Life - or something like it

A million little pieces is a hard hitting, semi fictional memoir by James Frey. Though I am an avid book reader, I hardly ever have the patience to do a book review. Also, I am usually not into memoirs or biographies,I prefer thrillers and crime fiction is my favourite genre. One day, as I was searching though the books at my library, I came across 'A million little pieces '. The title of the book intrigued me and I decided to pick it up. image source: Wikipedia This book is the journey of James Frey as an alcoholic, drug addict and criminal from total depravity to sobriety at one of the oldest treatment centre in the world. At the age of 23 James finds himself on a plane, his front four teeth are missing, his nose is broken, his cheek has a hole big enough to put two of his fingers and he does not remember what he has done in the past two weeks. He has been an alcoholic for 10 years and a crack-cocaine and Meth addict for many years. James starts drinking at the a

The much awaited Monsoon finally arrived in my part of India, last month, albeit a bit delayed. Raindrops keep falling on my head every time I step out of my house, but it is still lacking that enthusiasm to become  a heavy downpour. The arrival of Monsoon in India means lush greenery blankets everything. The smell of the damp earth rises and seeps into your entire being and stirs a longing. The parched earth is soaked and everywhere you see the earth is welcoming this precious nectar. I have always had mixed feelings about the Monsoon. Most people consider Monsoon to be a romantic season.  There are things I don't like when it rains too much. The muddy roads: It is such a pain to go walking, you always end up with muddy shoes, muddy feet, dirty clothes..I guess you got my drift The clothes don't dry for days and they even smell if not aired properly.  You can never wear white clothes for the fear of getting splashed with rainwater. Everything that is crisp and cru

Dear Super Idiots, Everyday, while driving and even walking around the city, I come across people like you, who think they are God’s gift to humanity. Your arrogant attitude and non sense driving skills has prompted me to write this open letter. Yoo-hoo!! guys, you know who you are and hope you are reading this.I know that deep in your heart you do want to follow traffic rules, but again breaking rules is a matter of pride for you. You still think that being a rebel is in, and have taken it to heart. The other day, I was in a great mood and was on my way to do some shopping. I was waiting patiently for the signal to turn Green. There were only a few seconds remaining for the light to turn Green, 12,11,10 the seconds ticked away. At that moment, I felt that I was standing at a Derby with restless horses ready to start galloping, the moment the doors are thrown open. I suddenly see you and your friends starting to drive ahead in the incoming traffic just like untamed horses in the win

After I wrote the post My experiments with infertility where I lay bare my soul, I received a lot of support from all you dear friends who read my blog. I would like to thank each one of you for being so kind to me in this difficult time. Your emails, messages, texts and calls have given me strength to carry on, thank you. Many people congratulated me for being brave to have  written  about how am dealing with infertility. I believe that just like people who have a hole in their heart or suffer from diabetes, infertility is a disease and there is nothing to be ashamed of being infertile. In 2009,WHO (World Health Organisation) has defined ‘Infertility’ as a disease. This is not self inflicted and can happen to anybody. Why do then people feel ashamed of talking about it? After reading my post, some friends felt sorry for me and others had an instant advice ‘Have you thought of adoption? ‘. This question makes be furious . Instead of asking me, how I am coping, people have been i

‘Unch Maza Zoka’ loosely translated as ‘My swing will touch the sky’ is a Marathi television series based on the life of ‘ Ramabai Ranade’ . The series deals with her life and that of her husband 'Justice Madhav Govind Ranade’ who was a reformer and the founding member of Indian National Congress. Ramabai was married at the age of eleven to Madhav Ranade who was 32 and had lost his first wife to illness. Ramabai was illiterate when she married Justice Ranade who helped her to learn how to read and write. In spite of their age difference, there was a camaraderie between them and Ramabai was thoroughly inspired by Justice Ranade. He was highly educated and strived his whole life to remove the social evils that existed in the society. He was against untouchability, the practice of sati and child marriage and sponsored the first widow marriage. He was a strong advocate of women’s right to education. Ramabai herself is  shown to be very enthusiastic and dedicated to learning. The

These past few years have changed me as a person. I was someone, who could talk a lot and have a conversation with anyone, on any topic. But now, I am unsure about making conversations and try to listen more rather than speak. In this entire process of learning to listen more and speak less, I came across a lot of specimens who had some distinct qualities that could be neatly categorised into sections. I too have been a part of some categories at one point of time and so can easily identify the symptoms that plague them. They  all practice the art of listening at different levels. You too can easily identify them, they are all around us. 1) The Motor Mouth : This class of people can be identified by the endless talk coming out of their mouth. They have a perpetual verbal diarrhoea and cannot keep from talking on all topics right from their cat to their cousin’s aunt’s nephew’s neighbour. They don’t even take a pause to breathe and can comfortably keep talking for hours at end. The

Her wrinkled face and hazy eyes look out wistfully at passersby as she sits on the dusty pavement. Her nine yards 'Saree' is draped over her head and a few glass bangles tinkle as she raises her palm to catch the coin dropped in her palm by someone who has taken pity on her state. The old beggar woman sits there everyday  in the same place, her cloudy eyes searching for a loving face, in this fast moving world. I have seen her everyday for the past 20 days. She sits outside the building where my driving school is based, with the look of resignation and helplessness in those milky eyes. Some days I drop a few coins in her hand and other days I get her Bananas and other soft fruit which she can eat with her toothless mouth. In the hustle and bustle of life, not many of us stop and think of people like the beggar woman. A few coins dropped in needy hands takes care of the guilt and we forget them on our way to better and brighter things. For most of us, they are a part of th