy, a good education and a steady job were benchmarks on which I put my faith. To face the seasons together, come what may, was the faith and it is running it's course. <br />
<br />
Kids came and so did worries and mental alarms. Faith might have faltered in the small battles, but we keep moving forward each day because we trust, because we have faith. <br />
<br />
It is festival time again. The time to celebrate our faith with family and friends. To spread cheer through new clothes, new shoes, chants and hymns, frankincense and sweets, good food and fresh garlands. To hold a promise, to keep faith that this year too shall bring us joy and hold us together like all the years that have gone by.<br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">The idol, though beautiful, is but an excuse, a face, to all that is good in the human spirit. More than the idol, I put my faith in the potter's loving hand. Faith that generations will continue to create this beautiful symbol of goodness on earth.</span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYURBH718D5VQ4X04g2wBiqlkA4bJxR1TerZ181PkBcaZODT6EyPdwK8PliNqeuAgLYdkgWVmdH6qcpDO_lwNqgSMq_MdJqGvnfo4A4y64u8mdwfXa275HfbLog4D976FxFKCdaJnnbw/s1600/240820111353-758602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYURBH718D5VQ4X04g2wBiqlkA4bJxR1TerZ181PkBcaZODT6EyPdwK8PliNqeuAgLYdkgWVmdH6qcpDO_lwNqgSMq_MdJqGvnfo4A4y64u8mdwfXa275HfbLog4D976FxFKCdaJnnbw/s400/240820111353-758602.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If God creates man, some men do return the favour with love</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="userContent"><br /></span></div>
sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-88429067265113239072012-09-16T16:26:00.003+04:002012-09-16T16:26:52.847+04:00Something fishy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAqocH9eH2r12qhcHYqfTH1JtKnwTD8Ly_KMLAkFMLzXGNMzPdjLqU23xX9KszvNWcIG35AT_DpPPXlLVSKt_ZRSXnd8Op5A6R1zJd4OWvOZpbR8AE0jP9bNRD6twN_xTEW9vY4X0UsSs/s1600/gubu_max.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAqocH9eH2r12qhcHYqfTH1JtKnwTD8Ly_KMLAkFMLzXGNMzPdjLqU23xX9KszvNWcIG35AT_DpPPXlLVSKt_ZRSXnd8Op5A6R1zJd4OWvOZpbR8AE0jP9bNRD6twN_xTEW9vY4X0UsSs/s320/gubu_max.JPG" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soumya and Max</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For the past few days my son comes home with his uniform soiled. He stays silent on asking. Even when his sister jeers, <i>"Did you piss your pants?"</i>, he stays quiet. Very unlike him, to stay quiet, that is. I crib about having to wash his uniform on a daily basis. He says, <i><b>"Mom, give it to me, I will wash when I take my shower." </b></i>Not that he never offers to help around the house, but this is a bit over the top, even for him.<br />
<br />
My children commute to school in the school bus. The bus does not pick them up from the school gate though. The kids have to walk a distance and wait for the bus. It is not an uncommon practice, the roads here are fairly empty and the children are not tiny anymore, however, this is the first thing that creeps up my mind whenever I worry about them being late from school or for that matter, soiled uniforms.<br />
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<i><b>"What does he do after school? Does he not wait for the bus with you?",</b></i> I asked my daughter. <i><b>"</b><b>No, he has his own group of friends and they are on their own.", </b></i>she answers with a shrug. I tell her to keep an eye on him, she shrugs again. I go to his room and see that he is cleaning an old Horlicks jar. I ask,<b>"What happens to your pants everyday? Do you play rough, there is so much mud on it, where does it come from?"</b> He makes the face that is known to melt my heart, the face that my daughter hates and my husband perceives as <i>'trying to get his way around with mamma look'</i>. He puts aside the jar, takes my hand and makes me sit on his bed.<br />
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<i><b>"There is a wadi (wadi is the Arabic for a dry river bed that fills up during flash floods. This term is also commonly used for murky water ponds in low lying areas) near the place where we wait for the bus. One day when I and my friends were playing cricket there, the ball fell in it and while we were taking the ball out I noticed that it is full of fishes. Mamma the wadi has so many fish in it."</b></i> His eyes dance with glee as he narrates this tale. I can imagine the dull, grey fishes that he would have seen there, but to a person without any knowledge of murky pond habitation, he could well be spinning a tale of rainbow hued fishes with golden spurs. <i><b>"Have you been getting into that wadi to look at fish?"</b></i>, I asked. <i><b>"Even better mom, I go everyday to that wadi to catch a fish. I am this close to catching one.",</b></i> pointing at the jar drying on his window seat he adds, <i><b>"I am going to prepare a home for the fish I catch, I have also decided on a name, I will call him Lucky."</b></i><br />
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There was no point in talking about the pitfalls of a <i>wadi</i> to him, that day. No point also in talking about the germs and the diseases he could catch from that place. He was in love with a fish in a pond and you cannot show logic to love. As a mother I could not stop myself from saying,<i><b>"Watch your step and make sure you are not alone." </b></i>He nods and I go out of his room, and his world of fishes and ponds.<br />
