tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301149232024-03-14T19:24:11.624+05:30Yashika T KhannaReflections on Cyberspace: A convergence of random thoughts...Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-15188369008251516992017-05-01T21:15:00.000+05:302017-05-02T00:37:40.520+05:30Our experience of flying Air India with a baby<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrESPgrg_hHjgrJzqrCvyb1uZqnNxVhPmOmsDwWTakXmQ3qFljR7Fye9dNidWzPurjuVvrTYX6cPy7W9c3kkUTO5fAKLcpMJ3Or7LhmCO1NLGYvd_VYCqshyphenhyphenmvuVIJ_97-36q4/s1600/modi-mascot-cartoon-_092815100633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrESPgrg_hHjgrJzqrCvyb1uZqnNxVhPmOmsDwWTakXmQ3qFljR7Fye9dNidWzPurjuVvrTYX6cPy7W9c3kkUTO5fAKLcpMJ3Or7LhmCO1NLGYvd_VYCqshyphenhyphenmvuVIJ_97-36q4/s320/modi-mascot-cartoon-_092815100633.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The crisp Friday morning when we left our home in San
Francisco to take a 16-hour flight to Delhi (India) with our 1-year old infant
was filled with anxiety. The fact that it was our baby’s first flight ever wasn’t
making things any easier. She had never been away from home for longer than a
day and had never experienced the air pressure challenges of a boxed airplane compartment.</span></div>
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Air India had seemed welcoming on the phone. They allowed
infant food and milk on the flight and gave the baby an extra 10-kg luggage
allowance on their nominally priced infant ticket. No separate seat for the
baby yet though. We reserved a bassinet seat on the phone a few days before the
flight. We were told that our Boeing-777 had about 7-8 of them. Upon boarding
though, we saw maybe just 3-4. We flew economy of course. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After priority fast-track TSA checks at San Francisco
International Airport (SFO), we were at our gate and waiting to board. The
boarding started on time and we were boarded on priority here too. Thankfully
because it was a weekday flight and because it was peak summer season in India,
the flight was sparsely full. We managed to get the seat next to us empty. In
retrospect, that turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Kids have stuff… a
LOT of stuff! We had several bags full of baby food, baby formula, cooler for
milk, diapers, toys, our papers, blankets, etc. and realized that we totally
needed that empty seat to shuffle our stuff around.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Air India’s bassinet seats have a lot of legroom. While we
slowly got comfortable with our new surroundings (the airline checked in our
stroller at the airplane gate, the car seat had already been checked in with
the other bags), an airhostess came to brief us about take off with a baby. The
brief was fairly informal and surprisingly simple – just hold the baby against
your chest during take off, hold them cheek-to-cheek against you and hold their
head with your palm as the plane takes off. No separate seat belt was provided
to attach with ours for the baby. I repeat… no separate seat belt was provided
(unlike other airlines, I hear). <o:p></o:p></div>
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The plane took off on time and thankfully it was easy on our
baby too who sucked on yogurt melts to keep the air pressure from irritating
her ears. An airhostess came to ‘warn’ us that the bassinet (which we didn’t
have yet) had an upper limit of 14 pounds and could be dangerous for our baby
who clearly weighed more than that. She moved a lonely passenger behind us to
another row to give us extra room to put the baby to sleep. 10 minutes later,
another airhostess came and plugged in a bassinet for us. When I enquired
about the upper weight limit, she said it was 14 kilograms. I asked her to
please confirm this with some other crew and after assuring me that she would,
I never heard back from her. Another 10 minutes later, the first airhostess
came to check why we had still opted to take the bassinet seat. Tired of the
confusion, I checked the weight limit tag on the bassinet myself to see that
the upper limit was indeed 14 kilograms and not 14 pounds. Our 1-year old was
good to go in the bassinet. At this point, the airplane’s entertainment system
crashed and had to be rebooted which took 30 minutes, much to the dismay of the
other passengers. But I’ll save that story for another post. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Did I mention that the exit door right in front of our seats
on the left made a horrible clanking sound during take-off? Almost like the
door would fall off once we were airborne. But it didn’t. And thankfully it
didn’t make that sound again either. We could see the left wing from our middle
row seats and it looked charred and burnt out too. A big downgrade from Emirates
flights that we normally took, but there is sadly no other direct flight that
flies from SFO to Delhi. So we grinned and decided to bear the minor
inconvenience.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Back to the much-touted bassinet seat. Well, it was pretty
much useless. While it said it could hold a baby 14 kilograms heavy, it could
barely contain our 10-kilogramer. She has average height for her age too and
still she couldn’t fit with her legs straightened out in the bassinet.
Ultimately when it was time to sleep, she slept with her legs slightly bent and
her head sticking out a little over the pillow. And she couldn’t turn because
there was no room. But to be fair, she did sleep for 4-5 hours in the bassinet,
spread across two spells. With the occasional cry out of course from discomfort
and not being able to turn (she would fall out!) and from the hard and tight
zip-on ‘patch’ that I had fastened around her. It was straight out of the 80s.
Maybe when adjustable harness straps hadn’t been invented. Just two pieces of
fabric on either side with a zipper in the middle to open it and zip it. I
couldn’t zip it up all the way either because it was so tight around her belly,
so I made peace with zipping it up just halfway and then put the blanket over it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The flight crew of course was blissfully unaware that this
secure hold even existed on their bassinets and asked us to just hold the baby
when the seat belt sign turned on. Which was like over 20 times in the 16-hour
long flight. Nope, kids don’t sleep like that. And hence it lead to my
discovery of the horrible secure baby hold. We did manage to fit in 3-4 hours
of sleep for ourselves too while the baby slept face-up in her bassinet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The in-flight entertainment system finally came alive after
a few hours of take-off, but our screens didn’t roll up because the bassinet
was in the way (screens are tucked under the seats in front row seats and need to
be rolled up). We managed to pull the screen on the third empty seat up, only
to realize that the remote on that seat wasn’t working. And it wasn’t a
touch-screen like Emirates (again, that was our airline of choice before we had
a baby and had to consider direct flights). So we had a LONG flight with no
form of entertainment ahead of us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A kind word about the cabin crew would be fair here though.
They were super accommodating with doing all that they could to make our
journey easier. Their demeanor was semi-professional but friendly. They asked
us several times if we needed help with anything. They happily refrigerated the
baby milk and food that we were carrying. They took it out for us each time we
requested them to. While there are no ovens to heat food and milk on a
plane, they gave us hot water to do so each time we asked for it. And they were
chirpy while they did it. Not grumpy. Not once. So no qualms about the effort
the crew put in to do their bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The toilets were a different story altogether. There are no
kitchen-style washing sinks on a plane. But baby milk bottles and bowls still
need to rinsed out every once in a while (if only for storage). Rinsing had to
be done in toilet sinks and on this particular Air India flight, most sinks did
not self-drain. A knob had to be pressed while the sinks slowly drained water.
It was kind of gross. Thankfully, no toilets clogged up on this flight unlike
another Air India direct flight from Chicago to Delhi that I read about where
all 8 restrooms on the plane got choked. Small mercies.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The food servings were all Indian and very basic. The
beverage options were simply water, juice, coke or scotch. Some people treated
the plane like a private bar. But that’s not an Air India problem. One of the
three tray tables on our seats was broken and two remote controls out of three
(for even turning on the lights or calling the attendant) were non-functional.
But we survived that too.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As we prepared to finally land in Delhi, our bassinet seat
had to be taken away and the poor airhostess apologized profusely for waking
our sleeping baby up and asked if we were ‘sure’ that she could take the
bassinet away. Well, that was the ONLY safe option and so yes, we told her that
we were absolutely sure that she could take the bassinet away. I broke out into
a laugh. Safety is never an ‘option’ in the US. And nor should it be. We are
just not used to these type of questions.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The landing was fairly uneventful. We held our baby on our
lap, without a seat belt again, and she did fairly well with managing cabin air
pressure changes. We de-boarded, collected our bags and were our way home! My
observations about flying Air India with a baby are as follows – The planes
need an overhaul and the bassinets definitely need an upgrade. I have heard
that other airlines like Etihad have amazing bassinets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While the staff is friendly, they are way too
informal to be flying over international waters, or anywhere else, for that
matter. On several occasions, I caught the airhostesses chatting sitting
huddled in a group at the back of the airplane (a scene straight out of a
college canteen) when I went to take out some milk or baby food from the refrigerator.
They sometimes even failed to notice me standing there! The airline serves no
infant food (again, unlike some other airlines) but is happy to give you hot
water at convenience. Overall, I wish there was another option to fly straight
from India to SFO, but till there is, we will stay thankful for this Air India
direct flight despite the operational and logistical inefficiencies. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-15425822962055153922016-09-28T22:12:00.002+05:302016-09-28T22:12:54.401+05:30Tidbits on Parenting for the uninitiated<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This piece is written with the intention of appealing to
those who intend to start a family in the near future and I write this because
I wish I had access to such pieces when I was pregnant. See this as a sort of
preparation article on what to expect. It is absolutely imperative to have full
knowledge of what parenting entails before you take the plunge (while I do
believe that nothing can truly prepare you for what comes). <o:p></o:p></div>
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Pregnancy, I now realize, is the easy part about the whole
deal. It’s still just you and your partner, preparing for the future, and
dealing with the minor changes that come along the way. Yes, you worry about
labor, and it does come and go… but that’s not the part that you remember in
much detail in the future. So what do you remember? Your remember this – <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">your baby’s first year</b>. The longest,
most difficult year of your entire life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pregnancy is short and temporary- a minor bump in the long
road to parenthood. Look at it as nature’s way of giving you some
responsibility before unleashing a whole lot of it on you very soon. But once
the baby arrives, its not going anywhere. And then it gets real.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Parenting is hard.</b>
And that’s no joking matter. It is really hard. Think about the hardest job you
have ever done. Now multiply that by 10. That’s how hard parenting is. It’s
about making daily decisions about the little one. It’s about giving them
constant attention. It’s also about being 100% accountable for them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Parenting makes you
forget about vanity.</b> You will not have time to do your hair or nails (or
shave) for a while. Your doctors will ‘see you’ from all angles when you look your
most unflattering and your whole house will too… while breastfeeding, while caring
for the baby, with white spit-up marks on your shoulder. Unkempt looks and the
works. Get used to it. It doesn’t last, but be sure that it won’t escape you
either. The good news is that nobody cares. Because you just made life. Your
car will have to make room for that car seat. Nope, no more convertibles. Get
used to that too!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Parenting is
anti-social.</b> There will be no more time or energy for that friendly
get-together. Your single friends wouldn’t want to hang out with you anymore
because no one wants to be around a baby for extended periods of time. Play is
fine, screams are not. They will all come to occasionally meet you and see how
the baby is doing, but meet-ups will have to wait. No bars, clubs or sodas. You
will have to find parents with kids roughly your age to hang out with because
then you can do the same activities. Welcome to this new league.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Parenting is
selfless.</b> I remember driving to the hospital three days after delivering to
admit our baby for jaundice. I also remember caring for her when my own body was
in pieces. My husband and I forewent sleep, comforts and even meals to care for
our little one. Our needs and demands are just not as important anymore. That
fancy shirt can wait because buying those new bibs is more important. Spending
$200 on a baby carrier will be your new idea of ‘shopping’. No vacations and no
more movie theatres for a while. And what’s more, you will be fine with it.
Because every day will end with that great feeling of accomplishment at having
taken them through another successful day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Breastfeeding is mean
in the beginning.</b> It is the reason most women slip into postpartum
depression. I had no idea that it would be so tough. Your nipples will be sore
and cracked but you will still keep going because your doctor, pediatrician,
lactation consultant, family and friends will keep reminding you that breast
milk is still best for your baby. And it really is. But the struggle is very
real, my friend. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Parenting makes you
forget about sleep.</b> Sometimes willingly but mostly forcefully. Newborns
don’t sleep through the night. Their pea-sized stomachs need constant feedings.
Infants wake up at night for various reasons too. Discomfort, teething, hunger,
reflux, etc. You wake up in the middle of the night with them and play the
guessing game. Its fun. Or not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Parenting is
expensive.</b> And it makes your house look a lot smaller. That crib, bassinet,
swing, play mat, high chair, toys and stroller need money and space. Get ready
to loosen those purse strings and save up to move to a bigger house. Don’t
forget to save for their college, future and your retirement. The list is
pretty long and no matter how much you make, it is never enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Parenting is
research-oriented.</b> Everything will be new for you and everything will
require research. Bottle-feeding and pumping queries, what works best for
colic, best baby sitter, best day care, best pediatrician, best toys, best baby
carrier, best rocker… your little one deserves the best of everything and that
requires research. Signs of teething, symptoms of infection, the color of their
poo - will all be topics that you will find yourself googling on a regular
basis. Every free minute will be spent imbibing new knowledge. Soon you will be
giving <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gyaan</i> like me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Parenting requires
support.</b> Those first few weeks after your first baby arrives will be
maddening and you will need a parent or friend to take you through them. You
will need to learn how to bathe the baby, massage the baby, etc and an
experienced eye will be key to take you through your learning. As the months
progress, you will need to find support groups, in your locality or online, to
stay in touch with parents like you to discuss daily problems and to realize
that you aren’t alone in this.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Parenting is anxious.</b>
You will always be worried – about them eating enough, sleeping enough and
pooping enough. You will wake up in the middle of the night to check if they
are well and breathing. You will compare their monthly milestones with their
peers and see if they are doing okay. You will worry if they aren’t. Even when
they really just are!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Parenting is time
consuming.</b> The cycle of feed, burp, sleep and change is endless and you
will find yourself going through it almost eight times every day (it gets
better with age). And the cycle with take time. Weekends will mostly be spent
catching a breath. And your little guy will be your new boss. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Lastly, despite the
troubles, parenting is oh-so-rewarding! </b>Their cute little faces, supple
round cheeks, the way they smell, the way they hold your face with their little
hands when you lean in, the way they sleep with a smile when you are close, the
way their faces light up upon seeing you, the way their breathing and warmth
feels against you when they fall asleep on your shoulder… is all so precious
and irreplaceable. It is going to make you forget every struggle and it will remind
you to find that super human inside you to keep them alive and thriving.
Because everybody has it in them. You just need to find it. And then the joys
are unlimited. Happy parenting!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Picture of my love for attention.</div>
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Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-24853824198103833402016-01-20T05:31:00.000+05:302016-01-20T05:41:19.155+05:30The Sunny Leone interview: Should capitalism be confused with morality?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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‘Morals’ and ‘morality’ are the most misused excuses for
justifying sexism in India. Before I write more about that, lets be clear that
one or another form of sexism exists in all countries around the world. But my
post today will focus specifically on India. The intention is not to criticize
the country for what it believes to stand for. The intention is just to
highlight the hypocrisy that exists in the fabric called ‘our society’.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sunny Leone
Interview<o:p></o:p></i><br />
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The Executive Editor of India’s leading English news
channels recently did an interview with porn star-turned-Bollywood actress
Sunny Leone. Sunny Leone, originally named Karenjit Kaur and born to Punjabi
Sikh parents in America, has worked as a porn star in the United States for several
years. About four years ago, she ventured into mainstream Bollywood and has
since worked in some small-budget hindi films. She also made an appearance on
Indian reality show Bigg Boss in 2011, a stint that made her popular with the
average Indian household.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sunny Leone followed the same publicity path that most film
stars follow to promote their films. A guest appearance here and a celebrity
interview there to keep her name current in mainstream media before the launch
of her films has been her PR strategy. All stars do that and she seemed no
different. So when I heard Bhupendra Chaubey almost chiding her for her
pornographic ‘past’ in a television interview before the launch of her film
‘Mastizaade’, obviously I was very shocked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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First and foremost, the smirk on his face and the judgment
in his voice was apparent and totally cringe worthy. It almost seemed like he
felt a sense of entitlement to question Sunny on her career choices. He asked
her repeatedly if her past (working as a porn star) ‘haunted’ her and whether
she would do anything ‘differently’ to change it. Thank god Sunny held her fort
and answered back with tact and confidence, confirming that she doesn’t regret
anything in her past and wouldn’t want to change anything about it. It would
have been a real shame to see her crumble to such blatant sexism on television.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Second, the chief point of having a guest on your show is to
let them speak! A lesson that Chaubey clearly forgot to learn at journalism
school. He masked his own personal opinions as questions and hogged most of the
interview himself with insulting remarks about Sunny’s ‘shameful past’. He
constantly cut her midway through her answers and dumped yet more demeaning remarks
and outdated self-beliefs on her. He educated her about ‘the grace of being
covered from head to toe in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">saree</i>’
and once even asked her if sitting with her was making him ‘morally corrupt’!
