I decided to highlight today’s ‘Saturday Specifics’ with a ‘Throwback’ gesture. I love Haiku, although I rarely write one these days. I used to craft poems before and I plan to acknowledge my lost spirit through this post I reblog.
As I mentioned before, I recently exported my blog at blogger to the much appraised WordPress platform. I happened to lose my followers, as the inbuilt export feature ignores just that, and nothing more. Even when I miss the admirable blog stats I enjoyed back there, I feel happy in a way that I could retain my posts and comments as such, which for me comes as a huge relief.
The idea of blogging descended on me around seven years back, when, I, for the first time in my life realised that I could write something substantial. Being blessed with a gift becomes comparable to almost being devoid of it, if one lacks the judgment and revelation that he or she could use it appropriately and with confidence. I had written a couple of articles back in school, but nothing more than that. I knew then that I could write, but I wasn’t sure whether would I fit in the circle of writers. For me then, people who called themselves writers were a rare entity who enjoyed an elite status, to be a part of which demanded superlative knowledge of the language, world affairs and above all life experience. I knew that I had a decent grip on the language for I happened to score a good percentage in English language for my tenth std exams. But when it came to the abundance of knowledge, I considered myself illiterate. I grew up reading authors of the likes of Enid Blyton, Agatha Christie , Sidney Sheldon, Jeffrey archer and Arthur Hailey among the international authors and Amitav Ghosh, Amit chaudhari and Rabindranath Tagore among the Indian authors. I viewed their talents as heavenly blessings par excellence which could rarely be emulated. I was too intimidated by their formidable presence to even encourage the creeping thought of writing more in the years to come. However, life had a surprise in stock for me in the form of an irresistible tug. Passion is an alluring term just as alluring as the effect it has on a person. Deny it, ignore it, but you will realise it shortly that you were created incapable of resisting it for long. The irrelevant scribbles on my diary gave way to naive posts on the blog which, as years passed metamorphosed to well manicured accounts which could be labelled readable. Thus started my blogging journey which ended up being one of most inspiring, evocative, rejuvenating experiences I ever had.
There are a few nuggets I picked up from my time here in this space. Any one who has been around here for more than a couple of years would imbibe those naturally. I am not going in to the details of which, but I sure would love to share with you a recently inculcated hobby of mine. In my early years of blogging, having used blogger, I hadn’t known much about the email subscription feature. I did discover the importance of which a few years into the trail, but then I had, by then, lost steam on the blog hopping routine. I had, by that time, started concentrating more on the writing part than the equally prominent reading part. I wasn’t expecting readers, rather, I simply wanted to write my heart out, for my own sake, for my own satisfaction.
But now, since I have decided to revamp my blog and at the same time, have undergone a stimulating change on my personal terrain as well, nudged by my own innate passionate self, I yearn to be alive and agile here in this space. I yearn to read others, I yearn to write more and last but not the least, I yearn to connect with the readers who take a precious few minutes from their routine to read and comment on my posts.
Having understood the value of email subscriptions, I decided to subscribe as many blogs as possible; the process being endless continues even now. These days I love to read posts directly from my mail. It doesn’t seem like a hectic task to be undertaken and at the same time it is fulfilling as well. Sometimes I reply to those posts then and there, other times mark them and comment when I revisit my mails at the end of the day. I find the process convenient when the fact remains that I check my mail at least three to four times a day, even more than I visit my blog. One may abandon the blog page for months at a stretch, but an email has become a necessity which we dare not ignore according to our whims and mood swings. Even if one is not regularly blogging, he or she can keep up with the posts of friends, keep replying to their posts and there by remain in the loop.There have been times when an irked, dejected I was stimulated enough to slide back in to my ‘at-work’ diligent form, simple because I was inspired by a blog post I read from my email. Sometimes, it just makes my day to know that I have a few good posts by my favourite bloggers, waiting to be read on my mail at the end of the day. The way our hearts and minds respond to bloggers whose writing we admire is inexplicable. And I secretly believe that even if most of my readers aren’t responding to my posts as comments, they might be going through my blog occasionally; at least the readers who have subscribed my posts. They might have liked at least a few posts I have written. We all do that, don’t we? Go through a blog and not comment on it even if it we liked the content? And so also, I would recommend an email subscription box to be included on your blog with out much ado, if any newbie out there is reading this post.
The joy of being with words is incomparable and I am glad that I am successful in digging out more and more facts about blogging that are intriguing, which in turn inspire me to keep coming back to the world of blogging every time. Blogging is indeed a rewarding experience. I sincerely hope that I would never part with it, ever. Would you? What do you think?
P.S: This post is tagged with ‘Mid Week Quests’, a sub section of this blog where I write on a Wednesday, about random nuggets from my life .
