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...

"Happy Women's Day!!!"  Come 8th March and the chant begins. Some really do believe in it, some don't, but go along nonetheless and the rest vehemently oppose. I'm not particularly joyous enough to say it aloud, though if anyone wishes me, I thank them politely. To me, the celebration of this 'one day' seems a little worrisome. So I balance myself precariously with my feet in two different boats, sailing through the fast current. Just like any other new idea, this one comes along with its own baggage of pros and cons. And yes, I do believe this concept is new. One day!  Today of all days,  I feel marginalised. Rationally thinking, why should me and my fellow women of the world get just one day to ourselves... International Women's Day! What about the remaining 364 days of the year, not considering the leap years. Do we restrict the celebration of womanhood to this one day? Or do we get so remarkably busy living that we need a day to remind u...

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...

Sunday Morning, 7:30 a.m. I wake up to a single beam of light on my face. The ray has somehow escaped through the curtain of clouds and the wall of books at my window. I watch the specks of dust, suspended, with my eyes half closed. Somehow in that state, with all the glitter and shine, I almost believe it to be fairy dust.  It is a typical winter morning. You can lick the frost off the window sill. The thought of having to step out of the warm blanket is almost unbearable. The clock reads 7:30. This is early for a Sunday. Too early.  I reach over to my right side, trying to locate my mobile phone. Maybe I could stay in for a couple of minutes more and do a crossword puzzle. Or maybe I could just stay in, the whole day. My bed is my universe. My laptop within close reach. The window sill, a comfortable shelf with all readable books stocked. And side tables spilling with all important things within my arm's reach. What more could i possibly need on a Sunday. A growl. Ah ye...

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...

Have you heard of date on skype?  Well I have one, ever so often with my family. Recently, I 'Skype-d' with my grandmother and she just couldn't get over the image of me sitting in front of her. Well, almost in front of her. Amazed, she asked my mother if my video was a pre-recorded message. Her amazement multiplied when I started a conversation with her. 'Just like on a phone but with video', she exclaimed! My nephew on the other hand, sitting in her lap seemed very comfortable with my digital presence. He started an online game with me as if this was as good as us prancing around the house with his action figures and bat-mobiles. I could start telling this story with the usual 'once upon time', for it feels like fairy tale. A tale we've lived and forgotten so easily. I should begin at the beginning. When I was still a child. My cousins and I used to write to each other, especially during the vacations. I remember waiting weeks for the lette...

"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...

Characters in ink became her world, Stories dear to her heart, came to life; Inked words dancing to the tunes of everyday chores, Specks of dust swirling to create the imagined landscape. She and her pen, her pen and she; They could fight the world together now. For they could see a better future, Than the world could see for itself.

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...