In dodo's head

As the years go by, slowly the magic that surrounded the once important days- the birthdays, Christmas, New Year's has faded away. Constantly there's only a feeling of indifference and the perpetual excuse - It is just another day of the year.. I do not know yet if it is a good thing as such, for I long for the good old days when these holidays held so much promise and excitement. For now, it is becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish one day from the other, and even worse, I am beginning to dread the big D days of the year. My birthday, for which I would look forward to months away has now become a chore- the greetings, the 'surprises', the 'Oh it's your special day, we'll do whatever you want's.. I can't help but wonder what does this indifference means for the person that I have become.. Does this mean I am getting older? Or does it simply mean I am losing myself to the mundaneness of life?

Henri Cartier Bresson was an artist. Unlike the Picassos and the Van Goghs however, he used a camera, the Leica M8 to paint his fine masterpieces which depicted human emotions poignantly. Here are a few of my favourite pictures taken by him...

I hate that unclean stubble, For it leads to many a questions, Have you been hibernating in the Himalayas, A hippie soaked in Bhang and the Booze? Or have you awoken, much like Sleeping Beauty, From a sleep of hundred days? How else would you explain that unkempt scenery, You have decided to punish my glances with? Long gone are my days of being smitten, For what use a man who cannot spare, Minutes and dimes for a shave. Alas, my heart cannot take,  The bedraggled mess you got going on, In the words of the wise angry queen in Alice, Off with your head. Protest Against Unclean Stubble Activity in association with BlogAdda .

Slipping away, like slivers of sand on the beach. Floating away to oblivion, With the tides that brought it here in the first place. For time had run out, Sand in the hour glass slowly draining away. The time to say farewell was now, But is there ever something as a happy parting. Lumps in the throat, tears clogging the sight, Bidding goodbye wordlessly, Turning away. Years later, They would remember, Memories getting hazier with time.

The hair. Epitome of all that life is about. Just a strand, like the minutes of the day, is insignificant. But bring them together, and ah, the possibilities. (I felt the need to illustrate the possibilities.lol) I hope I have not been alone with many of the misfortunes that has struck me when I have trustingly entrusted the fate of my hair into the hands of numerous hairstylists who claimed to know what they were doing.. Twenty minutes later, and my friends and family are laughing at what has become of my hair, and what it has done to my face. Growing up thus, I have come to realise the great significance the mop of hair on my head has on the visuals exuded by me. We live in an increasingly documented life; friends, family and whoever we meet insist on that one picture (or sometimes a whole album) to shamelessly share with the entire Facebook community. In such a case, it really does not help to have a 1960's haircut in modern times such as this (Believe me, I have been...

(Picture from the Internet) Ange. She was the very first best friend I had. Pretty much the same age as me, though of course she was still a kid at heart and would also want to roll around and play hide and seek. Most people would not understand the ties that bound me to her; of course, there are few who can comprehend how an almost rougish  German Shepherd and a four year old can get along like two peas in a pod.  My memories of growing up all include her in it; I can still recollect vividly how every Diwali, she would be as terrified of the crackers as I was, and would leap inside the window, smashing the glass much to the chagrin of my mother. As she grew in size, she could no longer be trusted to remain indoors for she threatened my mother's precious flower arrangements and vases. She therefore would resort to patrolling the territories of the house, ensuring that no stranger or cat would ever trespass the vicinity of the place.  Contrary to her name, ...

" His clean shaven look bowled me over"...  These are lines you would have never expected to hear from me, considering my track record of crushes. The reason for my awakening? A fateful tale I shall now share with you There was I, young, bewitched by the dashing Mardaangi (aka Manliness) of men like handle-bar mustache touting Ranveer Singh; determined that the next time Cupid’s arrow struck me, it would be with a Ranveer Singh-and-Prince Charming hybrid who would whisk me away on his white horse and all.  Little did I know how doomed this dream was. You see, our technology in movies is such that we do not have the (mis)fortune of sniffing the scents (and stinks) of all that is there in Bollywood movies. Why else would Chandni Chowk look like such a vibrant, rose scented, fume-less song-sequence heaven, where the heroes and heroines flutter around without having to wear masks. Anyway, so there I was, resolute in this search for my 'Daari Mucch' man, and as...