Ensconced on the creamy white shore, I used to peek inside her soul, while she tucked in the wavy strands of hair that fluttered in the warm summer breeze. I remember opining to my friends every time that my mother was as sturdy as those rock mounds scattered formidably along the shore line, in that she could lap up the soothing, effervescent waves that streamed up to her in days that were serene, but more over, quite admiringly, could muster an inevitable amount of fortitude to stand rooted when hit by a raging tide. Little did the girl in me then know that, twenty years down the lane, she would peek inside herself and utter the exact same words.
So I was drudging monotonously through the dreary task of brushing my teeth today morning, when the thought struck me deep; thought that I have changed a lot over the past few years. The realisation, when put to words might sound quite normal, vapid even. Some people pride in the fact that they have been able to maintain the essence of the elements that form part of their innateness unscathed from birth to dust. Some others admit that they have indeed changed, but for the good. I, interestingly, find that I have undergone metamorphosis to become a slightly different version of me, for good, bad and everything in between. I have grown better in ways, my interests have changed and I find happiness in a whole sort of things that are impressively unrelated to the world that the ten year old or even the twenty year old I harboured. We accept certain things into our lives without bothering to stand back and give it a graver thought. We all change, but we are so busy going with the flow of our lives that we rarely take time to sit and mull over the changes that have been happening in our lives, unassumingly.
The ten year old I used to love gardening. Watering the plants was more of a habit than a hobby. The habit wore out somewhere down the lane while I was busy growing up. Similarly, I used to spend time sketching cartoon characters as a kid. I used to consider my products good, if not perfect. Still, the interest withered before it blossomed to spread fragrance. To add to the list, I used to like teen movies and young adult fiction ten years back. I remember changing my password to the title of a teen movie that I loved watching, back in my college days. I used to discuss for long hours with my friends, the characters in the books we read taking turn, dissecting the plots and dialogues, simply because we found the idea of a blooming romance heavenly. I remember a conversation that I had when I was thirteen, with my best friend regarding the ubiquitous presence of boyfriends in novels and movies. In the end, we both took a firm decision that we would, undoubtedly, earn a boyfriend for ourselves when we turned 18. How sweet! By saying this, I am not bracketing YA Fiction or teen movies as a genre to be liked by immature people. In fact, I watch movies with saccharine story line even now, but the difference is that I watch them mostly for fun and to while away time. Presently, they neither affect my thoughts nor do they navigate my decisions in any which way, as they did before.
Continuing the anecdotes, I used to be slightly selfish and moderately arrogant too back then, as I hark back now. Once, being the monitor, I asked a girl in my class to lower her voice, saying, “X, would you speak softly? There are also girls here in this class who wish to study, unlike you”. She stopped talking suddenly and her friends stared at me long and hard. I realised then and there that to take back my words was meaningless as the effect had already been made. What was left to do was to apologise for my blatant outburst, which I did later during the day. Honestly speaking, I have changed a lot from that inconsiderate brat to a better, kinder human being.
The opinions and the things that I believed in also changed over the time. I don’t think at this stage of time, the way I did five years back. Silly incidents or statements don’t excite me now, nor do pardonable mistakes provoke me. I have learnt to think matters over before letting it overpower my vision. I have learnt never to look down on others simply because they think differently. Along with the good changes, certain pitfalls too found their way towards me, unfortunately. I am irked faster nowadays. I have turned competitive and I yearn to put my best foot forward in my ventures, which makes me frustrated and impatient during the well mattered days. I should rectify that rotten part of me step by step, I know. And that is one arena where I feel growing up helps us the most. You realise your downsides and work upon them, before they act to push your over the abyss. You learn to grow over the years. You turn mature and reasonable. You learn from your mistakes to become a better version of you, ultimately, if you kept your heart, soul and mind awake. Although the process doesn’t end there. There might still be events that break us apart, leaving us torn and helpless, to tackle which we might have to devise a perfectly new set of fights. In life, no victory is absolute, if one fails to maintain the valor.
‘These teenage boys and girls! Why don’t they realise that they are so silly!’ Does this opinion sound familiar to you? There wouldn’t be a single family where this sentence wasn’t uttered at least once. This isn’t merely opined about adolescent boys and girls. A woman of twenty years might find the deeds of a ten year old silly and vice versa, which holds true for any two people belonging to age groups which are a decade apart. However, if they judged matters transferring their bodies for once, to the other one’s shoes, they would understand the importance those matters have in the other person’s life and gradually learn to respect those. I know that I loved everything that I spent my time on when I was in my teens. Because I find a few of them silly now, does it mean that I regret having engaged in those back then? Absolutely not. It made me what I am today. Let the other people in your lives, be it your friend, parents, cousins, colleagues, whoever it be, believe in whatever suits his/her astute judgement and desires, appropriate for their age; as long as it is not harmful, hideous, utterly foolish, illogical or incendiary. Let them be what they are.