He blamed her movies for the increase in the number of porn watchers in India
and asked if she saw anything wrong with that (according to him, how could she
not!?). Through it all, Sunny sat there with a smile on her face and tried to
remain as calm and confident as is humanly possible through such barefaced
adversity. And just for that, it became hard not to love her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Third, and this was the funniest bit, Chaubey was completely
oblivious to the sarcasm that Sunny threw his way in return for his barbed
attacks. She politely offered to leave the interview if it was ‘corrupting’
him, she pointed out that only he saw her publicity as ‘negativity’ and that he
was also the first person to call her acting a ‘danger to the fine art of
cinema’. She also said that like Indian politicians, she was waiting for Obama
to include her in his speeches! Dear old Chaubeyji failed to take the cue each
time and continued hounding her with age-old views and his backward opinions. I
wonder why he chose to do the interview himself in the first place. He could
have easily asked someone else to do it. I also wonder if his own secret crush
on Sunny Leone made him so thick-skinned about her oncoming sarcasm. Or maybe,
he was just trying to prove to his wife sitting at home that he did NOT have
that little crush (he also questioned Sunny about her views on how ‘every
Indian housewife is threatened by her stealing their husband’!)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why the furor?<o:p></o:p></i><br />
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In my opinion, the interview was completely offensive and
chauvinistic. It was hard not to feel sympathy for Sunny Leone for her poised
stance and seasoned responses. If I had been in that seat as a guest, I would
probably have walked out of the interview within the first five minutes. Or at least
a little bit of my anger would have shown on my face. She did neither and that
made her a real-life hero. It was also disappointing to see Bhupendra Chaubey
pose such crude questions. I personally respect his channel for quality
journalism but with this interview, his credibility took a severe hit. Safe to
say, while some would agree with his line of thinking, the mood on social media
was gruff. Audiences and celebrities criticized him for his coarseness and
questioned why such an opinionated interview was conducted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If India chooses to buy tickets to (or download) Sunny Leone’s
movies and watch them, Chaubey has no business blaming the actress for it. As a
commercial actor, she moved from America to India in the search of greener
pastures and she seems to have found them. I see no harm in doing that. She
seems well aware of where her niche lies and what’s her appeal as an actor. If
someone doesn’t like that, they can choose to close their eyes. Do Indian
actors not visit Hollywood and act in foreign films? How could we look up to
them for doing that but show scorn to Sunny Leone? She seems to be harboring
very realistic expectations about the reason for her popularity in India and
the kind of roles that she will be offered in the future. She didn’t seem
starry-eyed about working with ‘big Bollywood names’ and said that she still
read every script before accepting it… all standard procedure for an actor and
nothing different because she is an ex-porn star. I wonder if Chaubey would
have found the guts to pose similar questions to the male actors who star in
‘Mastizaade’. Or to a member of the Censor Board who passed the film. Such
impunity, given India’s patriarchal set up, only comes while questioning women
actors. Chaubey clearly talked to her differently because she was a 'former porn star' and cut her mid-sentence repeatedly, showing deep discourtesy on his part. The furor on social media after
the interview was actually heartening. Small beginnings lead to bigger ends. <span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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But I am mostly penning this blog down because it is hard
for me understand why we as a society can’t treat an entertainer as just that,
an entertainer. They simply do what they know best to earn a living. It is the
society as a whole that makes these actors so popular by watching their movies
or downloading their work. So in such a scenario, who is the culprit? Actually,
why should anyone be labeled the ‘culprit’ at all? It sexual liberalism not a
good thing? Does it not reduce the advent of gender-related crimes in a
society? Is sexual repression the way forward? How can we continue to have the
second largest population in the world and still continue to show disdain
towards the act of ‘sex’? Frankly, when will our obsession with sex end? Or does
it always have to be a love-hate relationship? Can we not see it as something
as normal as eating food? Do we really believe that the people who carry out
these interviews with such judgmentalism have never watched porn themselves? Or
that they are saints behind closed doors? The problem arises when such
prominent journalists earn the field of journalism a bad name with their
personal prejudices. The familiarity that Chaubey displayed while conducting
the interview was contemptuous. Sure, you have seen her work on screen. But
that doesn’t mean that you know her personally, can forget the fact that she is
a guest on your show and inundate her with your under-developed views about
what the viewer wants. Like Sunny pointed out, he gets paid to interview her
just as she gets paid to sit and chat with him. So where is the shame in that
for both of them? Or if there is, then there is equal shame in it for both.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Small voices of dissent are a good thing. They might seem
inconsequential at the time, but they go on to stir up bigger changes. We can’t
leave everything to chance and time. If Sunny was still living in the United
States, I am sure people would have found the good sense to see her for just
what she is – an actor and an entertainer. No politician would have cared to
include her in his political speeches, the people would not have blamed her for
‘corrupting the society’ and she would most probably have been lost in the stream
of similar actors who do what they do best to earn a living. No one would, and
they actually didn’t while she lived there, make her the topic of daily
discussion and offer her the stardom that she now enjoys (and that the givers
themselves so dearly loathe).<br />
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We need to stop this sense of entitlement that Indian men
feel towards a woman’s career choices. Not just a woman that he knows, but any
woman. No one has the authority to be judgmental about a choice that someone else
makes. No profession is ‘shameful’ or deserves the scorn of the entire society.
We need to realize that supply is only churned where the opportunity for a
demand exists. The blanket cover of ‘morality’ cannot be used to justify a man
insulting a woman on television. I guess that is my fundamental problem with
the interview. Again, I am not saying that sexism doesn’t exist in other
countries or that it only plagues India. My larger point is simply that we have
to make it harder for people to get away with such blatant sexism. To uphold
the respect of women, all women, is a fundamental value. Not a choice and
definitely not a thing to be toyed around with. All power to Sunny.</div>
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Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-26255800364257399242016-01-16T03:16:00.000+05:302016-01-16T03:16:02.066+05:30Why is Dow Jones plummeting?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 25.5px;">The Dow Jones Industrial Average continued its New Year fall by slipping over 400 points through the day on January 15, 2016. The index that started the year at 17,405 was down almost 1500 points and hovered below 16,000 for the first time since August 2015. The big question on everyone’s mind is – why the rapid fall and should we be concerned about a recession already? According to me, these are the major reasons for Dow’s incessant drops-</span><br />
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<strong>1) China’s Economic Turmoil</strong></div>
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China is the world’s second largest economy after the United States. It touches businesses and countries around the world. China is also the third largest export partner (the first and second being Canada and Mexico respectively) of the U.S., making up about 5.3% of the total U.S. exports in 2014 (good and services valued at roughly $124 billion). China also happens to be the biggest import partner of the U.S, accounting for 16.4% of the total imports of the U.S. in 2014 (roughly $467 billion). Thus, the trade balance (exports minus imports) of the U.S. vis-à-vis China is negative. The deficit is financed partly by the capital flow from China. This makes China the largest creditor of the U.S. as well, holding the largest part of U.S. treasury securities - amounting to $1,270 billion in May 2015. That is about one-fifth of the total U.S. treasury securities outstanding.</div>
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These numbers give a clue about how any positive or negative economic developments in China can affect the U.S. economy. For example, a decrease in the level of consumer spending in China, owing to a falling economy, will affect U.S. exports negatively which in turn will lead to a decrease in the U.S. GDP. Additionally, with exports decreasing but imports remaining largely unaffected, the deficit in the US balance of trade with China will widen further. Unemployment will also increase in U.S. companies that generate a major part of their revenues from Chinese exports.</div>
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Another problem that China might pose for the U.S. is the selling off of U.S. treasury securities to use the proceeds to provide stimulus to its economy. Potential massive selling of U.S. securities will create a threat to the U.S. economy because a large supply of such securities will pull the prices down. Unexpected increase in the interest rates may also increase pressure on GDP growth through lower valuation of investments.</div>
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<strong>Largely speaking</strong>, China matters greatly to the world. Its explosive growth and a huge appetite for Chinese goods and raw materials lifted economies in Europe, Asia, Latin America, Australia and elsewhere. As a result, it becomes obvious that China’s slowdown is having a huge ripple effect around the globe. Concerns about China’s economy are amplified by the fact that it remains a bit of a black box to investors. Few trust the accuracy of Beijing’s economic stats and many believe that actual growth is a lot lower than government reports.</div>
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The devaluation of the Chinese yuan that began in August 2015 has led to global markets falling by 7.1% since January 1<sup>st</sup> this year. China’s economy continues to remain caught in a dangerous no-mans-land between market and state control. Hence, the jitters are also being felt and seen on U.S.’s Dow Jones index (along with other local indexes).</div>
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<strong>2) Falling Oil Prices</strong></div>
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We are currently in the midst of a great oil collapse. Global share markets, including the Dow Jones, tumbled at the prospect of an end to the Iranian oil export ban. Prices have slipped below $30 a barrel for crude oil (lowest since 2003). News is that Iran could restart its oil exports (after lifted sanctions) as early as this weekend if the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) confirms that it has complied with measures to curb its nuclear programme. Iran has the world’s fourth largest proven oil reserves and any additional oil would add to the 1 million barrels a day supply that has already led to more than a 70% collapse in oil prices since the middle of 2014. In simpler terms, oil supply has outstripped demand globally.</div>
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The demand for oil from China has fallen as its economic growth has slowed. Meanwhile supply has increased, partly due to the rise of US shale oil. In addition, Saudi Arabia (the world’s largest exporter of oil) has refused to cut production – something it has done previously to support oil prices. Experts estimate that about one million barrels of oil are being produced above demand every day. While consumers and some businesses have benefitted from lower oil prices, oil-exporting nations have suffered. Thousands of jobs have been lost in the oil industry.</div>
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Crude oil trades in U.S. dollars. That means when the dollar gets stronger, oil gets more expensive for overseas buyers. While cheap oil is great for American consumers, it continues to contribute to the losses in the stock market. Shares of S&P 500 energy companies are already down 10% so far this year. Some others like Marathon Oil and Anadarko Petroleum have plunged over 20%. The same trends are playing out on the Dow Jones index. Investors are worried that historically cheap crude is an ominous sign that global demand is far weaker than economists think.</div>
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<strong>Bottom line</strong></div>
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The rout of the Dow Jones index is in tune with a global crash in stock markets, owing largely to global factors such as the fall of the Chinese economy and plummeting oil prices. Experts say that local factors like deteriorating corporate earnings and revenues, overvaluation of stocks and rising interest rates could also be contributing to the collapse. Some investors are also playing safe and dumping their stocks before the long MLK weekend. Maybe it is good advice to stay un-invested for now and observe where the stock market heads before making any monetary bets. The year looks bearish, the emotion is cautious and it is prudent to listen to money management gurus who say that it's better to be safe than sorry!</div>
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Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-66836400275709183242015-03-10T00:33:00.001+05:302015-03-10T01:31:46.662+05:30India’s Daughter: What is wrong with our judicial system?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Leslee Udwin was born in Birmingham, England. She grew up to become an actress and then ultimately changed her career to being a producer. Her most notable achievement was winning the BAFTA award for her film ‘East is East’ in 1999. She is also a prominent personality among NRIs and feminists in UK. The brutal gang rape of a 23-year old girl in India in December 2012 moved Leslee so much that she invested two years of her life afterwards towards making a 58-minute documentary on the victim, who is also commonly referred to as ‘India’s Daughter’ (or Nirbhaya in Indian media reports). Leslee decided to name the documentary that as well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.2; white-space: pre-wrap;">But as a reward, her film was banned from being aired in India. The reason - she had interviewed one of Nirbhaya’s rapists, Mukesh Singh, for the film. The Indian government had objections to giving a public voice to the rapist. BBC in the UK still went ahead with the broadcast in several other countries even ahead of its scheduled airdate of March 8 (International Women’s Day). People across the world, including India, watched it on popular streaming websites like YouTube.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So what lessons did the Indian Government learn from this episode? Well first, that the ostrich mentality of banning unpleasant things (films and books) is not a strategy that works in today’s digitally savvy world. People always find a way to watch a video or read a book that the government has banned by simply logging on to the Internet. Furthermore, such bans increase the curiosity and interest in the content that is not being allowed to circulate freely and hence leads to higher viewership. Second, the Indian government also got a reality check of what kind of influence they yield on the world media. It is easy to regulate content within the country. But the country is not yet globally positioned to dictate terms to international media houses. We (Indians) are not as big and important as we think we are.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.2; white-space: pre-wrap;">The whole discussion brings me to the moot point of writing this blog post – what is wrong with India’s judiciary? The thought first crossed my mind when I watched Nirbhaya’s parents talk on a chat show on NDTV. The aggrieved couple has been vociferously and fearlessly voicing their angst for over two years now, demanding death for the culprits who perpetuated the heinous crime against their daughter (they gang raped and brutalized her, and then inserted an iron rod inside her vagina and pulled out her intestines that ultimately led to her death). The pain in their voice is evident and we all realize that while nothing can soothe the agony that stems from losing a child and now lives permanently in their hearts, our only hope of giving them some relief is by doling out timely punishment to the monsters who perpetrated the crime.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnhlh5SG5TZ-F5CKmyTT3Agc6vVdueiNm2xNzqjIt5E26r98bUtVRM6ll13W4tJvhwQ4pJ07Yqrp78YjmBLPTPnj-q9gcouwP-nF6CJYSainqhfNExsGH3vmWG4zAEShQ1Litc/s1600/indias+daughter+jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnhlh5SG5TZ-F5CKmyTT3Agc6vVdueiNm2xNzqjIt5E26r98bUtVRM6ll13W4tJvhwQ4pJ07Yqrp78YjmBLPTPnj-q9gcouwP-nF6CJYSainqhfNExsGH3vmWG4zAEShQ1Litc/s1600/indias+daughter+jpg.jpg" height="183" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.2; white-space: pre-wrap;">In 2013, the Delhi High Court had ‘fast tracked’ Nirbhaya’s case after major protests had erupted across the country. One of the accused, Ram Singh, had died in police custody on 11 March 2013 in Delhi’s Tihar Jail. On 10 September 2013, the four remaining adult defendants - Vinay Sharma (21), Akshay Thakur (29), Mukesh Singh (27) and Pawan Gupta (20) – were found guilty of rape and murder and sentenced to death by hanging. The act was deemed as ‘unnatural sex that counted as a rarest of rare crime’. One unnamed juvenile accused in the case was sent to a ‘special home’ for three years - that being the maximum punishment by law for a juvenile in India, following which he would be allowed to roam free in the society. Soon after the verdict was given, an appeal was filed in the Supreme Court and even after a year of that appeal being filed, it has not been overturned. What’s more gruesome is that not even a single hearing has been conducted in the case since then and it stays pending.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.2; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nirbhaya’s parents are obviously hyper agitated. They say that if justice can’t be ensured and expedited even in a case as high profile as theirs, there is no hope whatsoever for the other rape victims in the country. And we can’t help but agree with them. The confessions are all there. All the accused have admitted to committing the crime. The CCTV footage recorded by a hotel’s camera clearly shows which bus was used for the crime. Even Nirbhaya’s statement, the one that she summoned the courage to record before succumbing to her painful death, is also present. So we ask, what is stopping the Supreme Court from giving a final verdict? What has this one year been wasted over? Additionally, despite pleas from all sections of the society, why have laws for juveniles not been amended? Sure, fingers are being pointed at Leslee for interviewing Mukesh. But we ask whether it is not this very administration that has kept Mukesh alive for all these years? Do they not realize that justice delayed is justice denied? Do they not know that it is their own lethargy and tardiness that has emboldened the rapist to come out and make inflammatory remarks against women? Such hypocrisy and double standards do not go down well with the intelligentsia of the country that has declared its clear defiance by watching, and sharing, the banned documentary. Maybe it is time for the Indian government and judiciary to engage in some soul-searching.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.2; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is not the first time that justice has been delayed. Another high profile case that invariably comes to mind is that of Ajmal Kasab. The terrorist was recorded clearly on CCTV cameras shooting innocent people on those fateful days in November 2008. The court proceedings had still taken almost a year and a half after the incident to find him guilty on 80 counts, including murder, waging war against India and possessing explosives. He wasn’t hung in Pune’s Yerwada Jail until November 2012 – four years after committing the crime, despite the presence of irrefutable and clear evidence from the first day of trial.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.2; white-space: pre-wrap;">We can’t help but question our judicial system. Along with the many things that are wrong with India, this one sticks out the most. We often turn to the Supreme Court for a dose of sanity in an otherwise insane country. But when years are allowed to pass between crimes and punishments, it is hard to keep faith in the idea of India. We wonder why families of the aggrieved are allowed to live with such overwhelming grief when at least on our part we can ensure speedy justice. The wait is not for the want of evidence. That much we know. The files are stuck in endless strings of red tape and bureaucracy rules the game. If such is the state of affairs, then can we really blame the citizens for living in a constant state of anger and disbelief in the fairness of the judiciary?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.2; white-space: pre-wrap;">As for the documentary ‘India’s Daughter’, I think it is brilliant. It shows the Indian society for what it is. It is also riveting, engaging and extremely well researched. The first step towards eliminating any evil is to identify it. And that’s what the documentary does. It pitches several voices together, the ones of the aggrieved and others of the accused, without ever imposing an opinion of its own. It lets you hear all sides and like religious texts, it lets you decipher them on your own. Some people will invariably choose to get offended by the documentary (because it is their nature to get offended). Some others like me will appreciate that such films are being made to serve as a mirror to our completely flawed society. Why do I say that? Because as a woman who has lived in equal measure in the metropolis of Delhi and in a small town, I know that several evils exist within the Indian society specifically targeting women. The culture of subjugation and rape is one of them. When we see this documentary and hear the lawyers of the rapists give medieval arguments like ‘women are like flowers’ or ‘women are like diamonds, and if you leave them on the streets, a dog is bound to take them away’ or something completely outrageous like ‘we have the best society because women have no place in it’ – we commend Leslee for bringing out these voices to the fore. Because we know that they exist. Another aspect of the documentary that totally pleased me was the level of research that had been conducted to trace down, for example, the gynecologist who had first treated Nirbhaya, or the patrol officer who had first found her bloodied body by the side of the road, or the parents of the accused, or for that matter the hotel that had recorded the CCTV footage of the bus. We wonder if even the police in the Nirbhaya case were so thorough in their investigation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.2; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">About Mukesh – well, everything that he says is loathsome. His words blaming the women themselves for getting raped sound like sheer poison. In Leslee’s defence, even she admitted that she felt like her soul had ‘just been dipped in tar’ while interviewing Mukesh. What had shocked her the most was his answer to the question – “Why do men rape?” But to her credit, she brought out the horrors that exist within the minds of the Indian society. We teach our daughters how not to get raped but no one teaches their sons to not rape in the first place. Even the mother of accused Ram Singh was more upset by the fact that he wouldn’t be around to take care of her in her old age than she was with the fact that he was a cold-blooded rapist. ‘</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.2; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Budhape ki laathi chali gayi’</span><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.2; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> were her exact words (my old age support is gone). The wife of one of the accused said that she was also a woman and with her husband gone, no one would take care of her now. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.2; white-space: pre-wrap;">Leslee is merely the medium of a horrifying message. And by banning her film, the government has repeated the classic mistake of shooting the messenger. We have much deeper problems than just a short film called ‘India’s Daughter’. Some thought over the slow judicial process of delivering justice will go a much longer way in making the idea of a better India a reality.</span></div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-77499564697033845672015-01-08T23:17:00.002+05:302015-01-09T03:43:17.907+05:30Charlie Hebdo and Islam: How I see it<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Who defines the limits of journalism? Who decides when the
journalistic pen crosses the boundaries of objectivity and ventures into
obscenities? You would probably say that common sensibilities define the
boundaries of journalism. But I believe that the field of journalism is too
dynamic to be defined by boundaries. I guess that that is the whole point of the exercise of the freedom of expression: it is hit and trial, like
medicine, with the use of discretionary perceptions aiming at not hurting or
targeting anyone in particular without a solid reason. That is a loose
definition, one that you won't find written anywhere. But the principle purpose of journalism, to show the world as it is with its several shortcomings,
inevitably allows space for some expression of freedom. And it isn't logical to
expect all journalists to be artful with this freedom. Or moderate. That would
be like an attempt at controlling people and free will. And who has ever been successful in
doing that? The field of free writing can only prosper and continue to
part-deliver on its promise of a well-informed world where journalistic
articles make a difference IF and only IF journalists continue to get the
freedom that they get now (in some countries at least) to write what they like. We can then only hope for
them to be unbiased and non-judgemental in their reporting. That is the best logical hope for the world, and I say this without getting diluted in the fantastical vagaries of idealism that really exist nowhere.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When we talk about freedom, it goes without saying that some
journalists take more liberties than the others. They are more callous in their
depiction of the news and more fearless in voicing their opinions, knowing
pretty well that they might even qualify as judgemental to a significant part
of their target population. Some readers continue giving patronage to such pieces of
journalism for this very fact – because they love the loud and fearless voice.
