Nine to Five

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder!” A statement as old as civilisation itself, reiterated through the history by writers, poets and artists. But is ‘beauty’, really in the eye of the beholder? How then, have we all conformed to the same standards of ‘beauty’? Are we emulating the ‘good’ because it was voiced by a stronger and louder personality with a sense of euphemism that cannot be denied. ... ... ... As design students, we are not taught to appreciate the importance of aesthetics, we are supposed to inherently possess the knowledge. However, each of us come from a different lifestyle with preconceived notions of how the surroundings should be. Just as curated knowledge cannot override the emotional biases completely, global exposure to standards cannot eliminate locally imbibed, culturally derived sense of aesthetics. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder… Only through art can we emerge from ourselves and know what another person sees. —  Marcel Proust...

O nce upon a time, when I was young(er), the tiny world around me was religiously devoted towards the preparation for the rest of their lives. Plans, charts, objectives, desires and goals. They sought ‘stable’ and relatively popular educational options, following the trail of many ‘successful’ people. I, on the other hand, stood my ground, refusing to ride the bandwagon. I had my qualms about jumping into a world full of engineers and doctors, not that these professions are not alluring, but they did not intrigue ME at the time. As a child I never had one favourite subject. Each year heard me declare my love for one or more subjects. Science, language, mathematics, history, fine arts, performing arts, have all held me in rapture at one point or the other. For far too long, I had planted one foot on the ground, while the other on a boat, strongly threatening to float away. And then, I decided to dive. Letting the waves and current lap me up in their flow, I felt like Gu...

Are you/ were you at some point an avid reader?  Then you must have  quipped "the book was better" more than once. As a dancer, I learnt early on how one expresses with every tiny gesture. With a pen in my hand, thick sheets of paper underneath, being able to put words to my expressions makes me feel alive. Maybe my eyes do tell a story, but its often the ink that intricately elaborates it. Words, thus, are an insight into an author's life. Written pieces, even the smallest sentence, of pure fictional origin, somehow draws its first breath from its writer.  The pen is fuelled with ink dipped in experiences that left the writer's soul parched or inspired.  If you are nodding your head, or agreeing to this someway, then the rest of the blog would be much relatable. If you have any questions, you may turn back or continue to read with skepticism surrounding every word henceforth.  If writing, the act of creating narratives from an expression or idea, ...

Inspiration knows no boundaries.  It can come from anywhere and hit you. A tiny pat on the back might not make you cross over the bridge, but a smack across your arm will make you lunge for that one thing you desire.  Sometimes, you have a really well articulated idea, demanding narration and publicity. But mostly, you only hear whispers. Like small wisps of imagination, these whispers take nurturing and constant attention to grow into the stories they become. However, before they become stories, they go through 'growing up' just as we do. The infant with a hint of greatness ahead but lacking in communication. Anything you write at this stage, feels inadequate and raw.  Keep trying and your story grows into a smart child. Petulant maybe, or even stubborn and yet imaginative with an insatiable curiosity. This is the most imaginative part of the idea but with no anchors and unconstrained wanderings. At this point your story seems to move in multiple...

If you have been reading my blog for a while now, then I believe you are aware of my obsession with books. And with the territory of my love for reading comes my immediate lust for bookstores. Especially old ones. Each bookstore is like a treasure island, hiding deep secrets in the highest shelves and enticing me with beautiful leather bound spines. The older the place, higher the shelves and deeper the secrets.  I have been on the hunt for antique bookstores for a while now. On prowl, I often visit quaint streets and calm lanes, away from the crowd. Breaking all my assumptions,  the recent one I discovered, is in the heart of London and ever so exquisite. Any street in Leicester Square is full of people in the evenings. Drinks, food and good times. Come one, come all, Leicester square has something for everyone. The chatter and vehicles buzzing past me drown every sense one could feel, and still I walked steadfastly on my trail. My wonderful smartphone was thirsty and un...

