In dodo's head

Being an active element in the social media world of tweets and facebook and all that has meant constantly bumping into constant debates about right, wrong, acceptable and not acceptable. The recent one being the 'Oh lord, Hollywood celebs are wearing the bindis. Tsk tsk how dare they.. so offensive' debacle.  Maybe it's because of the assimilated background that I grew up in, the exposure I got from coming in contact with diverse people, but I fail to understand what the big debate is about.. The bindi, in its traditional form, as far as I know, is limited to the red dot kind, signifying marriage and thus being strictly a Hindu custom. But when the decorative forms have been used by people of all walks of life, all religions even in India,  what is the big deal in people of other countries doing so? Isnt it a form of appreciation towards our rich culture and heritage? Cultural appropriation they say? This particular paragraph in a blog post on the issue got me sayin...

A dream so vivid, Waking up with tear stained eyes. My grandfather, or Kachou as I called him, Looking on from the front seat of a Gypsy. Having been paralysed for a long time, His last years on earth had been spent on the front verandah, Looking on like the stoic leader that he was, over the affairs of the house. There was something surreal in seeing his familiar face, So close by that I could almost reach out and touch. Filling me with regret of the lost opportunities, Oh how I wish I had spent more time, Learning about the grandfather I loved so much. For now, all that are left are a handful of old photographs, Strewn in photo albums around the house. No longer can I can be in the company of, The old man who loved avocados and watching BBC. Like any other person on earth, as a father and husband, He had several shortcomings. But flawless he was, as my grandfather. He was, one of the few, if ever there was, Who loved me unconditionally. Having so little, a...

For love is a wave, sweeping past defences, Breaking down all barriers. For love is a drive down a favourite highway, Exhilarating and leaving souls breathless. For love is a cuddle with tea and a memorable book, Familiar tinged with a bit of unfamiliar. Love, courted by poets forever. Heard of by all who breathed in this world, Malady for the control-freaks, Cure for the troubled. This post is a part of  Write Over the Weekend , an initiative for  Indian Bloggers  by BlogAdda.

 At first a non believer, all Love took was a glance and talk at the local cafe, He walked into my life like a tornado and nothing remained the same. Flowers blossomed, birds chirped and the once lonely heart beat back to life. Years down the road, over some kathi rolls and coffee, We plan our happily ever after and laugh with glee. This post is a part of  Write Over the Weekend , an initiative for  Indian Bloggers  by BlogAdda.

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...