Some others see it as plain news and filter what they feel is the essential component
hidden within the lines. Charlie Hebdo is one such publication. The weekly
satirical newspaper is published in French and features political jokes and
cartoons. Its non-conformist tone had managed to anger a certain section of
Muslims who took great offence to the paper’s cartoons on Islam (of course they
chose to turn a blind eye to similar cartoons on Catholicism,
Judaism, etc). Before the horrendous January 7, 2015 shooting massacre of twelve people at the newspaper's headquarters, the magazine had also been
firebombed in 2011 after the publication had named the Prophet Muhammad
“editor-in-chief” of an issue. The publication’s rebellious response had been
the following cover:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8wLx8_WYQJIl6gI9fYQqwqaNfDmbEST5g5Gyrf5OIhenyiQRuyhUTQPQeQll1Ta3p9tuvMjqHl7tjHF4h4bYqF1k9_C4ToHHpcSHhSA5Zi1fpWgCEamC8EyNNkonlAsdId0lR/s1600/charlie+cover+2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8wLx8_WYQJIl6gI9fYQqwqaNfDmbEST5g5Gyrf5OIhenyiQRuyhUTQPQeQll1Ta3p9tuvMjqHl7tjHF4h4bYqF1k9_C4ToHHpcSHhSA5Zi1fpWgCEamC8EyNNkonlAsdId0lR/s1600/charlie+cover+2011.jpg" height="320" width="253" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p> When translated, it simply meant - "Love is greater than hate".</o:p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Charlie Hebdo was not ordinary. The work that they did was in no way similar to what other news publications do. Plain reportage of news was never their forte. But that did not warrant for the intolerance, hate and death that was bestowed upon the newspaper for the work that they did. With warnings or without, no one reserves the right to take away life for the sole reason of discomfort with someone's artistic expression. You don't shoot an author for his book. You debate it. Similarly, Charlie Hebdo could have been given a taste of its own medicine by the initiation of another publication with similarly loud views, the terrorists could have boycotted the newspaper for its supposedly vitriolic work OR they could have chosen to go on a silent protest on the streets against what had been drawn. Social media wars are also not out of question in today's digitally savvy world. But one </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">CANNOT pick up a gun and start shooting people in the name of saving the Prophet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Islam as a religion is like all other religions. It has a holy book called the Quran. It also has its own prayers, teachings and customs. But like all other religions, Islam is also subjectively translated by different people in different ways. Some Muslims say that Islam teaches them tolerance. Some others say that it teaches them that Prophet Muhammad is the last Prophet of God. There is yet another sections of Muslims who believe in <i>Jihad. Jihad </i>is the religious duty of Muslims. A person engaged in <i>Jihad </i>is called a <i>Mujahid </i>and the plural of that term is <i>Mujahideen. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Unfortunately<i>, </i>the world today sees the term '</span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">mujahideen'</i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> as one related to terror. It has ever so often been used by news organizations in the context of an Islamic bombing or a terror attack of any other form. The image has stuck on and the word '<i>mujahideen</i>' has become a sullied one. Who is to be blamed for the plight of Muslims around the world? Who is to be blamed for the questionable looks that a Muslim name evokes in different parts of the white-world and the eyebrows that it sometimes raises? The terror attacks of 9/11 made life miserable for all brown people, and particularly Muslims, living in America. Similarly, the attack on Charlie Hebdo and the violence in its aftermath will come back to bite all Muslims in France. It is not their fault and they are not at all related to what happened. They might disapprove of this savage act of violence inflicted upon the journalists and policemen by their bigoted counterparts. But while the perpetrators are eventually caught, and they will be, and punished, it is the Muslims in France and around the world that will carry this burden on their heads for the times to come. Yet more eyebrows will be raised when they say their name aloud. Did the perpetrators not worry about the bad reputation that they bring to their religion around the world - the same religion under whose cover and for whose 'protection' they conduct these killings? Do they not worry about the misery of their fellow 'brothers' that inevitably follows these attacks? Clearly not and it leads us to wonder what the whole point of the violence was anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">If the point was to save Islam and bring it respect, the aftermath is always quite the opposite. Muslims around the world are labelled terrorists and leading lives becomes a little more harder for them. No one likes labels and tags. Nobody wants to be judged. But what do perpetrators of violence expect at the end of their heists? Do they 'avenge' the Prophet? Is the Prophet so weak and helpless that his teachings won't survive without these terrorists picking up their guns? The term 'terrorist' is defined as anyone who indulges in any act of violence and views himself as the victim of a historical wrong. So anyone who commits homicide in the name of religion becomes a terrorist. They do not 'avenge' anyone by such acts, they only endanger their own lives in the process and make the lives of other people like them around the world more miserable. Is this logic too hard to see? Is it too complicated to understand? Is tolerance such a bad virtue that it absolutely has to be shunned for anything to stand? Despite the many reasons that these terrorists give for their actions, at the end of the day, there is no rational justification for their acts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I started this opinion piece by saying that the flourish of journalism cannot be curbed. It thrives in the multitude of artistic freedom of expression, punctuated by the desire to tell real stories without prejudice. Religion is something similar. Its existence has to be taken with a pinch of salt. There will always be elements who translate religion to suit their needs. They will exploit it and mangle it to propagate their capricious views. They hide in the vein of religion, without realizing that they are the cancer that plagues the body. They will pick up the gun and shoot people over silly cartoons. They shall not laugh at themselves and their gods. And they will slaughter anyone who chooses to do so. They will not be fair and they will not be objective. They will also continue to make the lives of their fellow brothers around the globe difficult with their actions. History is full of people who have acted irrationally. Irrationality is in fact the chief cause behind history being written. Someone's belief in their superiority and someone's inherent belief in their inferiority, someone believing that something needs to be avenged and someone else believing that they have been slighted. Some slighting others and some others mocking the slighted. Some sane ones who ask everyone to stop the irrationality. That is the order of the world. And we continue to live in such an imperfect world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"One ought to hold on to one's heart; for if one lets it go, one soon loses control of the head too."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">-Friedrich Neitzsche</span></div>
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Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-52301683792932554572014-12-02T04:50:00.002+05:302014-12-02T09:41:01.410+05:30Remembrance (A short story)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg4-XxaiE6n8FIBY7yCsK_4iDUoBYmyZW4r6UQkQOvVRmx97onEx6V2JwMYzvHpfDwr3fS3Ip_YHLEk018cEJGMsJekT4M8TuBBKieIkT_rJUzBmL-WRa7KJiSsXbe-Q4I8XZj/s1600/poppy-remembrance-high-quality-image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg4-XxaiE6n8FIBY7yCsK_4iDUoBYmyZW4r6UQkQOvVRmx97onEx6V2JwMYzvHpfDwr3fS3Ip_YHLEk018cEJGMsJekT4M8TuBBKieIkT_rJUzBmL-WRa7KJiSsXbe-Q4I8XZj/s1600/poppy-remembrance-high-quality-image.jpg" height="204" width="320" /></a></div>
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She had kind eyes but weathered hands. Wrinkles around her
eyes gave away her age. She had draped herself in a worn-out beige saree but it
would’ve been evident to anyone that she was a beauty in her age. Her body bore
no ornaments and her silky grey hair were rolled up in a messy bun held
together by a few bobby pins. Her brows were furrowed, her spine slouched and
her knees were bent. She held the baby and stared at it with concern, not
knowing where it came from or what to do with it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dementia had been diagnosed a few months ago. She didn’t
remember how many months ago, though. Her son and daughter-in-law had suggested
that she move away to the locked ancestral house and she had agreed. She
remembered the day a few weeks ago when they had left her here. The cracks in
the walls and the leakage in the pipes barely managed to conceal how old the
house was. Rodents in all dark corners and the chipped paint had been no
relief. But she had known that it was essential. It had been an absolute
necessity to move here. To be closer to the elders who had passed away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked around for her husband but he wasn’t there. Days
when he would appear at her every shout were long gone. How long gone? She did
not remember. And now this baby. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The baby looked like it was a few months old. Wrapped in a
spotless white suede blanket and sleeping quietly. Its chest heaved up and
down. The old woman still couldn’t remember how it had got here. It reminded
her of someone. The shadow of a newborn that hadn’t lived to see even a full
year crossed her mind. In this very house, at a time that felt ages ago. The
shadow felt like a fragment of her. But she wasn’t sure.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly she heard wailing. A woman seemed to be screaming
at the top of her lungs at a distance. The heart-wrenching screams sounded like
someone had ripped her heart right out of her chest. The voice was distant, but
audible. The old lady quietly kept the sleeping baby on the rickety bed and
closed the door. She couldn’t stand the noise and the pain that engulfed it.
Something had stirred inside her but she didn’t know what. She did what she did
best in these situations, and there had been many – she went to the living
room, spread out a bed sheet on the floor and slept.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When she woke up the next morning, the baby was gone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-89855684569310649042014-08-26T11:03:00.000+05:302014-08-26T11:15:23.579+05:30Funny Ha-Ha!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBNDjMQsadfLqPpJ1pUEyMMweMsxvxXPkEd-qXveD75uld3S7X5CvxdwQBU3dNWbpSkpjJj60CWsNgokh7rYJQdUAVRtvA0Sp9CIZobLFRmEuxLJwcckXg4hlV7GXiXSdQ_6T1/s1600/jerry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBNDjMQsadfLqPpJ1pUEyMMweMsxvxXPkEd-qXveD75uld3S7X5CvxdwQBU3dNWbpSkpjJj60CWsNgokh7rYJQdUAVRtvA0Sp9CIZobLFRmEuxLJwcckXg4hlV7GXiXSdQ_6T1/s1600/jerry.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>"There</i> <i>is nothing like a gleam of humour to reassure you that a fellow human being is ticking inside a strange face." </i>- Eva Hoffman</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Humour has always held a special place in my life. First,
jokes were made about me being an uptight child and I took offence to them.
Next, I learnt that the best way to live was to not take myself too seriously
and laugh along with the ones who thought of me as funny. Ironically, the
laughs stopped and turned into gazes of admiration at my turn-around. But the
humour stayed with me. It helped me sail through the time conundrum with ease.
Humour helped lift the darkest veils from the most serious moments that I
encountered. It made me laugh in times of loneliness and helped nip several confrontations
in the bud even before they started. Humour, I realized, makes people likeable. And now life is a series of constant setbacks
lightened by the presence of gleams of humour in sporadic spells of pulchritude.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I do not think that I am funny. But I can laugh loudly at a
good joke any day. By accident, I sometimes also end up making some of these
jokes. I know people who swear by laughter. Their pure and unadulterated commitment
to guffawing under all situations is commendable. I look forward to being in
their company, if only to cringe at the occasional bad humour that springs up without
intention. But every meet is memorable. I think about these people when I need
an injection of enthusiasm. A simple upwards curve of the lips is a solution
for most problems in life. If nothing else, this simple exercise undeniably always
lifts the spirits. As a young girl, my uncle (mother’s brother) who lives in
Delhi gave me snazzy joke-books to read when I visited him during summer
vacations. Our dinner table conversations centered around humorous incidents in his
personal and professional life. Some not-so-kind jokes about the <i>sardaars </i>in Delhi were his area of
expertise. Those family meals were marked with remarkable camaraderie and a sense
of ease. By showing us the side of him that always tickled a funny bone, my
uncle became endearing simply for his effort of completely putting himself out
there, without fearing our judgement or criticism. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Talking about funny people, my husband has turned out to be
quite an amusing man too. I first fell for his constantly light mood. Next I
realized to my amazement and relief, that he was extremely comic as well. He
preserved in him a child-like allurement towards all things amusing. Fast
forward to the present, my dumbest sentences become funny when he pin-points
what’s wrong with them and spins a joke around it. His favourite show is ‘Seinfeld’
and in our spare time, we go watch stand-up comedies. He laughs at jokes that
are sometimes even too sophisticated for my comprehension and thereafter patiently
explains them to me following my quizzical expressions. In our cat-to-gossip
sessions where we babble about people, I sometimes tell him stories about
people to garner sympathy, but instead, he instantly finds them facetious and
starts laughing. My mood then changes rapidly from dull to cheerful too and I
feel a pang of love swell inside me for his breezy jocular temperament. Television
viewing is almost strictly reserved for watching ludicrous shows. The meals shared
over these shows encompass perpetual bursts of mirth. He makes me appreciate
the presence of humour in life even more and for that I am eternally thankful.
Because other than my acquired sense of humour, I am an intensely serious
person.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqNbn-RofZ4qxyJlacu-7N5aaXScz9Mc84dUKuq2MHdUWop-lTy18e_WSo1IZOWWe_pzsFgkrWEKtnzQvfU3l_14IeWHC8Lpq_lD_6tra4CeVcYnnwmNiJkIFTSbIi5pBbBnZ7/s1600/the+second+city.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqNbn-RofZ4qxyJlacu-7N5aaXScz9Mc84dUKuq2MHdUWop-lTy18e_WSo1IZOWWe_pzsFgkrWEKtnzQvfU3l_14IeWHC8Lpq_lD_6tra4CeVcYnnwmNiJkIFTSbIi5pBbBnZ7/s1600/the+second+city.jpg" /></a></div>
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When we moved to Chicago, I got the chance to make
acquaintance with a new genre of comedy shows called – Improvised Comedy. These
shows are almost similar in format to stand-up comedies, except some of their
jokes are improvised on stage from the catch-phrases and situations offered by
the live audience. Consequently, no two shows performed by the same group end
up being similar. Scenes, poems and opera songs are spun live in the presence of
guests from the words that are thrown up for the group. Various tools are
employed back-stage to equip these artists to become instantly funny. No scripts
and no pre-prepared drama is present. As my birthday gift this year, my husband
took me to Chicago’s leading improvised comedy group show called – <a href="http://www.secondcity.com/">The Second City</a>. It is an improvisational comedy enterprise, best known as the first
ever on-going improvisational theatre troupe in the United States. They are known
for the inclusion of live and improvised music during their performances. I was completely thrilled by their presence of
mind and quick wit. Mesmerized by this genre of comedy, we also got a bite of
another group called -<a href="http://fourdayweekend.com/"> Four Day Weekend</a> - in Houston, Texas. While they
weren’t quite as good as The Second City, some of their jokes did make me fall off
my chair. Jerry Seinfeld directed <a href="http://www.colinquinnlongstoryshort.com/">‘Long Story Short’</a> performed on Broadway by Colin Quinn (named ‘History of the World in 75 minutes’) is also off our
bucket list. The show was the best stand-up comedy that I think I will ever see.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNKZ_yrQjkNqdbyF7EW9dPIudH0ulXmdzhzawUaJ7Kj5-Vr5LPprihGF92ugECtEZbhcY1zqkFU8GH6gar996NwlJvapEWrNgEN5HLfaNOVGHwD-8QRtr98fF3edlqB8-zHF8G/s1600/colin-quinn-long-story-short.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNKZ_yrQjkNqdbyF7EW9dPIudH0ulXmdzhzawUaJ7Kj5-Vr5LPprihGF92ugECtEZbhcY1zqkFU8GH6gar996NwlJvapEWrNgEN5HLfaNOVGHwD-8QRtr98fF3edlqB8-zHF8G/s1600/colin-quinn-long-story-short.jpeg" height="216" width="320" /></a></div>
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The moot point remains that humour sustains me. It is the
de-stressing pill that I pop in everyday to stay in my senses. My brother makes
jokes all day, my DVR is flooded with funny recorded shows, I get gifted Calvin
and Hobbes comics by my husband and the best time of the day is when I can
share a hearty laugh with someone I like over something absurdly slapstick.
Knee-slapping wagging humour lights up my days, people with jocose natures
attract me and droll antics infinitely rule my attention spans. Like Erma
Bombeck once said,</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“When humour goes,
there goes civilization." </i>I couldn’t agree more.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>(Written as a guest post for Project 365 on the Prompt Of The Day – Funny Ha-ha: Do you consider yourself funny? What role does humour play in your life and who is the funniest person you know?)</i></b></div>
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Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-36246255379805602702014-08-21T08:29:00.003+05:302014-08-24T11:18:32.882+05:30Fifteen Credits<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPuyzAEqKDlcfqrkUUx6d6xObDuEeRjy37rYAK29WDmXyckJ7Y4j2s5hkgZlPgZPviHGXKciJaDQupek8XkbOuX3fMT8SpWQGf8IpNlSdbEZ9Z_JPedLtu7QsTu_mkk1kVUcE/s1600/113+-+2005+school+farewell+with+gayatri+devi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPuyzAEqKDlcfqrkUUx6d6xObDuEeRjy37rYAK29WDmXyckJ7Y4j2s5hkgZlPgZPviHGXKciJaDQupek8XkbOuX3fMT8SpWQGf8IpNlSdbEZ9Z_JPedLtu7QsTu_mkk1kVUcE/s1600/113+-+2005+school+farewell+with+gayatri+devi.jpg" height="252" width="400" /></a></div>
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<em>(Written on the prompt of the day for Project 365)</em><br />
<em><br /></em></div>
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'Our Utmost For The Highest' - That was our school motto. She always encouraged women to be all that they aspired to be. She started our school and shaped each one of us into what we are today. She was Maharani Gayatri Devi of Rajasthan. And it is her that I miss the most whenever I return to my alma mater, the MGD Girls School in Jaipur.<br />
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
She would kick off our academic year with her varied pearls of wisdom. I remember many a rainy day during which our school annual day fell when she would visit to address us. Every Independence Day she would hoist the national flag in the school and speak to us about regal discipline. She held a special place in my heart and continues to inspire me even today despite her being no longer in this world. We miss her!<br />
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<em>The above picture was clicked on the author's last day of school in 2005. Maharani Gayatri Devi is seen signing her passing away kurta. This was a school tradition. Even after a decade, the author still holds the kurta dear, a symbol that reminds her of the message of positivity and independence that the Maharani inspired in her and the rest of her classmates.</em></div>
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Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-67276668636765145932014-08-19T08:37:00.003+05:302014-08-19T08:38:53.314+05:30On the edge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJYip7f7ae7K9lEk6pjwlBVI1SGLDMA9jBrp9Lm1Ve6imIqivRUMKxL_cann5PkJHUC1gGsMj4GMeVeJUU90SgFJRM92nOgbJLPASnRZ2MUsD770n-zssB1bB2hTt2CuUalpyl/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJYip7f7ae7K9lEk6pjwlBVI1SGLDMA9jBrp9Lm1Ve6imIqivRUMKxL_cann5PkJHUC1gGsMj4GMeVeJUU90SgFJRM92nOgbJLPASnRZ2MUsD770n-zssB1bB2hTt2CuUalpyl/s1600/1.jpg" height="210" width="320" /></span></a></strong></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Radha was perplexed.