But does all this talk on maturity assert that being adult takes the fun out of your lives? Each stage of life comes tagged with appropriate forms of pleasure. I treasure the memories of my childhood dearly. I wish at times that I could fly back to those innocent days and forbid myself from growing up. At the same time, if asked whether I would like to spend my present days immersed in the deeds I found enticing back then, would I reply in affirmative? I wouldn’t. I have my own set of hobbies and habits that keep me happy now. I wouldn’t trade them permanently for anything else. Perhaps occasionally I might indulge in an act of childishness(which I love to while at my reminiscent best), but not otherwise and definitely not always. I realise that I have changed. But those changes are inevitable and I don’t regret them. Nor have the changes taken the spirit away from my soul. To be happy and content in whatever you believe in and to stand by it, at each stage of life, matters the most- be it ten years, twenty years, thirty years or sixty years. Life is indeed a delicacy, waiting welcomingly, to be relished. Each stage of life is unique in its own ways. If childhood was an exciting, soft, creamy mousse, adolescence is a crunchy sweet, enticing wafer. If middle age is a taut, tender, perfectly set pudding, senility is a firm, smooth, moulded, éclairs. That said, can you guess what remains to be told here in this post? Ah, yes. Run. Take your pick, suck it up to the last atom sans regret and don’t forget to savor it wholeheartedly as long as it lasts.
So, tell me, do you enjoy being your age? Have you too, like me, changed over the years?
P.S: This post is tagged with ‘Mid Week Quests’, a sub section of this blog where I write on a Wednesday, about random nuggets from my life .
Hello all. This is my first ever blog post here in this new WordPress domain where I have transferred my blogspot blog to. And frankly speaking, I feel lost. I feel that I am now swimming in the core of a potpourri of emotions. One, of glum for bidding farewell to my writing accomplice of 7 years -Blogger and second, for the excitement that comes with the start of a new journey. Well, truly, the journey is almost the same- writing,reading blogs and replying to comments. But then, it seems refreshing to strike acquaintance with a fresh, more subtle platform like WordPress. I still have a lot to do to bring back the nuances of my previous blog, but I think I should deal with one step at a time.
Introspecting, I arrived at a conclusion that I write more when I am overpowered by the swell of my mind- be it a misery, or when I am at crossroads or when I am unusually jubilant for a reason. Blogging regularly, like churning out a blog a week or even at an interval of two weeks, even after all these years, has not become a goal that could be easily conquered. I dedicate a major part of the many reasons for that downside to my hectic course and duties that followed the same and the other part to my laziness. I don’t usually blog to ‘blog’, rather I blog because it is a convenient source to vent my angst. You might ask, why I would want to do that on a public platform when I can easily do that on a diary, letting out raw emotions unfiltered. Whether it be scribbling discreetly in a diary or it be typing explicitly on to the blank screen, both amount basically to writing, one may wonder. Well, the truth is that I, like any other writer, want to be read. Now that brings the discussion to a complete circle, isn’t it? I want to write, but at the same time, I want to be read as well. This post, to be frank, has transformed itself to a confession of sorts; a confession which should consolidate my decision to blog regularly, as I see that it is an inevitable deed if I want to call myself a blogger. I can always write outside of this space, but if I intend to let this space flourish, I need to come out her often and mark my presence. I know that the process is a satiating experience and I have had my own share of liebster awards, contest wins, posts with endless comments and a stats exceeding one lakh hits on blogger. Fortunate enough, right now, I am at a place in my personal life where I am sailing at a steady pace, for the time being, maybe for a few months even. That gives me less excuse to be a redundant blogger, and at the same time, more reasons to be a vivacious and a really creative one at that forte. And I sincerely hope for that to happen.
As this is almost sort of my first leap in to the realm of WordPress and supposedly into the arena of regular blogging, I would like to flag the journey off with a story. Now, who wouldn’t like to read a story? Hopefully, not you my reader(smiles).
MONOCHROME – (Fiction)
Little Ananya sat huddled in a dark corner of her room, well away from the door. Her palms were pressed tightly against her ears; her face flushed to a bright red shade; her cheeks smeared with wetness; her charcoal black eyes cringed tight, only to open to a narrow slit for tears to extrude whenever the cacophony erupting outside pierced her to leave behind an excruciating pain.
Looking around, she wimpered as her room silently started drowning in a sea of darkness. The sun had sunk beyond the horizon, nevetheless with a display of thoughtfulness to leave behind smatterings of saffron paint amidst the lakes of silent clouds. The night was slowly creeping in, with shadows of fear retreating to their favourite haven -the mind in tumult of a desperate soul.