“She drinks pints of coffee and writes little observations and ideas for stories with her best fountain pen on the linen-white pages of expensive notebooks. Sometimes, when it's going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationery.”  - One Day, David Nicholls

I watch a lot of TV series. Popular ones, funny one, dramas, mysteries and fantasies. The list is endless. They demand no thinking or my full attention. I often can do other tasks while watching them. They are not mundane, but just challenge-less. Yet, somehow, in most of these shows, the intelligence, beliefs, smartness as qualities are often ridiculed. Understanding mathematics is ridiculed. Reading books is ridiculed. The desire and the talent to go beyond the ordinary comes with its own set of struggles. The intelligentsia, is often depicted as a group which is set apart from the rest. Often termed and called a geek. Defined by the dictionary as "unfashionably and socially inept person", yet "a knowledgeable and an obsessive enthusiast." Geek! A four letter word condemning the smartest of our generation to believe that it is better to be "popular" as opposed having brains. When I was in school, I was not the exactly a geek. Not someone who...

If you had the option, what superpower would you ask for? For a day, for yourself? And no! Doing the world a favour or getting rid of evil, doesn't count. Think of something selfish, something just for yourself. Thinking??? Until then, i'll tell you my story... Just like everybody else, I work. To pay my bills, to buy unnecessary items i desire, to build a room full of things. And thus every day I go about doing my daily chores, my mundane routine of home to office and office to home. I live the life as me, the sensible one. The physical I in this physical world of money, science, politics, religion and all that makes up a society.  Now don't get me wrong. I'm not going to harp on about how one should love what they do or do what they love. That we shall leave for so many others to decide for you and me. And personally, I love buying all the unnecessary clutter in my life. The clothes, candles, flowers, watches, umbrellas and the never ending...

"I grew up with Tweety. And now there is Twitter.  Everything is a tweet, whether it be a yellow bird or blue" As of now, today, we all have opinions about everything. As we stand and watch the world go by, we point our little fingers at 'everything in our view', say a word or two with intense passion and then on approach of another 'thing in view' forget our previous temperament and move on to passionately support the next big thing. I am currently sitting in my office and reading various articles and forming my opinions as I read. Throughout the day, I appreciate certain things and condemn most that come along. How conveniently does one move from one subject to another is probably accredited to our unlimited access to information and the ability to publicly broadcast our emotions without processing it. This is not an article denouncing the entire system of sharing, broadcasting or in today's world 'tweeting' our thoughts. We as t...

Ok so this isn't a story, just thoughts stitched together... Thoughts that come while i walk to my morning train everyday. They needed to see light and this blog is after all about thoughts that "pop"... So... I love talking and people who know me would agree that I love it. I enjoy telling stories and when i cannot write everything down, I let my mouth take over my writing abilities and typing skills.  But what i enjoy most is "pondering". Not necessarily being pensive... but just questioning things around us. Like who decided the name of the days. I mean what does "Monday" even mean? (by the way 'Monday' is derived from "Moon Day" of the Old English) Or "February"? I cant even say "February" without tripping on my tongue. Why do we even have names for days or months... why not just a number. Well i'm sure someone will trace history and get me the answers, but its not the answers i look for.  What I...

I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes. Well I always was. He is the witty, observant, strictly logical, overtly rational and the exceptionally eccentric detective, everyone is bound to fall in love with. The new series (relatively new as compared to the books of 19th century), has put me in the re-reading mode, in an attempt to understand the mind of one of the most famous fictitious detective woven into the literary world. My love for detective stories obviously started with the ever famous "Famous Five"s and "Secret Seven"s. As i grew up, i transitioned to "Nancy Drew", and even dreamed of being a successful detective one day. Truth be told, which of us hasn't thought of such wonderfully exotic careers while we were growing up, right? All the books on detective stories lead me to believe, this was the best profession out there beyond the school years. Alas, what a child dreams are innocent and often forgotten as soon as a better prospect comes al...

Saturday morning, 10:30 a.m. I walked down the library aisles, looking for food for thought. From a corner shelf, the word "Foundation" caught my eyes.  I couldn't believe it. It was the same edition, the same cover in shades of orange and red. The author who had catapulted me into science fiction. Isaac Asimov... As i opened the book, i crumbled to the floor and was soon lost...  We, humans, are essentially emotional beings.  We rely on our emotions to guide us through the various experiences we go through.  We are hoarders of memories and love to keep piling on the stock every now and then .  More often than not, we run back to this rather large, infinite castle and feel "nostalgic".  If you were to close your eyes now and rush back to one such event, what do you think the walls will be made of? Well apologies for the building association, it seems to be an educational hazard (architecture has ruined me for all other professions...) Wha...