She didn’t know where to turn or what to do. Despite a recent job promotion,
she wasn’t happy. When she had shared the news with her husband about being
promoted from sales associate to sales manager in her small pharmaceutical
company, his excitement had been muted too. That was how they functioned as a
couple. Mostly quiet and equipped to understand each other’s silences. But
Radha wasn’t happy. For weeks now, she had been trying to figure out the cause
for her deep set resentment. Maybe, she thought, she felt hopeless because
despite having tried for over a year, she still hadn’t got pregnant. Or maybe
it was because she felt that her marriage was stuck in a rut. Nothing ever
changed and both she and Varun, her husband, stayed busy with work throughout
the week. Weekends were generally spent quietly inside the house doing chores,
with an occasional meal shared in a fancy restaurant. Radha also figured that
another cause of her glumness was her in-laws. They constantly reminded her
that her biological clock was ticking and she hadn’t borne them a grandchild
yet. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Radha didn’t know
where to look. Her husband wasn’t a great listener and generally spent all his
free time with the newspaper. Her parents did not understand her concerns and
only got worried each time she shared her despair with them. A couple of years
ago, she had been treated for chronic depression but she didn’t believe that it
could have resurfaced so soon. Radha also didn’t have close friends because
work didn’t give her much time to socialize and the few people who had been
nice to her through the years no longer spoke to her. That was because she had
managed to offend every single one of them in the years that she had spent
fighting her persistent illness. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">She, however, did not
like to see herself as a recovering maniac. Instead, her work identity defined
her now and she also saw Varun and their supposedly happy marriage as a sign of
full recovery. She never accounted for the fact that she still sometimes got
overwhelmed with the pressures of life and felt like ramming her moving car
into a solid brick wall. She also did not tell anyone that her inability to get
pregnant made her want to stab herself in the stomach. No one noticed these
tell-tale signs of another brewing psychological disorder because Radha
concealed them so well.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">One a particularly
humid Friday evening in August, Radha came home early from work. She saw
Varun’s car parked outside and was surprised to see that he had returned home from
work early too. She walked into her bedroom and was shocked to find Varun
copulating in bed with their vivacious neighbor, Kamla. Radha was flabbergasted
and ordered them both out of the house. After the screaming was done and the
door had been locked, Radha succumbed on the floor. She rolled up like a fetus
and burst out crying. The wailing and tears didn’t stop for several hours after.
She now understood Varun’s silences and knew that their marriage was effectively
over. She also understood why she hadn’t been able to get pregnant (she took it
as a sign of her body’s resistance at being impregnated by a cheating husband)
and for the first time in months, she was glad that there was no baby in the
offing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">The events that
followed happened in quick succession. She called her parents, the divorce
papers were drawn out, Varun signed them without resistance and the marriage
was over. Radha was left with their Navi Mumbai house, her job, her car and
some money in the bank account. She was now 35 years old and didn’t expect to
find another partner anytime soon. In reality, she was tired, exhausted and
felt rudely jilted. But she was also determined. Determined to find something
that would make her happy again. At this point in her life, there were no
answers. Nothing seemed to bring a smile on her face. Her parents tried and
even her office colleagues, now sympathetic to her situation, tried to make her
laugh. But to no avail. All happiness had been sapped out of Radha’s life. Her
innocence and hard-work had only got her to this crossroad. And it all seemed
like a huge, complete waste.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">And then something
changed inside her. Radha quit her job. The withdrawn provident fund money was
enough to sustain her for a few months. Before she started looking for a new
job, Radha wanted to find her meaning of happiness. She felt like she had been
pushed off a cliff and was being forced to get back on her feet again. First,
she emptied the house of all of Varun’s belongings. None of them belonged there.
Next, she reconnected with the friends that she had once scorned and apologized
for the years gone by. The tedious exercise seemed to make her feel a little
better. Next, she decided to write poems. Ever since she had been a student,
Radha had possessed a natural knack for poetry. She had tried her hand at it as
a child and amassed huge appreciation from her English teachers. So she decided
to write poems again. And it seemed to work. Out came the vitriol associated
with eight years of being married to a cheating husband. Her emotions found
expression in the words of her poems. Radha could, for the first time, speak
her mind out without being judged by anyone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“He who could not
give me a baby, he broke my heart like it was a meandering doll,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wallowed in
self-pity, and thought that it was all my fault. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">But the sunshine of
happiness dawned when he left,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">And I rediscovered
myself for what I really was inside the cubed vault.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now I sing and shine,
I celebrate everyday,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Like there is no
misery or sadness to take it all away.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Radha had found expression
in the form of poems that she didn’t particularly know what to do with. Her
parents commended her good writing and her friends appreciated her finding some
cheer again. But only Radha knew that she had finally found what she had been
looking for throughout. In Varun she had sought an understanding listener and
with her parents, she sought friends that she didn’t really have. But her poems
were the beauty that she created with her own hands every day. No deceit, no expectations,
no advice and nothing else complicated. They were the purest forms of kindness
and solace. And Radha wrapped herself with this passion for poetry-writing like
a silk worm nestles in its solid cocoon. She had found her one true calling and
she decided to keep pursuing writing even after she had found a new job.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Years went by, and true
to her words, Radha’s poetic well didn’t go dry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A collection of her short poems based around
the themes of <i>betrayal, acceptance and recovery </i>were published by a
major publishing house. The book titled ‘<i>Shadows from my </i>past’ made
Radha’s life an overnight success. Years after the bitter divorce, she was now
famous. She also received the news that Varun had attempted committing suicide.
Although he had been saved and was still alive, the right side of his body had
been paralyzed permanently. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Radha wasn’t
vindictive. But she felt redeemed by how life had turned out. She had remained
single through her success. And now, she found herself constantly happy. She
didn’t feel the urge to commit any unspoken crimes. No indescribable bouts of
crying and wallowing followed her around. She realized that it was Varun’s
presence that had kept pulling her spirits down during their marriage. And he
was far away from her now. Tied down for life to a hospital bed, unable to
move. Despite life’s justices, Radha decided not to concern herself too much
with the fate of others. She had just assumed charge of her own life and
affairs, and she wanted to make sure that no Varun ever ruined her peace of
mind again. She had found her one true love in poetry. And the poetry loved her
back. That seemed enough. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-62685104394195980812014-08-10T08:50:00.001+05:302014-08-10T08:55:21.622+05:30Moved to Tears<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQixf-7WOmSL8hKPljgM9_B2DXwQW7s7xje9QatNzMYc7FZS8YZxmzMCdzoF4sqV9BxDX_u7e9py5EE5g6NfuuCfgFG_iim_Rdhikdg2VBzETjrer0QF5P3FKg8dov7QTzDyu/s1600/Aug+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQixf-7WOmSL8hKPljgM9_B2DXwQW7s7xje9QatNzMYc7FZS8YZxmzMCdzoF4sqV9BxDX_u7e9py5EE5g6NfuuCfgFG_iim_Rdhikdg2VBzETjrer0QF5P3FKg8dov7QTzDyu/s1600/Aug+10.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Written on the prompt of the day for Project 365)</i></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As a child,
crying did not come naturally to me. Raised by loving parents and looked upon
by my two younger brothers, I was a proud child who refused to cry in public. My
place in the family was that of an elder. And to always set a good example for
my two brothers, I never let them see me cry. Well, at least almost never.
Sometimes it was inevitable. Until I turned 17, I stayed with my parents and
was never subject to the harsh realities of independently living everyday life.
Consequently, I had very few sad memories to relate to when I thought about
tears. In fact my biggest fear in those days was not to burst out laughing when
the situation demanded a serious face from me. A bad news, a friend scoring less
marks or something serious on television. It might have been the lack of
maturity or maybe I was just a happy child – either way, I never cried in movies
or when I saw something touching. When I eventually migrated from my nest in
the pursuit of college education, my experiences with the world changed. I now
saw a spade for a spade, and not an ace of diamond. My parents were not
physically present around me all the time to shield me from barbed wires of the
outside world and my collection of unpleasant memories grew. I also learnt to
cherish the presence of my parents more. Another strange occurrence happened
around this time. I learnt to cry. A lot. And that trend has only been on an
upswing since then. The older I am getting, the more emotions buried deep
inside me are surfacing. Fear, anger, anxiety and concern. As I make memories
of my own everyday as an adult, I look back at the old memories at home with
rejuvenated kindness. My eyes well up when I see a good gesture being done, and
all movies now feel like the story of my life. There is always this one
character who I can link to someone in real life and their misery & joys
become mine. I laugh and cry with them. I also make the extra effort to go out
of my way and be extra charitable towards family, friends and strangers.
Because I have seen physical proof of my generosity light up someone’s day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The last
time I was moved to tears was while going through old pictures in my family
album. There are two reasons why these pictures are immensely precious to me
now – First, because trapped in those semi-sepia frames are the moments of my
life when I was immune to pain or feelings. And second, because these pictures
remind me of golden times when we existed as a wholesome family and ‘mom and
dad’ were the key that solved all problems. A compilation of these old
pictures, along with a separated set of yesteryear pictures of my now husband,
were converted into a montage to play on the big screen at our wedding. Now,
almost two years after our big day, I still sift through these pictures to
reminisce about the jubilant times gone by. From my home in Jaipur to Delhi to
Chicago, I have come a long way and with each increasing mile that separates me
from my family, these pictures have become more precious. Out of the whole lot
that runs into hundreds of candid snapshots, I have picked four to talk about
today. These four pictures summarize the journey and offer a glance into the
world that shaped me to be a sensitive and sensible human being. With a flush
of gratitude and a look of nostalgia, I view the images of my parents in these
pictures and am moved to tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The first
picture is of my mother holding me in the hospital bed on the sixth day after
my birth. She is seen wearing a plain lilac <i>salwar-kurta </i>with a chiffon <i>dupatta</i>
covering her head. She is sitting up and has me raised in her arms and is
rubbing her nose against mine. My cousins from the house, three brothers and a
sister, who were all under ten years of age at that time, look on as they stand
on the side of the hospital bed. Mom wears a big smile on her face as she does
what she does and her eyes are looking straight at me, squinting with affection.
This picture makes me love her more because it reminds me that there will
always be this one person in the world whose face will light up when they see
me. Irrespective of how I look and what I might have done, my mother has always
been an unending sea of tenderness and fondness. Her covered head in the
picture also reflects her willingness to live by the customs that demand her to
do this gesture as a sign of respect to the elders in the house who would
invariably visit her to meet the new-born. The presence of my cousins in the
picture reflects that some of these elders might already have been present in
the hospital, accompanying these cousins, at the time that this picture was
clicked. The fact that I know that this snapshot was from the sixth day of my
birth is only because my mother remembers that by heart, justifying how easy it
is for mothers to recall even the tiniest details about their first born. The
pictures reminds me that I am the one that gladdens her heart and so it forms an
essential part of my ‘precious collection’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The second
picture in the series is one where my parents, younger brother and I are
sitting on the then-study room couch during or after what looks like a birthday
party. The picture was probably clicked in 1992 and my youngest brother had not
arrived on the scene then. Our family of four looks happy and my father is seen
holding my brother in his arms, with his face & eyes turned towards me and
giving a bright smile in my direction. He looks young and unburdened by the
troubles of life that later engulfed him. He also looks charming and consumed
by family adoration. The table in front of us holds a plate of puffed patties,
a tray with some sweet delicacy covered by a plastic sheet and something else
that looks like a white cake or pastry. Me and my brother are looking at the
camera and smiling. The grins reflect carelessness that I don’t relate easily to
now. Seated between my parents, I look loved and taken care of (my husband
makes me feel that way now, blessed I am to always have someone to love me). Mom
is smiling and talking to someone while looking down at the food on the table.
It leads me to assume that maybe she was coaxing one of the guests to eat some
more and is eager to get done with the picture and return to serving her guests.
But she looks at home and shines radiantly in an orange and rust colored silk
suit and wears a brown <i>bindi</i> as a sign of her young and fresh
motherhood. She sits cross-legged with dignity and her straight shiny hair are
loosely pinned up in a contemporary-style bun. The four of us reflect
contentment and family bliss enveloped around us. It also reminds me of how our
birthdays were always a big deal in the house. There was never a year when a
cake wasn’t cut or when the birthday boy/girl wasn’t given new clothes to wear.
Mom devised these traditions and dad supported them. Together, they gave us a
childhood where anything other than fun and naughtiness was unknown.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Which
brings me to the third picture. This is the only picture without either of our
parents in it. This picture was clicked when me and my younger brother sat on
our huge windowsill and kissed our youngest brother on the cheeks from both
sides. I think the year was 1996 and my youngest brother had finally arrived on
the scene. He is seen wearing a traditional golden <i>dhoti-kurta </i>for (maybe)
a playschool event and looks gorgeous with a smile that was his constant
companion. His hair look wet from a fresh bath and he gives a big toothy
uncontained grin as we both kiss him from either side. His eyes are turned
towards the wall on the left and he doesn’t seem to be looking at anything in
particular. My best guess is that he probably just didn’t know where to look
and is ecstatic from the sibling love being showered on him. We both hold both
his hands from either side too and smile as we lean in to kiss him. The
physical touch is indicative of the easy camaraderie that we three have always
shared. My hair are cut short and pulled back in a half ponytail. I wear a
denim dress with a crisp white sweater underneath. Maybe the picture was
clicked sometime in the winter. My younger brother dons big spectacles with a string
around them slinging them on his neck. Maybe this was the time when he had
started wearing glasses for the first time ever and wasn’t confident of not
dropping them while walking (he wears lenses now). He wears a checkered
full-sleeved shirt and brown denim pants (unlike my blue). The flash used while
clicking this picture bounces off the glass that makes our window apparent. It
appears to be dark outside and I am also seen wearing my going-out sandals. Maybe
we had just returned from the playschool event (in which case it must’ve been
oil on my little brother’s hair). Or maybe, we were just heading out. Or maybe,
it was his birthday. My mother would remember better. In either case, this
picture reminds me of the love that we three still share every day as we grew
from young kids to mature adults. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The last
picture in this series is from my 10<sup>th</sup> birthday. My youngest brother
is seen holding the knife with me and cutting the cake (a famous Ellora Bakery
made all our cakes at the time). The candles say ‘10’ and are of the colors
that remind me of yesteryears. We don’t find candles like those anymore. Shaded
pink, yellow and green from top to bottom, they used to remind me of traffic
lights. The picture is important to me primarily because of the presence of my
father in it. He has one arm wrapped around my youngest brother and another one
around me. He smiles a radiant smile and is seen holding up my forehead with
his palm, probably shielding me from the hot flames of the candles. He also gives
his fatherly learn-it-properly look as I cut the cake in a brown shirt (and
frock, not visible in the picture) that I still remember as my special 10<sup>th</sup>
birthday dress. The picture was clicked in the newly-constructed family living room
and our dining chairs wear a cloth cover that was later replaced with leather
(because the cloth tore off easily). I am seen cutting the cake with my tiny
hands, surrounded by my lovely father and brother. Around my neck is a black
thread with a locket in it (bearing the picture of a Hindu deity) that my
parents made me wear as a reminder of how never to forget god. It reflects my
obedience towards their wishes at the time. Fathers often get lesser credit than
the mothers for raising children and their important role goes unnoticed. So I
included this picture in the collection to give my dad his due credit for the irreplaceable
contributions that he made towards my growing up. My confidence stems from his
upbringing and I stand proud in all situations thanks to the self-esteem that
he drilled in my head with his constant praise and appreciation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Several
other pictures could have made it to this collection as pearls in the string of
my life. First day of school, me holding my second little brother when he was
just a year old, my crazy 15<sup>th</sup> birthday cake, my 17<sup>th</sup>
birthday which was the last that I celebrated at home before leaving for
college, etc. were all important moments that form an integral part of my
childhood. Sitting half way around the world away from my family makes me miss
them more. Their beautiful pictures make me teary eyed every time. A part of me
wants to always stay with them, while another part wants to stay close to my dear
husband. As conflicting priorities take over in life, old amber memories keep
us grounded. They keep us civil, humble and humane. Missing people is as much a
part of life as change is. People who you love but don’t live with anymore,
people who have passed away but will forever exist in your memories, people who
formed a part of your childhood like your school friends, people who you meet
later in life and who become important with passing days like college mates,
people you look up to like your mentors and teachers, people from the family
who you don’t meet very often but still choose to love, people from the family
that you marry into, your new extended families, bonds made out of love, even
new young people like nieces and nephews who arrive much later, our kids and
their own kids… the cycle of life. This cycle continues in progression and stops
for no one. Pictures remind us of all of these people. They are a medium for us
to stay attached to what is important. If you ever sit in a quiet room like me
in an empty house when your husband is at work, open an old album and shed a
tear as you sift through it… think about your crying as a means of
communicating your fondness to the ones you love. Tears are the soul’s
telepathic way of connecting to those who can hear our heart’s voice. Good
luck!</span></div>
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</div>
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Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-36723156251266028812014-07-30T20:32:00.003+05:302014-07-30T20:34:50.011+05:30Brief history of an Indian’s driving adventures in America<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<i style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US">(This post is part of a series of </span></i><i style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US">write-ups about life in America, from an Indian’s perspective who recently moved to this country)</span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ever since I was a child, I wanted to drive. I took to the
wheel very early and have been driving on the roads for over a decade now.