The raised voice of her parents in the living room sent shivers through her shrivelled self. She couldn’t understand why she felt like she was on her first day at school yet again, as she tried hard to decipher the words her parents were hurling fiercely at each other. They were fighting, that much she could make out, for the tone of their voice was revolting.
Ananya reached for her teddy bear and drew it close to her, as she sat mulling over why her parents were angry. Haven’t they been so for the past one month, with no sign of reconciliation? she wondered. Her mommy had started the fight, Ananya recalled and it had something to do with the fact that her daddy was returning home late those days. She had watched them, everyday without fail, till the last week, keeping the door slightly ajar so that they would have no inkling as to her prying on them. The habit had come to a halt one day last week when her mother, having noticed her peeping on them barged into her room shouting harsh words at her, words she barely recognised as something similar to those used by Tara’s mommy.
“Tara is my best friend, Pinku. And her mommy takes bitter candies whenever she feels sad. You know, Tara has got another mommy too. Her daddy lives with her other mommy”
Ananya kept whispering in her teddy bear’s ear, taking care not to let her voice waver louder.
“They used to take me for picnic to all those beautiful places near the lake, Pinku. We used to sleep hugging each other in those small tents my daddy put up and my mommy used to cook delicious food for us, especially my favourite salad. . .” Her words broke in between, as she reminisced the pleasant times when they used to sit relaxed on the lush greenery lining the lake and savour food, only to be interrupted by frequent outburst of giggles and guffaws.
Ananya listened hard. Her daddy’s voice could be heard outside. Was he crying?! She felt her heart flutter as the vision of her daddy in pain flashed across her mind. Fresh streams of tear rolled down her cheeks. She pressed the back of her hand against her lips so as to muffle her wails.
She sharpened her ears to hear what her father was explaining to her mother. Apprehensive as she was, Ananya couldn’t wait any longer. She slowly stood up and started walking towards the door, tip toed, her teddy bear still clutched strongly in her arms.
The house suddenly fell silent and quite eeringly so. Ananya waited with bated breath behind the door, lacking the courage to peek outside. She might have waited for a few minutes like that when her mother called out to her from the living room.
Ananya gasped at her mother’s call. She scampered back to her bed, before her mother caught her lending ear to their conversation.
“Anu, bring your homework here!”
Ananya walked up to her mother who sat, fiddling with her finger nails, chewing them in between. She was annoyed beyond limits, Ananya could see.
Ananya stood near her mother, her head hung low, her lips pursed, her heart pounding loud as her mother quickly ran her eyes through her mathematics home work.
She stole a glance at her mother to guage her reaction. As Ananya watched, streaks of anger began to shadow on her mother’s otherwise angelic face, at the zenith of which she blurted out.
“Do you ever listen to your teacher in class, Ananya? What have you done here?! Twelve by twelve and what do you get? 164? Come on tell me now, what is the answer? Is it 164? Tell me!”
Ananya stared at her mother wide eyed, waves of fear rippling violently through her.
“What were you doing in there? Don’t you have every thing you need right inside your room? Why don’t you sit and learn what is being taught in your class, Ananya?!”
Ananya took a few steps back as her mother, irked to the core, sprang up from her seat. She watched, unblinking, as her mother threw her notebook aside on the floor and walked, huffing, to her bedroom, shutting the door behind with a loud thud.
Ananya stood shattered. She felt guilty for having let her mother down – She, of all people! Suddenly, a weird sense of desperation overtook her and she felt all alone standing there in her own home, which had been, till few days back, a treasure trove of happiness. Her eyes roved in search of her daddy. He was nowhere to be seen.
“Where did he go?” A melange of emotions overpowered her as she found no sign of her father anywhere in the house.
She picked up her notebook from the floor and retraced her steps. Climbing on her bed, she wiped away the damp stains of sorrow from her face and mumbled, “Pinku, mommy is really angry tonight. She just had a fight with daddy. I can’t find him anywhere inside. Maybe he went outside to buy chocolates for mommy. Mommy likes chocolates. She is going to be happy after that. You don’t be sad ok, Pinku. Were you scared when mommy shouted at me? I was, Pinku. A little bit. But that is ok. Mommy is going to be happy as soon as daddy brings her chocolates. You sleep now. She will wake us both up soon to share the chocolate with us, I am sure”
Wistfully, she kissed her teddy bear goodnight and shut her tired eyes. The moon lent her a milky white blanket as she lay on her bed, cocooned by a halo of hope that would guard her wounded soul from dreams echoing wretchedness.
P.S: Thank you for stopping by on this good day. I would love to hear from you. And do keep coming back.
P.P.S : This post has been selected by Blogadda as a Tangy Tuesday Post! This post is also tagged with ‘Saturdays Specifics’, a sub section of this blog where I put up something creative- a story, poem, haiku, Flash Fiction or a Book Review.