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The following day he is successful and as I open the door to the kids from school, I see him in his dirty uniform, holding a poly-bag filled with water in his hand. He raises it jubilantly on seeing me. Toshali just says <i><b>"Eeeeow stay away from me," </b></i>and runs inside. He chases her up the steps and both of them in turn are chased by Max. Lucky is the sole survivor of the three that he caught. Talks of setting him free are not taken well and the response usually is,<i><b>"He likes me mom, that's why he swam to me, cant you see he is lucky and so am I. We found each other." </b></i>I smile, Toshali says,<i><b>"Ohh pleeease...."</b></i> and S! He went out to the pet-shop and bought fish-food. The plan is to model a tiny fish tank and add a few more friends.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojdi28xjXtEWtBTPFIq4z_Vyu0ySat53B-sgnhnJdWIz4E4m4rgslFAzryQIDfp3KgEoCp3yHuRzUrktbRYD_k3LW7dMxt4OvLV7Rer7eRNnr_p2wUTpk6yrGUib2kJNh2820aJQ9OIU/s1600/381082_10151070270703450_403027578_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojdi28xjXtEWtBTPFIq4z_Vyu0ySat53B-sgnhnJdWIz4E4m4rgslFAzryQIDfp3KgEoCp3yHuRzUrktbRYD_k3LW7dMxt4OvLV7Rer7eRNnr_p2wUTpk6yrGUib2kJNh2820aJQ9OIU/s320/381082_10151070270703450_403027578_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The three tiny fish that were caught and brought home a few days back</td></tr>
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sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185628907611074934.post-56604165112330517312012-08-29T13:19:00.001+04:002012-08-29T13:19:23.460+04:00Balls and more...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The summer holidays are at their fag end. I am looking forward to the schools starting. It has been a long two months of sweltering heat, a rowdy boy, a passive-aggressive girl and almost no <i>'me-time'. </i><br />
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I am sharing a scene that needed to be captured. Yesterday morning after breakfast, when the kids were being assigned their chores for the day and Max was waiting eagerly for his set of instructions, there broke out a fight between my kids. They do not need an excuse. A look from my son, can cause a wave of emotions in my daughter, all negative, mind you. The look is then retaliated by words, which are seen as blows and felt by my son with almost Tsunami like strength. There is now a motivation and a license to hit, he feels, and before I can say <i><b>"S-T-O-P"</b></i> a full blown battle is on. These battles have found a great cheerleader in Max now. Nothing out of the ordinary, what I so far described. But then it happened.. amidst the blows, Bond <i>(now nine, to be ten this October) </i>tells Toshali, <i><b>"I will kick you where it hurts real bad!"</b></i> ...<br />
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<i><b>T: "And where do you think that is? Huh? Where?"</b></i><br />
<i><b>Bond: "Your balls, of course!"</b></i><br />
T looks at him, looks at me and says: <i><b>"You should talk to him, he doesn't know anything, he is so dumb, I just don't believe it!"</b></i><br />
<i><b>Me: "Mind your language when you talk to your sister. Also for your knowledge, girls don't have "balls" though that is not the correct word and should not be used."</b></i><br />
<i><b>Bond (incredulously): "What are you saying? Everybody has balls. Me, you, Baba, Didi, even Max. The most important part of the body is the balls, it is more important than the brain or the heart. Everybody has it.</b>" </i><br />
<i><b>T: "I am out of this place, and Ma dont laugh, it is not at all funny."</b></i><br />
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I don't know what came over me, but I could not stop myself from laughing, I knew that I had to explain to Bond the facts of life, and also tell him that saying the B-word out like that is not allowed. But for the moment all I could do was roll on the floor holding my tummy. Toshali was livid and Bond thought I was in some kind of pain, because he could not comprehend that what he had said in such earnest was remotely funny.<br />
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I gathered my wits and made him sit next to me.<br />
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<i><b>Me (Starting again): "Girls dont have testicles, that is the word to be used, if you want to refer to balls."</b></i><br />
<i><b>Bond: "Of course they do, everybody has them, Max just has one, I even know what the Vet said. She said she will operate and bring out the other one."</b></i><br />
<i><b>Me: "Max is a male, so his organs are like yours. T is a female and her body parts are different."</b></i><br />
<i><b>Bond: " She has it Ma, just doesn't know where it is. She is dumb."</b></i><br />
<i><b>Me: "I am not dumb, if I had them, I would know exactly where they were in my body, but, just like I said before, females don't have them. We have something similar called ovaries and they are inside our bodies."</b></i><br />
<i><b>Bond: " You are just giving fancy names that I cannot pronounce. It is all the same. Didi's are inside? Ma, you know what, that is why she is so stupid, her balls are inside." Take her to a doctor, they need to bring it out."</b></i><br />
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I knew by then that Bond understood that he was wrong about the human anatomy, but he was enjoying irritating his sister and so continued. It might seem stretched out here, but all of this happened within a framework of 15 minutes or so. The fight continued and then lost steam and topics were changed and the day flowed on.<br />
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Maybe I should have taped this, to be used on a later date when either of them is being gutless about life issues. By then they would also know that <i>'Balls' </i>has a literary meaning too. And in the literary sense women have as many balls as the men and yes, they are not covered up either.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDTqpoc1r4dUmAiYuPiFFfTpYpJwpZRGRAmus-BlL8HMPmML_j6hyhRqW_c33Kd8FxtWb7qRB4Isa4ZZBUd_hbjGf7FwIdEI49rAXLgwsyvlu0VoPZis-ibiqbQYtzmIBFGhSUQLlXVJs/s1600/IMG_0772.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDTqpoc1r4dUmAiYuPiFFfTpYpJwpZRGRAmus-BlL8HMPmML_j6hyhRqW_c33Kd8FxtWb7qRB4Isa4ZZBUd_hbjGf7FwIdEI49rAXLgwsyvlu0VoPZis-ibiqbQYtzmIBFGhSUQLlXVJs/s400/IMG_0772.JPG" width="375" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T and Bond as in 2006</td></tr>
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sujata senguptahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13101153080266818022noreply@blogger.com24