Driving in India was tough. Geared vehicles, heavy traffic and unruly two-wheelers.
What I never realized through those times was that the whole exercise was
preparing me to drive anywhere in the world. When we arrived in Chicago in
August 2013, the right-hand side driving intimidated me no end. We do not own a
car here, but those experiences riding in cabs rattled the day lights out of
me. I was horrified at the thought of eventually taking on the wheel and
steering myself on these roads. Unlike India, the left turn is a longer one and
the right turn is a shorter one. Your steering wheel is on the left-hand side
of the car and the fastest lane on the road is the left lane too. What scared
me more were the surplus traffic signs and instructions on every single inch of
this country. It’s all mapped out and a traffic violation can get you hefty
fines sometimes amounting to $500! Everyone strictly drives in their lanes and
the car’s odometer denotes distance in miles (and not kilometres).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So obviously, when I finally decided to take my driving test
in March this year, I was a bundle of nerves. We hired a car (with insurance –
which is a necessity for all vehicles here) and my husband gave me rudimentary
driving lessons before the real big day (he is a fantastic driver, even in the
US). I didn’t do great with the directions and my mind kept making me take
reckless left turns and long right turns. We practiced parallel parking as well.
I read and memorized the ‘Illinois – 2014 Rules of the Road’ guide by heart.
And then came the test. My documents were verified and after furnishing two
solid address proofs, came the vision test. I cleared that with ease. Next step
was the written test which also, luckily, went well. It comprised mostly of
identifying road signs and answering some questions about road safety (it’s
always safest to select the most secure option). In my preparation, I had learnt
amazing things like how everyone stopped their cars each time they saw a school
bus boarding/unboarding children. Things like the ‘right to road’ and ‘yield’
were all very important lessons for the long term. I learnt that white lane
lines meant one-way traffic and yellow center lines denote two-way traffic.
Solid yellow lines mean no overtaking and broken yellow lines mean that one can
overtake with caution. These learnings from carefully reading my road guide
helped me sail through the written test too. And then came the third and last
leg of my driving test travail. The actual driving test on the road with an
instructor. The instructor was an old, quirky guy (nothing like my gentle
lesson-giving husband) and after observing me drive for 15 long minutes, he
failed me. Yes, for the first time in my life, I had actually failed a driving
test. His reason – I was too slow. Obviously, I was gutted beyond belief. We
chose to keep the car for another day and give it one more shot (only one trial
is allowed per day). When we reached our parking spot the next morning, the car
had a parking ticket stuck to the windshield. Fine of $150. The spot didn’t
allow parking from 3am-6am. And obviously, because such a regulation was
counterintuitive, we were surprised but ended up paying the fine anyway.
Anyhow, my instructor was a friendly and warm young fellow this time who was
more than happy with my driving and didn’t even make me do the complicated
garage-reverse test. ‘I have seen enough’ is what he said. I was issued my
driving licence instantly and voila, I was now a licensed driver in America,
registered in the state of Illinois!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And thus started our most adventurous driving chronicles
ever. My husband and I decided to undertake a cross-country drive from Chicago to
New Jersey for the 4<sup>th</sup> of July holiday weekend. It involved 776
miles of driving (1249 kilometres) and cut across five states (Illinois,
Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and New Jersey). This long adventure required us to
drive for 13 hours, one-way. We started off early in the morning and switched
the driver’s seat every two hours. Leave alone driving on an expressway in
America, I had never even driven on a highway in India! The roads though turned
out to be extremely smooth and the cruise-control feature on our automatic
sedan was a god-sent. We made three pit-stops for gas (I had packed food for the
journey in advance) and were able to make it to New Jersey by midnight (you
lose an hour when you go from Chicago to NJ because of a time-zone difference.
Even within the US, four different time zones operate. Such is the magnitude of
the land monstrosity in this country). Our 10-hour drive in the day was a cake walk.
Long easy sweeps of seamless roads. Right-most lane reserved for trucks and the
remaining lanes for cars. After my initial hesitation with the speeds (you can get
a ticket if you go slower than the minimum speed limit too), I was able to gain
firm control on the wheel. The minimum expressway speed limit is set at 45mph
in most cases. The maximum is set between 70-80mph in most states too (rules
and laws changes in every state). It is however common practice to reach a
speed limit of 10mph over your permitted speed limit and set your car to cruise
control, the auto-pilot. Once you set the speed, you are almost sure that you
won’t over speed and hence save yourself the trouble of being caught by a state
trooper (term used here for a traffic cop). The state of Ohio had a state
trooper parked after almost every five miles, reading people’s cruising speeds.
The state of Pennsylvania had deep gorges and was beautiful to drive through
and click. The last three hours of our journey, however, involved driving
through the night. Those were probably the most taxing moments. Craning our
necks to follow the yellow lines blindly on the road. We passed a fog-zone too
where the windscreen totally fogged up and we had to stop to clean it up. Deer
zones were crossed too, where actual deer can actually jump out into the middle
of the road and sometimes ram into your car. Finally after both of us had
rendered stiff unbearable necks, we made it to our destination. The weekend
with family was sheer bliss. For the drive back, we made full use of the
daylight (summer days here stretch from 5am to 9pm) and didn’t have to drive at
all at night. Crazy story to tell our kids… check.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next drive happened between Houston and Dallas on a trip
to Texas. This time our car was a hatch-back and the drive was just 4-hours
long. It almost ended too soon for us and we got just 2 hours each behind the
wheel. The roads were the same stretches of butter (metaphorically, of course)
and the drive was as big a joy as the last one. Except that it was much hotter,
because this was scorching Texas.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
We now occasionally rent a car to drive around Chicago and
get chores done. My fear of driving in America has evaporated progressively
through this one year. I now find it easier and much more enjoyable than
driving in India. People are civil and no one flouts traffic rules (mostly).
911 is at your service in case you ever meet with an accident (which we
haven’t, thankfully) and the non-geared automatic cars are a delight. I have
finally made peace with right-hand side driving and having the driver’s seat on
the left-hand side of the car. I am amazed at how the road network has been so
evenly laid out all across the USA. At some places, I have seen as many as
seven fly-overs stacked one on top of another. The word ‘urbanization’ had swirled
in my head several times. My new worry is an upcoming trip to India and how I
would adjust back to driving on unruly roads with violent traffic and geared
cars. But at least I feel elated with the realization that I am now equipped to
drive easily anywhere else in the world :) A little bravado goes a long way in
liberating you from your fears. Always make the extra effort!<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-19439809870744501412014-07-28T20:37:00.002+05:302014-07-28T20:45:33.037+05:30The US Chronicles: A Welcome Pitcher of Coffee!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRjJVrzf0a9L_27aBlekyxdrtiPC4DIJ54V60mhEA5lNRYD1ijUd4-Wj887Z2s-q1QTHQaK1OiyYsf63EyK05BAJ66EC1Dg9w9fyz9117NeBC5QuQK8bydfLPgLS9SOPI_Xphp/s1600/Aug+1+-+A+Welcome+Pitcher+of+Coffee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRjJVrzf0a9L_27aBlekyxdrtiPC4DIJ54V60mhEA5lNRYD1ijUd4-Wj887Z2s-q1QTHQaK1OiyYsf63EyK05BAJ66EC1Dg9w9fyz9117NeBC5QuQK8bydfLPgLS9SOPI_Xphp/s1600/Aug+1+-+A+Welcome+Pitcher+of+Coffee.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US">(With this
post starts a series of write-ups about life in America, from an Indian’s
perspective who recently moved to this country)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It all
started with the advent of the Coffee Mania. From the day I arrived in Chicago almost a year ago, I have constantly been baffled by the number of coffee mugs consumed
by each person, per day. Across colleges and offices, the day starts with
either a strong Espresso (black coffee), Cappuccino (espresso, milk and milk
froth), Americano (a single shot of espresso added to a cup of hot water),
Caffe Latte (single shot of espresso added to three parts of steamed milk), Caf
au Lait (traditional French drink similar to caffe latter, except a weaker
form), Caf Mocha (cappuccino or caffe latte with chocolate syrup or powder) or
Caramel Macchiato (combination of espresso, caramel and foamed milk). On almost
every desk is a steaming mug of coffee, exuding delicious aromas every morning
and enticing you to buy a mug of your own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As you down
your first cup, it’s time for a refill in a couple of hours. As the day progresses
further beyond noon, out comes the post-lunch wake-up coffee. This coffee keeps
you alert and restrains you from falling asleep on your desk or work station
after a hearty meal. As evening approaches, come more mugs of coffee to keep
you focused till you wrap up and get done for the day. And there is no dearth
of coffee shops to appeal to all types of tastes. The most famous ones are of
course Starbucks, Peet’s Coffee & Tea, Caribou Coffee Company Inc., Tim
Hortons and Dunkin’ Donuts. Office-goers go here because of the ease of
accessibility. Students are found thronging these chains too and lots of coffee
is consumed over chat sessions that last several hours. Extra points go to
Starbucks for making coffee ‘cool’. Free wi-fi availability at some of these
locations make them even more appealing. Gloria Jean’s Coffee, Lavazza, Panera
Bread, Aroma Espresso Bar, PJ’s Coffee, Tully’s Coffee, Port City Java and
Coffee Beanery are some of the other chains that see mass following from daily
coffee consumers. Non-traditional coffee outlets like McDonald’s have gone the
extra mile to aggressively brand and sell their coffee as well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">To me, it sometimes
feels like drinking coffee is not merely a hobby, but a sport in America. Like
all sports, people have staunch loyalties about taste and source. Some
sophisticated elite who only have their coffee with butter and attend
coffee-tastings (the regal aura of this activity would put wine-tasting to
shame) throw a distasteful scorn at Starbucks. Their coffee preferences reflect
their cultural and social persona. For others, coffee means social
get-togethers and they are fully capable of enjoying a simple mug of Iced
Coffee and Lattes at Dunkin’ Donuts. Whatever coffee might mean to anyone, the
irrefutable truth about living in America is that you love your cuppa.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I and my
husband were in New Orleans for Christmas last year. A family member introduced
us to a new form of coffee – the Cold Brew (marketed by the New Orleans Coffee
Company). Cold Brew basically refers to the process of steeping coffee grounds
in room temperature or cold water for an extended period of time. This liquid
form of coffee needs to be kept frozen and can quickly be mixed with some water
or milk to render some lip-smacking coffee. My husband took a real liking to
Cold Brew and now my freezer is jammed with its various varieties, including
one in hazelnut flavor! Cold Brews can also be found in popular food chains
like Trader Joe’s but are a tad bit more expensive than regular coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Another
coffee find in New Orleans was America’s most popular coffee shop – Café Du
Monde (800 Decatur Street at the French Market in New Orleans, LA). We made
multiple visits to this café during our trip and invariably always ended up
waiting in queues before being seated. The joint was forever teeming with
hoards of eager tourists and coffee-lovers. Everyone wanted a chicory-laced caf
au lait and the addictive sugar-dusted beignets. Beignets are pastries made
from deep-fried choux paste (made of butter, water, flour and eggs). They are
served as a dessert in the US and come with heaps of powdered sugar mounted on top.
Warm beignets make perfect companions with hot coffee and can taste good at any
time of the day! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A survey was
conducted by Live Science, Coffee 4 Dummies and Coffee Research and released on
July 12<sup>th</sup>, 2014. It presents interesting facts about coffee consumption
in the US. The survey reveals that 54% of total Americans (over the age of 18
years) drink coffee every day. The average size of a coffee mug is 9 ounces.
The average price of an expresso-based drink is $2.45. Almost 35% of the total
coffee drinkers prefer black coffee. An average coffee drinker consumes 3.1
mugs of coffee daily. 65% coffee-drinkers added cream or sugar to their coffee.
The total amount of money spent on importing coffee to the US each year is a
whopping $4 billion! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">According
to the Huffington Post, Chicago tops the list of America’s Ten Most Caffeinated
cities. It is followed closely by New York, Seattle, San Francisco, Los
Angeles, Washington DC, San Jose, Portland (Oregon), Miami and Minneapolis. The
ranks were decided by analyzing average household spending at city coffee
shops, based on data from 20 million anonymous Visa and MasterCard holders. The
larger pictures that I am trying to paint here is that coffee consumption in
America is a serious business. Surveys are conducted to gauze coffee spends,
extensive research is undertaken to stay abreast of people’s changing taste
preferences and Starbucks remains the third most popular food chain in America
(after McDonald’s and Subway). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I somehow still
haven’t caught on to the trend. But my husband seems to have mounted the coffee
bandwagon with gusto. At work and in school, he is a loyal Starbucks patron. At
his business school, one can get a coffee refill for just $1 if they carry
their own coffee mug. Each time I sit with him to audit a class (spouses have
the liberty to do that here), students all around us have their proud coffee
mugs mounted on the tables. Breakfast can be skipped but skipping coffee is a
strict no-no. Professors sometimes have coffee mugs of their own perched
perilously at the edge of their lectern. My sense of wonder and amazement
refuses to die down. I still relate more easily to cup of tea<i> </i>than I do
the addictive mug of coffee. But that hasn’t stopped me from looking up and
experimenting with creating different coffee tastes in my own kitchen. I am far
from good at being a competitive coffee chef, but I do hope to catch on one
day. Till then, Starbucks <i>zindabaad.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-31443040371170481012014-06-08T18:35:00.000+05:302014-06-09T02:20:57.649+05:30Small dreams and simple hopes (A short story)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Nandu didn't know how it felt to have a full stomach after a sumptuous meal. Life was not very kind to an insignificant washer-man in a small city like Lucknow. And Nandu's life had been spent first helping his mother wash other people's clothes (while his alcoholic father spent all their money on his addiction), and later taking on the job full-time when his mother's bodily strengths had given way to illness and old-age. He tried to stay mellow and that had now become a habit. Nandu had learnt to smile in the face of adversity because growling had never seemed to help anyone in his situation.<br />
<br />
His marriage has turned out badly too. His wife, still in the trance of her old lover, had not birthed him a child and left him when he tried to coax her into having one. His second wife was a divorcee herself, and thankfully, they hit it off as seamlessly as a round <i>roti</i> fits perfectly on a circular black <i>tawa</i>. Nandu and Kanta had built a happy life together. After delivering one girl and two boys, Kanta decided to help Nandu with his work as well.<br />
<br />
The couple would set off each morning (Kanta would carry their kids with her) to the various households that had employed them. Nandu would attend to half of them and Kanta would attend to the other half. Scores of unwashed clothes from the previous day would first be soaked in water plus detergent in big buckets typically found in all Indian homes. While the clothes got soaked, Nandu would wash cars for extra money and Kanta (in her own other separate house of work) would make small-talk with the lady of the household. Then they would wash the clothes and hang them out on clothing lines to dry. Both would meet to eat the lunch that Kanta would pack for them and then disperse again to return to their respective houses and iron out the bundles of clothes from the previous day. In the evening, they would set out together to go home and prepare their meals.<br />
<br />
On a particularly warm day on a June afternoon, Nandu had to attend to his sick mother. So Kanta decided to manage the day's workload alone. She dressed up in a plain red cotton <i>saree</i> (a proud sign of her happy marriage), put a big round maroon<i> bindi </i>on her forehead, cooked some <i>rotis </i>for lunch and headed out to wash clothes with her youngest son on the hip, and another boy and a girl (her two older kids) walking behind her holding her <i>saree pallu</i>. Kanta was a strong-headed, sharp woman. Instead of feeling pressured by the rigours of daily routine work, she enjoyed the time away from home. She also enjoyed making some money of her and helping out her husband, and had learned to treasure her conversations with the primary women in the houses that she worked in. These women were her window to an affluent life that she could never afford. Their stories about their children's troubles in school, the tiffs with their husbands over money matters and their concerns about nosey relatives were Kanta's staple food for thought. She liked these conversations perhaps much more than any other aspects of work and with that motivation, she continued to make long strides towards the houses.<br />
<br />
Midway during her morning work, Kanta realized that today was her and Nandu's wedding anniversary. It had been 5 long years since they had tied the knot in a quiet ceremony attended by only a few relatives (Indians are known to exhibit lukewarm, squirmish feelings about second marriages). And yet, Kanta held the day close to her heart because it had made a huge difference to her otherwise sullen life. Her first husband used to beat her and pushed her out of the house after returning home drunk one night. In the scuffle that followed, he had hurt Kanta so bad that she had to be hospitalised later for a dislocated shoulder. It was then that she had decided to do something about the situation. When she threatened him with a police complaint after getting home a few days later, he had poked her with cigarette holes and revealed having an affair with someone he knew for several years. A heartbroken Kanta had then filed for divorce (after much condemnation from her relatives) and her subsequent marriage with Nandu had been a god-sent. Unlike her previous husband, Nandu was jolly and looked forever happy, no matter what the situation. Leave alone hitting her, he never even raised his voice to scold her. Having finally attained a marital bond worth nurturing and a husband who treated her well, Kanta deeply valued her relationship with him.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl5FuwZmdDoW1DmNs278gMbG3Xn78kr3xJtpljfVzFPEAkhrCkHZc_ypDy1BDZBVjDc_eTAveYixF2tJR2Ej62bYyDXGAxvej755K694MIb8XuOT9Tf5zVpAY3vFEMFb67_HEf/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl5FuwZmdDoW1DmNs278gMbG3Xn78kr3xJtpljfVzFPEAkhrCkHZc_ypDy1BDZBVjDc_eTAveYixF2tJR2Ej62bYyDXGAxvej755K694MIb8XuOT9Tf5zVpAY3vFEMFb67_HEf/s1600/2.jpg" height="264" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
She wanted to make the anniversary special for Nandu. So after washing and ironing what felt like truckloads of clothes (the domestic banter did help her immensely in passing the day. The regular tea that people offered to her in the evening helped too), Kanta went to the house-mistress of the last house that she had ironed clothes in and asked her if she had any leftover food from the day. Luckily, the woman had huge quantities of food left in her fridge from the meals of today and the day before, which she was more than happy to offload on Kanta (people generally liked Kanta for her affable and friendly disposition). The leftover <i>subzis </i>made Kanta very happy. In reality, with the responsibility of three young kids, the couple could barely make ends meet. On most nights, they would just eat raw onions with <i>roti </i>because buying vegetables was expensive. Nor did they own a refrigerator to save the produce for the next day.<br />
<br />
At around 7 in the evening, Kanta tied the tiny polythene bags containing the left-over <i>subzis </i>in a fold of the <i>saree</i> at her waist and picked up her three kids to make her way back home. The sun was almost down and the sweltering hot ground had now turned partially cool in the wake of the evening breeze. Kanta knew that on days like today, Nandu would only come back after putting his mother to sleep at around 9 pm, and so she had plenty of time to bathe, put the kids to bed and set out the food for him. At home, when she finally opened the tiny polythene bags to look at the food that had been doled out to her, she was happy to see small portions of residual <i>shahi paneer, butter chicken</i>, <i>dal palak</i> and some <i>rajma </i>in a thick creamy gravy. The last <i>subzi </i>looked like a left-over from a restaurant meal that the family must have had together sometime on the weekend. The others looked home-cooked and were still a bit cold from being extracted from the fridge.<br />
<br />
Kanta did as she had planned. She took a quick bath, fed her kids and put them to bed. Then she made some fresh <i>rotis </i>for Nandu and lay them out on the floor with the now-heated <i>subzis</i>. The family didn't have much furniture besides a bed which all five of them shared. They often just dined on the floor with a newspaper laid out as a mat. Their 'house' was actually just one big room with a kitchen stashed on one side and a bed on another. The toilet was a dingy small room outside and they took their baths behind a small wall partition alongside the house and the toilet. It wasn't much, but the family could make do.<br />
<br />
True to his habit, Nandu returned at five minutes past 9, looking tired and worn-out. Taking care of his mother was not an easy task and it drained him off all his energy every time. He first cooked for her, then bathed her, took her to the doctor, bought her medicines, fed her and finally put her to bed. She lived in an even smaller house in the same locality and was now alone, after her alcoholic husband had passed away two years ago from severe liver damage.<br />
<br />
The sight of Kanta sitting on the floor, waiting for him with food , instantly cheered Nandu up. He did love this woman who would wait each night for the kids to fall asleep to share dinner with him. Kanta looked clean and fresh, dressed in a new pink <i>saree </i>that she had recently bought for her sister's engagement. Nandu approached her, cleaned up quickly in the kitchen sink, and sat down next to her. They both finally shared a hearty meal together and talked about their respective days. Both shared details of their work and conversations, and after finishing the meal, Kanta slowly reminded him of their fifth <i>saal-giraah.</i> Nandu blushed a little and kissed her gently on the cheek. He wished her and slowly began to help her with clearing up the dishes. He was happy because his wife had remembered their anniversary and made an effort to put together a nice meal for him. He wore a smile too because his stomach was finally full with delectable food after months of eating just onions and <i>rotis</i> (with <i>achaar</i>)<i> </i>for dinner<i>.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
As the couple returned to bed to squeeze in alongside their three sleeping kids, Nandu turned to face Kanta and slowly pulled out a small package from his trouser pockets. It looked like a newspaper wrapped around something small. Kanta removed the crumbling paper slowly to find a dozen bright, red bangles staring back at her. They were plain in appearance and wore the hallmark of simplicity that she now associated with her husband. Her eyes welled up when she realised that Nandu must have sneaked out quietly after the doctor's appointment to visit the marketplace nearby to buy her this gift. With tears dripping down her cheeks, she wore the bangles on her wrists and wrapped her arms around Nandu as a sign of loving gratitude. The couple held on to each other in the stillness of the night and quietly repeated their vows in each other's ears. After that, they slowly drifted back to peaceful sleep... knowing that the circle of life was now complete with their companionship and their three beautiful kids...</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-53776044409097107302014-06-07T03:27:00.001+05:302014-06-07T03:35:49.101+05:30The hand of fate (a short story)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The sun was
still up when she left the office. Summers in Delhi were brutal and the
sunlight was still sharp well past 6 in the evening. Dressed in a simple lilac <i>chooridaar
</i>suit, with a white silk dupatta around her neck, Lakshmi walked in slow,
tired strides towards her car<i>. </i>Her <i>jaipuri jootis </i>felt clammy
under her feet and she had already broken into a sweat from the short walk from
the office to her vehicle. With bulky files in one hand and car keys in
another, she finally settled down into the driver’s seat and revved up the
engine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Grooooom…</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> started her silver Honda Civic like
an obedient servant. As Lakshmi slowly steered her way out of the crowded parking
lot, she shot a quick glance at the imposing office building. Amidst the
several floors and cubicles that it encompassed, she occupied a small desk as
the Marketing Associate for a leading FMCG company on the 10<sup>th</sup> floor.
Lakshmi liked her work, but on days like today after several meetings and a multitude
of tiring conversations, she felt drained and completely bereft of energy. This,
despite the knowledge that it was the earliest that she had left work in
months.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">At home waited
no one in particular. A rusty apartment in a crowded locality in Delhi –
Lakshmi’s house by characterized by crummy walls, chipped paint, stained
curtains, an empty fridge and a hardly-used kitchen. She lived alone and her <i>kaam-wali
bai </i>came to clean and wash every morning before Lakshmi left for work. The
apartment was once plush, but the lack of maintenance had reduced it to its sad
state of unkemptness.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The
relationship that Lakshmi shared with her <i>bai</i> was one of the few that
she could sustain at this point in her life. At the age of 32 years, without a
husband or a child, life anyway didn’t come easy for Lakshmi. When she had
graduated from business school several years ago, her parents had dreamt big
dreams for her. But when the pressures of rigorous jobs (and living alone)
consumed her, Lakshmi had found solace in the company of a man. A man who had later
got her pregnant and then refused to share a part of the blame and
responsibility. After he broke her heart on a rainy winter evening and left her
to fend for herself, Lakshmi had decided to build a life alone. But
an abortion had became imminent, and after wilfully losing her child to a
callous surgical procedure, Lakshmi had lost a part of herself too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3yWCbadbLVUHeihFmM1j5ArfONVDDLTbYavotpCDhDJcp-S4pqah7gN77Id9Rsd08Gpwbc36HkJIYA6b9te3th_cXgDBX6ZvTFhSqcTFkjJWRdc46iWTG-m1k48867V5z1BBL/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3yWCbadbLVUHeihFmM1j5ArfONVDDLTbYavotpCDhDJcp-S4pqah7gN77Id9Rsd08Gpwbc36HkJIYA6b9te3th_cXgDBX6ZvTFhSqcTFkjJWRdc46iWTG-m1k48867V5z1BBL/s1600/1.jpg" height="320" width="251" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She no
longer wished to engage in the daily mundaneness of regular life. Nor did she make friends, continued to stay wary of men and falling in love, refused to engage
in household work and seemed to have lost all interest in even cooking square
meals for herself. Directing all her efforts towards her job, Lakshmi had found
a vent for her simmering rage through the way of work. And on days like today
when she could leave office earlier than usual, Lakshmi slipped into glumness and dark
contemplation. Her mind would travel back to her poor lost child, and with it
the lost opportunities, and she would start judging herself through the prism
of a miserably failed motherhood. She thought it was the hardest burden to
carry, and consequently, she occasionally lapsed into brief spells of
depression and severe self-criticism.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As she drove
her Civic for a few kilometers and entered a busy market area of the city, she
looked around on a red traffic signal to distract herself from her dreary
thoughts. Her eyes fell upon a mother scolding her two children for demanding ice-cream
each time they saw a vendor. A part of Lakshmi’s stomach churned with over-bearing
longing and she thought about how different life would have been if she had
decided to keep the baby and raised it alone. But Lakshmi knew that she didn’t
have the courage to brave the constant sneers of the society, and she tore her
eyes away from the angry mother and looked ahead, waiting for the
light to change to green. And thankfully, with the signal, changed her pathetic
mood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">After 30
more agonizing minutes of weaving her way through the crowded market traffic,
Lakshmi hit the expressway, but was still half hour away from home. The subsequent easing away
of the brief spell of road-rage gave way to a pregnant silence, and soon
Lakshmi was sucked again into the melancholy mood that continued to gnaw on her insides.
No more traffic jams or car horns were around to distract her from succumbing
to her now persistent inner unrest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She knew that
deep below, she was very upset. Still hurt and dejected by the betrayal of the
man that she once loved with all her heart. Three years had passed since the
tragic events, and he was even married to someone else now. What was worse, was that his wife
was expecting a baby in just three months. Lakshmi knew all this because she had
never stopped stalking him. Sometimes on social media and sometimes through her
friends, she knew where he lived and what he was up to most of the time. Even though
he made much less money than she did now, he at least appeared to be happy. And that tore
Lakshmi apart because she felt alone in bearing the brunt of hardship stemming from the loss of their child and relationship. She constantly lived with the guilt of having exhumed
an innocent life because of her cowardly lack of options, even as the man of her
dreams who was responsible for the loss continued to live like nothing had
happened. She felt tortured and slighted by his ignorance and according to her
- his cold apathy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Something
turned inside of her at the thought of her past lover’s unborn child, and the
bright future that lay ahead for the baby, and the unfairness of it all screamed
out at Lakshmi & ran its pointy fingers on the walls of her fragile heart.
The pain in her gut became unbearable to carry and out of nowhere, she decided
to turn the car and give a piece of her mind to the unassuming scum-bag. While
her purple <i>jhumkas </i>made slight chiming noises along the small bumps in the
road, Lakshmi made a rough change of gears, and suddenly steered right to make a
U-turn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And then it
happened. BAM!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Aftermath:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When an
eye-witness was asked for his testimony about what he had seen, he narrated that a furious looking woman had suddenly changed lanes at high speed
on a dangerous express-way, and had been hit by a truck coming from behind her
car. The hood of the truck had rammed straight into Lakshmi’s car door, and the
light of life had almost immediately been sucked out of her as a rod of steel
tore through her brain. Her frozen face now wore an expression of frigid
horror, like it had never recovered from the sight of the approaching truck.
The grotesque creases on her body almost told the story of a life full of
disappointments and injustices. Her story of loneliness and betrayal seemed to
have come to a sudden, but fitting end, in the savage accident. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The eye
witness, of course, had only seen an ordinary woman die in an unfortunate
accident. But on a deeper level, fate had dealt its final blow to Lakshmi and
taken away whatever little remained in her puny hands. Her struggles with life
had come to an abrupt end and maybe her soul had finally been reunited with her
unborn child. The child - that was the only source of light (and darkness alike) in her now extinguished life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The next
day when the <i>bai </i>knocked on Lakshmi’s door to clean the house, no one answered. The forever grieving and lonely Lakshmi didn't live there anymore...</span></div>
</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-55570491654642463072014-05-23T20:16:00.000+05:302014-05-23T20:33:17.995+05:30Why an Indian sitting in America can still worry about the country<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihaf-xbPL140uY-f1A7F51orA60eX_eAuRmrneHbNS_2wb0PhSMLAfjaMIjaCYGyCkQNNgrx4IldcqDrbL5paRMXUlAdbME7rR1OTuiA2XhKL3RytuNDHk-4rlU4_oQwYlGZeB/s1600/india.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihaf-xbPL140uY-f1A7F51orA60eX_eAuRmrneHbNS_2wb0PhSMLAfjaMIjaCYGyCkQNNgrx4IldcqDrbL5paRMXUlAdbME7rR1OTuiA2XhKL3RytuNDHk-4rlU4_oQwYlGZeB/s1600/india.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">After
several discussions with friends about Indian General Elections 2014 and the
rise of the ‘chosen one’, I obviously realized that people had their own strong
views about governance. For the people who supported our next PM (which was a
majority), I heard several arguments about why he was the man for the moment.
While I gave a patient ear to all that they had to say, I wasn’t particularly
convinced about a lot of other things that were being said. Being a journalist,
I stuck to my stand of objectivity. But to my utter surprise (and not a pleasant
one), some close friends came out and said that I shouldn’t be concerned about
India while I enjoy my ‘comfortable’ stay in the US. This post is for those
people who lost the debate the minute they brought up this argument.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I am an
Indian citizen with an Indian passport. Till I renounce my citizenship and take
an oath to be a US citizen (or any other citizen for that matter), no
individual has any business telling me that I shouldn’t have opinions about
India. Whether I live in the United States or Timbuktu, I will always have a
stake in what’s going on in my country because it will always affect me
directly. Whenever I decide to return to my country, and ‘my’ is the keyword
here, I will have to face the political going-ons that would affect my life on
a daily basis. Even if I live elsewhere, I have a sense of ownership over India.
My family lives there. My life exists there. My bearings lie there. And I shall
have as many opinions as I had back when I lived there about politics, leaders,
elections… and whatever else happens under the big blue sky in India. Don’t
tell me that it’s not my business. I give credence to your arguments for as
long as you give me rational ones. The minute you say I can’t have opinions
because I live abroad, you have crossed the line and stepped into my personal
space. And you can then expect barbed attacks back about your pettiness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I also
worry about Indian politics because I am a journalist and that is my sphere of
work. After spending years bringing election results and political doings to
you on your television screens, I have developed a big appetite for governmental
opinions. An even bigger appetite for showing the correct place to people
who sound brainwashed by one political party and forget all objectivity and
thrust their views down your throat – was an obvious aftereffect. You are the
people who bring the country down. Your blind faith voted the UPA 2 to power
five years ago. When you now scream allegiance to the BJP, I see you as a loser
who knows nothing better than backing the winning horse. You have no sense of
direction and no barometer to check the feasibility of your politician. You
pick up one issue (economic growth this time) and chose to turn a blind-eye to
everything else (including a politician’s past). You close your eyes to reason
and give all types of arguments to glorify your point of view and vilify
anything else that stands in your way. You try to look sorted, but you are not.
Hence you raise your voice and find solace in being rude. You try to look
selfless (‘my candidate will work to improve my country’s economy’) when
actually you are very selfish (do right to equality and expression not matter
in your books?). And when you run out of all your little arguments, you start attacking
people’s personal space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Third
argument, <b>my global image</b>. Anywhere
I go in the world, I am branded as an Indian. Which I am and which I am proud
of. First, no politician will tell me that I should move to Pakistan because I
care for a certain group of people (its called humanity). Secondly, no person
should forget that whatever happens in India today will affect the way people
perceive me (or you) living (or travelling) anywhere else in the world tomorrow.
When the horrible attacks of 9/11 happened, the Muslims living in the US had
done nothing to abet them. And yet, these were the same people who had to deal
with stone-pelting on
their houses, death threats to their children, sporadic arrests by the
authorities for 'questioning' and 'random' checks at airports for all brown people (the malice still continues). So yes, I am concerned about what happens in my
country. Because it affects me more personally more than it affects you. Because
that becomes my identity the minute I step out of the country. I am seen as
an Indian everywhere I go in world and so all matters Indian are very much my
business.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And lastly,
I shall not have my own countrymen treat me like an alien. It’s unacceptable.
No one tells me where my heart lies. You only show age-old stereotypes by
saying that I lead a ‘comfortable’ life here. You know nothing about my life,
so save the branding. And maybe upgrade your world-views and step out of that narrow
alley you call your mind. It’s not doing you any good and it certainly seems to have no grey matter in it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So YES, I
will continue to have as many views about Indian politics as I want. Close your
eyes and ears if you don’t like them. Run away and never look back like an
ostrich if it bothers you. But don’t try to smother my views on the pretext
that I don’t physically live there. Because honestly, where I live is none of
your business. Maybe find more solid
arguments for your debate next time and don’t harp on your own insecurities and
stoop to the extent of making personal attacks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-13735281964361223412014-04-14T19:42:00.000+05:302014-04-14T19:42:31.497+05:30Inexorable allure of (grocery) shopping!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As a woman trapped in a quagmire of no job or kids, you learn to find solace in the softer pursuits of life. Vanilla things like apartment decoration, shopping to expand your clothing (and shoes) wardrobe, being an extensive part of other people's lives and happiness... and of course, being in the supermarket. The allure of those grandly-lit, bright and inviting shelves stocked up with a huge variety of utilitarian products and produce. Every time you feel the urge to spend, but don't have enough cash to splurge on fashion, you enter - the supermarket!<br />
<br />
For me, its a mid-way option between not shopping at all and spending excessively on fashion that will (as the name suggests), go out-of-fashion soon. Grocery shopping is the fence-sitter's vent to spending without feeling guilty (because the purchases will eventually be used around the house). It still allows you to swipe that credit card, without feeling like you just burnt an unnecessary hole in your husband's pocket.<br />
<br />
In my household, grocery shopping is a task specifically reserved for me. Primarily because of two reasons - one, it lets me be in control of the products and brands that enter my house. And two, because it fulfils my basic need of shopping as a lady. Multiple trips to the supermarket to pick up one item at a time (like a $2 carton of milk) has kept me from spending hundreds of dollars on fashion. That would be a selfish buy to temporarily excite my inner-demon who always wants to look good.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2CHc9VnjPXrzJRt07yAPI_oSsw1v6UTSDS5k3K1jke3bVWND3n8JDGcs0v0RJBMtZqaLK1xIKwt73rTescu30dpNXOSEBBHyyU_8LhQBmuck8df3DHmIi_gI37Fato-iBtC6S/s1600/shop.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2CHc9VnjPXrzJRt07yAPI_oSsw1v6UTSDS5k3K1jke3bVWND3n8JDGcs0v0RJBMtZqaLK1xIKwt73rTescu30dpNXOSEBBHyyU_8LhQBmuck8df3DHmIi_gI37Fato-iBtC6S/s1600/shop.jpeg" height="172" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
America is a very consumer-centric market. If you have cash, the economy will give you at least 2000 ways to spend it, without even leaving your house (phone servicing, smartphone apps, Amazon, virtual online showrooms). Ever since I have arrived here, my mailbox (real AND digital) has been overflowing with discount offers from my favorite stores (Francesca's, Victoria's Secret, etc. - guess they found my address from my Cosmopolitan subscription). Sales seem to go on throughout the year and the allure to purchase is almost impossible to resist. Models wearing smashing pastels and sunglasses are thronging my vision through the spring catalogues and brochures that have already found a way inside my mailbox. Given all the incentive, I have to resort to grocery shopping to curb the natural instinct to buy.<br />
<br />
In retrospect, my biggest fashion binges have centred around the years that I have spent working. If its my own money, I don't think twice before buying that LV bag that looks so crisp and professional. Problem starts when I am playing the role of a dependent. With a husband that barely even raises an eyebrow to my impulsive shopping, my inner moral instincts kick me harder each time I decide to please myself with shopping.<br />
<br />
So all you women out there, if you have limited depth in your pocket (which would be most of us - considering you also worry about 'menial' things like savings and retirement) but an overriding impulse to purchase, try the magic formula of grocery shopping! It will keep you in the market, you still get to experience retail therapy by browsing the huge shelves and working to get to your item, you also still get to spend a few bucks and swipe that card - WITHOUT the flood of guilt at the end of it all. This arrangement works all too well to postpone that next big, expensive fashion buy. Until a sunnier day!</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-42772291622781392242014-02-07T04:11:00.001+05:302014-02-07T04:11:49.989+05:30The Pushkar Syndrome<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Minister of
State for Human Resource Development Shashi Tharoor’s wife, Sunanda Pushkar
Tharoor, was recently found dead in Delhi’s posh Leela Hotel. The incident
happened after a public spat between Sunanda Tharoor and Pakistani journalist
Mehr Tarar over the latter’s alleged ‘stalking’ of Shashi Tharoor. After the war broke out on Twitter,
and between the day that Sunanda allegedly committed suicide, she gave a bunch
of television interviews about what went into the making of the all-out spat.
Clearly upset over the accusations of spoiling her husband’s career with her
constant shenanigans, Sunanda might have decided to end her life (and I say
‘might’ because whether it was a suicide still hasn’t been proven and the
needle of suspicion hangs on her influential husband Shashi Tharoor).<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This is not
just Sunanda’s story. Scores of women have given up their successful careers
and bright lives to play accomplice to their husband’s achievements and success.
Some are fortunate to have men who do not stray, but alas, some others bear the
brunt of the indiscretions of their men. I am not, however, suggesting that Sunanda
did the right thing by committing suicide. I mean why rid the man so easily of
his crimes by ending your own life? Heard of nasty divorces and hefty alimonies,
anyone? Remarriage too and living a normal life. But the larger point that I am
trying to make is that women seem to get the rough end of the deal in case a
marriage falls apart due to infidelities (committed by either side). If lord
forbid their husbands decide to cheat on them in a ‘weak moment of temptation’,
some take it so hard that it ends the way the third-time marriage fairytale
ended for Mrs Tharoor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The saga
leaves no strata of women untouched. Talking about the rich and the famous –
the category to which Sunanda Pushkar Tharoor belonged to – former players
include Hillary Clinton (survived the Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky sex
scandal), Huma Abedin (wife of American politician and infamous ‘sexter’
Anthony Weiner), Elin Nordengren (Tiger Wood’s wife) and most recently Valerie
Trierweiler (the French President’s wife). The list includes many more and goes
on to prove that wealth and fame are no safeguards against the feeble minds of
men. Further, there are more layers of women involved in this mental form of
injustice. Think about the category of the bored middle class. Tired of their
routine lives, they seek solace outside their home with the petty premise of
jigging up their world. When their indiscretions come to light, someone has to
pay the price. And this price is most often paid by the women. In the poor
world, these things are more commonplace and rampant. In some cases, wife is
the sole breadwinner too and still faces adultery and constant verbal &
physical abuse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So why do
Sunanda’s of the world have to lose their lives? To put it narrowly, why do
smart and intelligent women wrap their lives around their husband’s little
finger? Why do they seek joy in their joys and sadness and in their sorrows and
forget what defines them as individuals, separate from the logistics of their
husband’s life? Why do they cover up their husband’s crimes (the IPL scandal in
Sunanda’s case) and why do they decide to pick up fights with other women wrecking
their marriage instead of first sorting out things at home? Conversely, another
way to think about this is, why do men give acknowledgements in the form of ‘To
the love of my life, and the life of my love, Sunanda’ on the first pages of their
books (Tharoor’s Pax Indica) to their ‘beloved’ wives and then give them so
much reason to worry? They are fully at fault for first leading their wives
into believing that they are ‘the one’ and then letting their interest get
weaned away by the endless lusts of the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">How
difficult is it to stay faithful anyway? And if for some reason, the object of
your affection changes, how difficult is it to call it quits before jumping on
to your next bandwagon of (flimsy) trust? Why do people not see the merits of
simplifying and de-cluttering their lives? How do some women manage to stay in
rotten marriages for the sake of their societal status or kids? When did the
world we live in get so hostile and unbearable? And why do poor Sunanda’s have
to exist and then suddenly cease to exist at a whim?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Her demise
probably came down the hardest on the one person that she clearly forgot the
accord some thought to - her son. To lose a mother and then face the public
humiliation after the former loss of his (real) father is a bruise big enough
to shade the rest of his life. Do women who choose to end their lives over men
realize how much they hurt the people around them who actually love them and
value them for who they are? It’s always easier to leave the path when the
going gets tough and to take the easy exit out. But the path of righteousness,
resistance and resilience is far more rewarding than what’s easy in the moment.
History seems to suggest that once a man is proven to be a cheater, that side
of his personality never seems to go away. One girlfriend after another and one
wife after another, all are subject to the same callousness as the previous, disguised
in the politely camouflaged excuse of ‘the charm of love wearing off’. Kings
and queens and prime ministers and presidents and sportsmen (sadly these are
the only people whose stories stick around long enough in public conscience)
have proven by means of their lives that infidelity is an affliction - an
incurable disease. Then why do women choose suicide over the drama of seeing
their men break the hearts (in due course) of the women that they once picked
over them?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As we
lament the demise of another pretty face (and in India, it almost feels like a
crime to be above average in looks – cause people then see you as a picky,
narcissistic, dumb human), we also realize that women seriously need to rethink
the choices that they make. Nobody asks you to leave your previous lives in the
charms of that one new man who has swept you off your feet. If you are
incapable of reading your man’s intentions in advance and subsequently
ill-equipped to deal with the collapse of your union, please at least hold your
careers and family close to you. Because when one door closes, another one can
fully absorb your being (like soft cushions softening blows and shocks). If
only you give them a chance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">P.S. I like
Shashi Tharoor’s writings and liked his tenure at the UN. I rooted for him as
he contested for the post of undersecretary. I still like his views on India
and the world. But I would be lying if I say that the whole Sunanda Pushkar
Tharoor episode hasn’t taken away some charm (and maybe respect, but who am I
to judge) away from the old man. The situation could have been dealt with
better. If it had been, then one innocent life (even if a little extra
emotional and attached) could have been saved. We lament and pray in unison for
the innocent departed soul.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0UVtdp2W-jIAJm8LstmuhlpOR-d0bbL_kT3xT2I6Yfw5jjpUGDN93CL8SYKnIConjTns62SrT4fbUdTh8bOlVMSwjiH2zM2xkg9L7ibJ7RN1vuRuDpK9n1sbGRwwZWhcY3-34/s1600/broken-marriage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0UVtdp2W-jIAJm8LstmuhlpOR-d0bbL_kT3xT2I6Yfw5jjpUGDN93CL8SYKnIConjTns62SrT4fbUdTh8bOlVMSwjiH2zM2xkg9L7ibJ7RN1vuRuDpK9n1sbGRwwZWhcY3-34/s1600/broken-marriage.jpg" height="320" width="257" /></a></div>
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Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-18163360438412257062014-01-06T06:02:00.002+05:302014-01-06T06:07:45.512+05:30The problem with time is…<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Sxt049fwQp01rpyi-OHUN2s5VfK5eoJZ_kVPvKVPUVCaUpM81fha8Hj-gzggZxGimJRN3vuwGuXmkHrSzyTAjo9ri0sxGHm4tDcmMYrkIqsqrPYnvUCOBiCkZuOb7Tec7iyI/s1600/time-travel2-photo-courtesy-of-junussyndicate-on-deviantART.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Sxt049fwQp01rpyi-OHUN2s5VfK5eoJZ_kVPvKVPUVCaUpM81fha8Hj-gzggZxGimJRN3vuwGuXmkHrSzyTAjo9ri0sxGHm4tDcmMYrkIqsqrPYnvUCOBiCkZuOb7Tec7iyI/s1600/time-travel2-photo-courtesy-of-junussyndicate-on-deviantART.jpg" height="203" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This existential
question arises and haunts everyone at some point in their lives - the actual problem
with time. Is there really a problem with time? When do we start feeling it? Is
it truly a concept or just a myth? What is the problem with time in the first
place? Well, here’s the answer. The problem with time is – that there is just
too much of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Who are the
people who don’t feel it? Young students, young professionals, new couples, young
parents, and basically all people young. Too much to do in too little time, too
many things to accomplish in a constant adrenaline rush. Time is an essential
and handy commodity in their lives. And they never seem to have enough of it.
Students don’t seem to have enough time before exams to study. Young
professionals are so busy earning money that they have no time for friends or
family or leisure. Young couples are so much in love that life is a steady breeze
of happiness and joy. No full stops and no ends. Young parents barely have time
to look in the mirror, let alone sleep! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So who are
the poor ones who feel that there is enough time in life for everything? Well,
we’ll start with the next stages in life for all of the people mentioned above.
Students graduate, professionals feel burnout and decide to take it slow,
couples get old and boring, kids grow up and young parents don’t feel young
anymore when time seems to stretch on endlessly as they wait for their kid to
get back home from a night-out with friends. But there is also this other breed
to people who feel that there is ample time in life to live, love and flourish.
Those stuck in a time-travel spectrum, where their spouse is super busy and
they are super free. There are also those who have retired from their jobs and
are trying to find new meaning and a newer purpose in life. Then there are
those who are sick and out of activity, those who can’t seem to know what to do
with their time. There are the elderly whose kids have grown up and now have
their own families demanding their own priorities. As they come in terms with
their decreased utility in life, they find newer ways and newer places of
solace (mostly in religion and same-aged company) to fill their time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">What
happens when time comes to a naught? Let us not confuse this concept with the
lives of people who seems to have developed routines. A ‘routine’ is the
anti-dote to boredom and the endlessly stretched passages of time. Routines are
developed to fight loneliness, unproductiveness and monotony. It is also the
best thing to ever happen to someone who can’t seem to find a direction amidst
all the extra time and space. Routine is what keeps strays from becoming strays.
Routine regulates life and it ultimately also leads to more successful
outcomes. But despite all the benefits, routine is boring and hard to embrace.
For those who do, life is easier to sail through as compared to those others
who seek their daily doses of thrill, excitement and change.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So what
does one do (with a lot of time) to fill up that routine chart? Well that
mostly depends on your age, interests and lifestyle. But some generic tips
never fail for work. First, find company. Find similar people who are stuck at
a similar place in life like you. Talk to them, share your feelings with them,
bond with them socially and try to do activities together. A vacation, an
evening walk, a daily 30-minute chat session, meet up at a bar, or meet up at
the local library or grocery store. But do meet up. And talk away the blues
(this trick seems to work with both genders alike).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Second,
fall in love with your own company. Lucky are those few who have learnt this
lesson early on in life. But those who are taught this the hard way in later stages
- worry not! It’s never too late to fall in love with yourself. Engage yourself
in intelligent thoughts, read good material, enrich that brain, watch good
television programming, work out and keep yourself healthy, pamper yourself,
invest money in looking good and good clothes, save for retirement, take health
care seriously – it is only when you enjoy your own company and accord due
respect to yourself that other will do the same and follow suit. Carve out some
me-time every day to get into the habit of loving yourself. Don’t be afraid of
spending time alone. If you can harden yourself up to the challenge once, it
will become a lifetime asset.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And lastly,
have fun. Enjoy whatever you do. It could be travelling, reading, catching up
with friends or family, organizing events, contributing artistically to the
world (in your writings or paintings), learning a new skill, improving your
existing skills (never too late to work on and enhance your culinary style!),
stay busy, stay active and you will realize that your are much happier. Because
true joy lies in bringing out the best from within yourself and offering it to
others to make their lives better too. True joy lies in hard-work, fun and
camaraderie. It lies in being kind, polite and productive. Happiness emanates
from staying true from within and giving life your best shot - in school, at
work, at home and in retirement. It also lies in pursuing your passions,
designing the life that you want and treating yourself and others with respect.
Happy living :)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-91848710650964506082013-11-28T10:37:00.001+05:302013-11-28T11:04:00.380+05:30The Alchemy of Shame<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I had decided I wouldn’t write
about this. It seemed like a simple case on the onset and I thought I wouldn’t
give it more importance than it deserved. But thanks to a voyeuristic nation
that doesn’t let go of even slightly salacious cases like the Aarushi Talwar
murder case – the Tarun Tejpal sex scandal has refused to leave the headlines.
In the process, it has brought out the worst in the decorated
writer/journalist.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Sexual overtures in the media
aren’t as rare as one would like to believe. Bosses making advancement towards
their juniors just because they are higher up in the hierarchy, the ‘<i>sab chalta
hai</i>’ attitude that dominates the industry and the people who aren’t scared to
push the limits to see what all they can get away with. Talks laden with sexual
innuendo, passing remarks about the ‘quickest way to get promoted’ and the
usual sight of girls having to work extra hard to make a mark are common occurrences
within these circles. Nobody dares say a word (who would they report it to,
right? Their bosses themselves are the news makers) and the constant
exploitation of womenfolk continues in this unorganized and largely informal
industry. The safest way is to walk away with your head bent down and ignore the
overtures at the risk of a doomed career. And nobody dares make any noise about
this injustice that is brushed under the carpet on a daily basis. All this until
one day when someone leaked Tarun Tejpal’s internal correspondence to the media
– BAM!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Tarun Tejpal, one of my favourite
writers as a teenager (I devoured ‘Story of my Assassins’ and ‘The Alchemy of
Desire’), and the editor-in-chief of Tehelka magazine. The same magazine that
was until recently seen as pioneer and champion of stories that nobody else
dared venture around. That Tarun Tejpal finds himself in a sex controversy. A
junior reporter at Tehelka accuses him of ‘gross sexual misconduct’ at a
conference in Goa. She says he penetrated her with his finger, not once but
twice on two separate occasions, in a resort elevator. Despite her reluctance
and despite it being a clear violation of the employer-employee relationship that
they shared. Not to mention that the girl was the same age as Tarun’s daughter
and also happened to be his daughter’s best friend! He offered to recuse himself from
Tehelka for 6-months (that’s unheard of) and admitted to his guilt in the
letter that he wrote to managing editor Shoma Chaudhary. Later when that letter
got leaked to the media (his own industry), he went back on his words and did
what all men do when accused of sexual misconduct – called the act ‘consensual’
between him and the girl. And because of that u-turn, I was prompted to write
this post.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
So what do I think of Shoma
Chaudhary and Tehelka after the expose? Tehelka’s credibility might just as
well be finished after this scandal. A magazine that took pride in imparting
justice to the slighted failed to assemble a cell to probe the sexual assault
allegations for over a week. They scrambled and scrambled some more for some
wriggle-room even as the media went berserk asking them to take stricter action
against Tarun, over and above his self-determined and self-inflicted hiatus of
just six months. Shoma Chaudhary’s response was a surprise too. A lesser known
fact about her is that she is also a visiting faculty at the Indian Institute
of Mass Communication (IIMC) and gives lectures on journalistic ethics and
morality (I was a student in a few of those classes too). And yet, when her own
friend confessed to a crime of sexual violation and ‘misreading of signals’
(whatever that means), she merely came forward to call it an ‘internal matter’
of Tehelka and failed to take adequate redressal measures to assuage the
violated journalist. Last I heard, she quit from her position as managing editor
for good.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Over to what I think about Tarun
Tejpal and what the future holds for him. Well the man is known for his
sexcapades and sexual adventures. I witnessed his fondness for the carnal first
hand when I saw him a few years ago at the Jaipur Literary Festival’s Writers
Ball, happily surrounded by a bunch of pretty girls with a malt whiskey in his
hand, completely oblivious to the going-ons around him and exhibiting zero
interest in starting a conversation with anybody outside his beautiful circle of
companions. The lurid text in some of his books also indicates a fascination
with exploring one’s sexuality and living life in a (depressing) daze. While I
wouldn’t hold his text against him, there is no denying the fact that the
reputation precedes Tarun Tejpal’s arrival everywhere. To think that he could
get away with sexually assaulting a colleague in a lift and then whispering in
her ear that that was the easiest way for her to keep her job, on two separate occasions,
is a reflection of his mentality that women employees can be suppressed into
submission with the threat of keeping their jobs. The complete disregard for
the fact that the victim was also his daughter’s friend shows how he isn’t just
a bad boss, but also a terrible father. He comes out as a person who can’t even
accord due consideration to his family, let alone treat his colleagues right.
His credibility has taken a severe hit and it would be sad to see him get away
with a light sentence and resuming work in a couple of years (a.k.a. Prabhu
Chawla after the radia tapes) and the nation forgetting about his
misdemeanors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
What stands out throughout the
case is the consistency of the victim’s statements, despite the duress and
added pressure of media spotlight. Even after her complaints of receiving
threats from several people asking her to withdraw the case, she has managed to
hold her ground and not embellished her accounts of what happened on that
fateful conference in Goa. Quite unlike Tarun Tejpal, who has oscillated wildly
from calling the incident a ‘gross miscalculation on his part’ earlier, to
terming it ‘consensual’ later when the case gained prominence. For that crime
alone, and the patriarchal mindset that it reveals where he thinks he can blame
it on the girl and get away with it, his should be made a model case and Tarun
Tejpal be doled out the harshest punishment to dissuade such incidents from
happening in the future. Maybe then the dark veil of secrecy shielding the
industry will get its tiny hole in the fabric for the aggrieved to peep out
from and move towards resurrection. </div>
</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-68766179270041049032013-11-21T22:24:00.001+05:302013-11-21T22:24:29.600+05:30The Kellogg JV Experience: Evanston Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7-AbRToCKNihVBznG3qbfLzFYSwZEEY2bu27nZXLcc5-w9LvvRxPI_f5vpKo5269wi6Wa7zwPRMxS6gZcvgP7yRhot6nF7Jk1gHJVj4l8hmkVHcr8A6dCEuYqJcku-DZ47k3O/s1600/evanston-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: #fff2cc; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7-AbRToCKNihVBznG3qbfLzFYSwZEEY2bu27nZXLcc5-w9LvvRxPI_f5vpKo5269wi6Wa7zwPRMxS6gZcvgP7yRhot6nF7Jk1gHJVj4l8hmkVHcr8A6dCEuYqJcku-DZ47k3O/s320/evanston-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So where do
we live in America? It’s this cozy suburb of the metropolitan city of Chicago
called – just Evanston. Snug away from the hustle bustle of the city, it’s a
quiet town that houses the Northwestern University. The Kellogg School of
Management is located very close to Downtown Evanston and if you happen to live
in the Northwestern Apartments called McManus (especially reserved for only
Kellogg residents), you will find yourself bang opposite The Orrington Hilton Hotel
and in the center of Downtown Evanston.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><b>Local Spots</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Pubs like
JTs, Prairie Moon and Nevin’s will become your midnight hangout dens. You will
find yourself eating at Panera Bread, Giordano’s Pizza and Chipotle a lot! The
Evanston Public Library is right next to McManus and the membership is free!
For JVs who don’t work, and this bit of information will be really helpful, you
can issue up to 75 books/movie DVDs at one time (again, all for free!) for your
constant entertainment! Citibank and Chase will be your local banking banks and
you will take the Metra to Downtown Chicago very often! For the health freaks,
there is LA Fitness gym, pilates and barres classes. Lots of organic food also
on sale at Wholefoods Market and Trader Joes. A Jewel Osco in the proximity
makes life quite easy as well!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><b>The Weather</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The weather
is generally very bipolar. It swings 10 degree Celsius in just a day sometimes. We have seen temperatures as low as -2 degree Celsius already, and it’s
just October! Lake Michigan has awesome
parks alongside it for evening jobs, but the icy cold winds ensure that you
layer up before stepping out! Fall season is pretty scenic and could be a
photography enthusiast’s delight. Yellow lights from Downtown Chicago light up
the evening sky. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4gxhlksEEzR7fRWcAIrEJ1125tAo2Ta7nR7dOHsbDAjlSChTn2YPMNsIp_pdJZoiHQkrpHcgdPcK-21M7219zboB5OjMiRhVmO7hyphenhyphenZQD-oxGSqzflK4oPWw9aPw4koTfcckn/s1600/evanston-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4gxhlksEEzR7fRWcAIrEJ1125tAo2Ta7nR7dOHsbDAjlSChTn2YPMNsIp_pdJZoiHQkrpHcgdPcK-21M7219zboB5OjMiRhVmO7hyphenhyphenZQD-oxGSqzflK4oPWw9aPw4koTfcckn/s320/evanston-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The City</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The city is
pretty safe (a bunch of us 5 girls have walked back safely to our apartments at
1am after a movie). Uber cab service is recommended by <a href="http://www.kellogg.northwestern.edu/faculty/directory/blount_sally.aspx">Dean Blount</a> for nearby
travel. Clothes and apparel are easily available. The city should be a joyride
for people seeking some peace and solitude from the shimmers of noisy big cities!
Some find it dull, but the many events at and around Kellogg make it an
engaging and enriching journey. Definitely one that all should get a chance to
experience! In a nutshell - we love Evanston (until we find a job, at least!).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US">(Yashika Khanna is an international JV from New
Delhi, India. Before she started whiling away time in Evanston while her
husband studied at Kellogg, she was a Television News Producer and a
journalist. She has degrees in television journalism, commerce and business.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Also find this blog on the official Kellogg blog page-</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://kelloggmbastudents.wordpress.com/2013/11/21/the-jv-experience-evanston-life/">http://kelloggmbastudents.wordpress.com/2013/11/21/the-jv-experience-evanston-life/</a></span></div>
</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-53727338953102733772013-09-12T01:02:00.000+05:302013-09-12T01:06:25.950+05:30I’m attending classes at Kellogg!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUGXlE2bC1a0okI3rC3JNPrMmLxQVdo8Yb97HkunPp88yxZNNapuUz026fb0L_wLf5WXeqtliixLLYdwvvEfo3RSpFrTLeSaSovsnHPZVBFnsRa6Q1pOiQxR2i7sRZaYScFTL/s1600/kellogg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisUGXlE2bC1a0okI3rC3JNPrMmLxQVdo8Yb97HkunPp88yxZNNapuUz026fb0L_wLf5WXeqtliixLLYdwvvEfo3RSpFrTLeSaSovsnHPZVBFnsRa6Q1pOiQxR2i7sRZaYScFTL/s320/kellogg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First I want to declare this upfront – it is not because of
my credit, but all commendation to my husband for having secured an admission
and having taken me along as his Joint Venture (JV, as we are called here) –
that I am now allowed to, and enjoying, attending classes at the Kellogg School
of Management! Because I am back to the blogging sphere and sharing all my
thoughts with you folks, here’s how I have been finding them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First and foremost, without sounding like a
wet-blanket/miss-know-it-all, these classes remind me of the time spent
attending journalism classes at the Indian Institute of Mass Communication
(IIMC) back home in Delhi. When people called it the best place in India to
study media and journalism, because of the quiet sense of complacence that is
inherent in me and because of how easily I had secured an admission and topped
the batch in my day, I didn’t understand the hoopla. But now I do. Which brings
Kellogg into perspective – very audiovisual class content, teaching from
powerpoint decks and slides, showing movie/research clippings in class to drive
a point across, doing individual PLUS group activities, assignments that jog
your grey-cells and super participative and attentive classmates.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that doesn’t sum it up. The second brightest attribute
of the college – the intellectual property, the extra-smart, shining and
decorated professors! The finesses with which they teach, the knowledge that
they bring to the table, the extraordinary concepts that they have unveiled
from industry experience/PhD research that they impart and their charm, ease
and wit! What a blend. And what a conducive atmosphere to learn. And such
interesting incentives (sometimes champagne and chocolate in class!) to learn,
study and grow. And the prized course material that is dolled out personally by the professors and can't be found in regular textbooks!</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
All of this, the frenzy and the colors, remind me of my time
spent studying at IIMC. And through this post, I would like to remind the current
students that this might as well be the last best 2 years of your life! Because
after this, you will nose-dive into the world of corporate politics and not
look up or back for the next 30 years till your retirement. So while you are at
it, have maximum fun and learn all that you can. Because you might not remember
your daily routines and chores here, but the essence of the learnings and the
friends that you make here will linger on forever and last a lifetime.
Notwithstanding that I am younger than, or equal to, in age to most people here
– my ‘preachings’ come from having spent a wonderful time enjoying graduate
school and now living up the same experience with my husband. Lots of gusto to
him and the frills for me! This is good :)<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com3Evanston, IL, USA42.0450722 -87.68769689999999241.9979052 -87.76837789999999 42.0922392 -87.6070159tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-46248276295012935902013-09-06T02:46:00.000+05:302013-09-06T02:47:13.860+05:30And I am back... with a bang!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been away and this place has dried up. But now I am
back! With an explanation and with tonnes of news! I left my job at Headlines
Today, got married and moved to America. So many things together? Hence the
long absence. But now that the dust has settled after the storm, I am back to
reclaim my space and to share my thoughts with the world.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First over to some news back home in India. Narendra Modi is
gaining prominence and the country stands on the verge of having one of its
most turbulent general elections next year, which are most likely to give a
fractured verdict. Good I am away from the mess and wouldn’t have to see the
murky politics unfold on my television set every night, because it was pretty
grim at the time that I left. The wrong people getting the right publicity and
the lack of sensible power heads to lead the nation. Gloom and sadness
everywhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over to why I allowed so many changes to happen all at once
in my life. I thought it was for the good and everybody needs to keep evolving.
Although it is pretty lonely in the United States with no job and no studies.
Note to self – have to find something to do to keep my resume shining and my
mood uplifted!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is so much more that I have got to share about so many
other things and topics. And now that I am back, expect some random musings
here. Also note the new change in my name from Yashika Totlani to Yashika
Khanna. This place will, however, continue to retain its old-world (old-name)
charm, for all practical purposes at least!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So keep dropping by and keep reading up. I enjoy the
audience and you will enjoy the company too. So long and tada, loyal readers!</div>
</div>
Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-49489930171889555892011-12-25T09:03:00.004+05:302011-12-25T11:15:17.479+05:30The Holiday Season<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFqT7061KUE2BV8cUPtRULGb1ix4-5r6vJMToU7SbsGifVHC6gvNRVp55Eh92xsAHhgpHJeZGX8xZTcckQenzlHTmdPgvzrDeMuEvkFk3qkhC1QI20DjREWP4rRL_U0W77fbjs/s1600/Family_Christmas_Celebration_FAN2019903.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFqT7061KUE2BV8cUPtRULGb1ix4-5r6vJMToU7SbsGifVHC6gvNRVp55Eh92xsAHhgpHJeZGX8xZTcckQenzlHTmdPgvzrDeMuEvkFk3qkhC1QI20DjREWP4rRL_U0W77fbjs/s320/Family_Christmas_Celebration_FAN2019903.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689904623856056162" /></a>So what is it about the holiday season that has us all perked up? While in the USA, and most parts of the outside world, holiday season dawns around Christmas and New Year’s. But in India, holiday season translates into the break that we get around Diwali. But of course we are Indian and we love to celebrate! So with the same fervor as we celebrate Dusshera and the Festival of Lights... we also hop around when New Year’s comes along. People apply for offs in their offices, make travel plans, get excited on Christmas eve and are part of a big party on New Year’s night.<br /><p class="MsoNormal">Getting drunk and happy is a fad, new winter clothes are purchased to flaunt, families go on an overdrive and install Christmas trees (‘install’ too mechanical a word?), teach their children about Santa and his stockings, have family dinners and rum cakes. All a big package of happiness. While on most years I am clueless about my plans and hate the festive season... this year I am happy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I was a child, my relatives from the great United States of America gifted me a huge 5-book collection of Santa stories in a giant book jacket... packed up like a gift. That green, 100 by 100 inches box (I am not kidding), was the most prized possession of my yesteryears. I held it close to my heart, showed it off to my friends and read each book carefully... turning one banana leaf discreetly after the other, to absorb and memorize each line. I learnt about Santa, his habitat, reindeers, mistletoes, stockings, chimneys, sleighs, Antarctica, decorations, confetti, rum and fig cakes... all from those five precious books. The last page of the fifth book had a full two page rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’ and my toes would stand up for a tap dance each time I read it. Now as an adult, I might have misplaced my box-set... but fond memories remain. The feel of those creamy pages and the smell of freshness linger in my head. I was blessed with a colour-filled and playful childhood. Touché.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Having attended a fancy school where conversing in English right from the first grade was a fad (we were punished if someone was heard talking in Hindi), the Christmas (and subsequently New Year’s) festivities lingered on. In my fourth grade, I would hang a sparkling white stocking with my gift wish-list scribbled and stuffed inside it, on the doorknob. But to my disappointment, there would be no gifs in the morning. That was because my parents were blissfully unaware of any such activity going on in my room as me and my brother both had a separate room to ourselves. So sadness dawdled there.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But that didn’t stop me from pestering my father to get us the most baroque New Year’s reservations. While in some years he would succumb to that demand and spend oodles of money getting us a good spot... in the others, we would have street <i>golgappas</i> at midnight, or be snuggled in our beds watching New Year’s programming on TV. In one of those years, <i>SaReGaMa</i> was big and I have clear recollections of watching Anu Kapoor usher us into the New Year with his cheerful voice.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Last year, I was lucky enough to spend both Christmas and New Year’s in the Big Apple. The place to be - NEW YORK CITY. Eat your hearts out. Amazon Kindle as my gift, Times Square on 31<sup>st</sup> midnight and an American Diner for dinner. Total and absolute bliss. In the Americas, this time of the year is angelic. Most major tech companies launch their line of new advanced tech offerings to woo the buyers. And it’s a shopper’s delight to indulge in the joys of the latest iPhone or iPad, Amazon Kindle Fire or Barnes and Noble’s Nook. They are everywhere and if you don’t bag one, your New Year’s sucked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The ‘Food’ around Christmas - means different things to different people. To me, it’s a lot of cakes and wines. And chocolates! Who can forget the chocolates?! Molten, brown, white, dark, bitter, sweet, Belgian, desi, etc. No end to this list. The more the merrier. Ho ho ho.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The ‘Clothes’ – India or abroad, there are HUGE discounts on clothing in this season. Latest fashion brands selling at cheesecake rates. Or hot bread rates. Or hot dog rates. Best time to hoard them, wear them, buy some, throw some more (money) and hoard some again for the rest of the winters. Victoria’s Secret, Louis Vuitton, Van Heusen, Gucci, Jimmy Choo and Ray Ban. Time to get the best deals on everything!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The ‘Movies’ – Oscar and Grammy nominations are released. And the best movies of Hollywood hit the screens in this month. For 2011, the list is as impressive with – Mission Impossible Ghost Protocol, Sherlock Holmes 2, The Descendants, Ides of March, The Iron Lady, etc. I have watched the ones that have released and have plans too for watching the rest of them. The list last year was as glorious with cinematic gems like – The King’s Speech, The Black Swan, Rabbit Hole – being doled out. Then too, I watched each and every one of them, including a Spanish film ‘Biutiful’.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So in conclusion, as I sit here in the yellow glow of my room’s lighting, snug in a blanket on a crisp white winter Christmas morning, I revel in the celebratory aura that hangs in the air. I shall visit the fanciest mall in Delhi to gawk at their biggest Christmas tree, have a rum cake, walk in the evening cold and finally end the day with a few drinks to warm up. Merry Christmas to ye all :) Tons to do this year!</p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_yQWOWEpKxMTEReC6usZ2siKZxVLzKuC7paNj6wbVcfiBI44uTHDurU7MOyttX6Wjb-hUsW4uX3GCRmm8kHX8KmkLBGlnc5_ZD8OhjhhiiqfQKKJaVRPn-mYPicRQiLRHlU5/s1600/jaynes1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 209px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_yQWOWEpKxMTEReC6usZ2siKZxVLzKuC7paNj6wbVcfiBI44uTHDurU7MOyttX6Wjb-hUsW4uX3GCRmm8kHX8KmkLBGlnc5_ZD8OhjhhiiqfQKKJaVRPn-mYPicRQiLRHlU5/s320/jaynes1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689904420743697842" /></a>Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30114923.post-2327371802262336352011-10-02T12:33:00.003+05:302011-10-02T12:52:46.003+05:30The whole Indian wedding tamasha<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGFk71bVXMN-W88aFHG3r_laSuCaPmiFzcI_6khnM-zxdzOwVpbo3rsskiaC-9_B9Oxw9P1IiSIGQpqgJ_bFQFo98pBxJTkyBgdVSxvDgpL-s_Dwp5KW1wHpm1ZTdr3b6Jmylt/s1600/DN_blog9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGFk71bVXMN-W88aFHG3r_laSuCaPmiFzcI_6khnM-zxdzOwVpbo3rsskiaC-9_B9Oxw9P1IiSIGQpqgJ_bFQFo98pBxJTkyBgdVSxvDgpL-s_Dwp5KW1wHpm1ZTdr3b6Jmylt/s320/DN_blog9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658788118566633090" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Unlike several other countries in the world, the meaning of ‘wedding’ in the Indian context is very different. It encompasses every other factor, other than the willingness of the boy or the girl. In the ‘arranged wedding’ scenario, a concept largely ridiculed in the west, the boy and the girl are simply expected to wed as strangers and then fall in love. If any differences or incompatibilities arise later... the duo is expected to reconcile to them within four walls. Because like the couple once obliged to fall in love with the person of their parent’s choice, they are also expected to tow their lines in terms of what KIND of person they have to get used to.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am not suggesting that such matches are always forced or that they always end up failing. A good amount of them even manage to work. But all elders in this country have got to understand that there are only a certain ‘type’ of people you can expect to put up with this arrangement. I am a journalist and I have always lived life on my own terms. Owing to adequate financial independence that I have experienced in recent years, I feel I am fairly equipped to pick my own match. And to stick to that choice and live it through, because at least at the end of the day, it is still MY decision that I am putting up with. And the decision was not made for me by somebody else. It can go wrong and things can fall apart, but that way I have at least not smothered my wishes, just to be ‘socially acceptable’. Nor have I wrapped myself up as a candy to be presented to a ‘market’ of suitable boys (don’t know what mind-fucked people come to do that kind of bidding). And I would own full responsibility for my actions.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Which brings us to the moot point of which ‘kind’ of people agree to enter the ‘arranged marriage’ scenario. This is the breed that has either loved their family way too much, more than anything else, to ever fall as much in love with anybody else. Or the variety that feels it is not in their ‘culture’ to disregard what their parents ask them to do. Now the second variety worries me the most. Because these are the same people who can never say ‘no’ to anything that is asked of them. ‘Marry him/her’... yes. ‘Have babies with them now’... yes. ‘He is cheating on you? Put up with it. Marriage is all about compromises’... yes. ‘You feel you are incompatible? Manage it... it’s your life and he/she is your spouse. Get used to them’... yes. The ‘yes-saga’ has no end but lifelong implications of this can be catastrophic. <span> </span>People tend to become subdued, reserved, irritable, irrational, non-objective... and ultimately end up sleeping in different rooms. Because in their words... their natures ‘never matched’. I might sound a little extreme but the crux of my argument shall come to life only if such extremities are cited.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>On the other hand, people who marry out of ‘love’ are less likely to end up in different bedrooms. They have known each other, had their say, known their expectations and most importantly, the onus lies on them to make it work. Because they made their own choice. The learning of making a love-marriage work is the learning of a lifetime. You live with your ‘decision’ everyday. Wake up with them, sleep with them and grow with them. The learning might be sweet or it might be bitter, but it is of your own making. And it shall always remain that way. Everybody makes mistakes in their youth and the Indian parents need to allow their kids to make those ‘mistakes’ once. They might work or they might not. But there is never the added pressure of not having other avenues or exits. These ‘mistakes’ teach one to be independent in life, and responsible, for all things that happen to them or are made to happen.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">A marriage is more than just about maintaining social standing or stature. And children are more than just mere badges that parents can pin-up on their shoulders. Nor are children means for parents to live the kind of lives that they never lived on their own. The two parties in a married couple eventually have to cope with their own lives, and the easier it is made for them, the better. At a basic level, the voices that advocate ‘own match picking’ need to be heard. Being ‘liberal’ has always been the way forward and by holding old customs or traditions very close to the heart, folks today are being insensitive to the needs of the times. They have to be more supportive and respectful of their children’s wishes. Times have changed and they can’t dictate rules about how lives should be lived. Honour-killings should be stopped and a thought has to be spared to what makes your own flesh-and-blood happy. For there is no substitute for consensual coexistence to give life to the ‘happily ever after’...</p>Yashika Totlani Khannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11196136921086225817noreply@blogger.com11