If not me.. Then Who?... If not now ..Then When? ....
Monday 29 September 2014
Sunday 28 September 2014
Monday 22 September 2014
Sunday 21 September 2014
#day 2
My indecisiveness pulls me down......... I am beating my impulse ........ which now shows me how irresistible .... things can get ..... !
"I will wait .. I will wait for..... " --- "Mumford and sons " song on my head...
Saturday 20 September 2014
# day 1
hard times.. aren't they? but only they teach you how good what you had ... and only they make you fight for what you really don't want to lose !
Wednesday 6 August 2014
This is one of the loveliest of all the stories that i have written .. i want you to have a look at it..
WHEN BIRDS LEAVE THEIR NESTS...
He took slow steps through the concreted sidewalks of the road. Slow soft steps... as she had once showed him.Bougainvilleas and scarlet roses hung in bunches from the stone walls of the house where his Slow soft steps stopped.
Push one gate and then pull to open the other, you can easily escape the unpleasant creak that those rusty railings made. These were too her words.He never knew from where he had recollected them.
For memory and memories were not his friends.Enemies neither.Like a long forgotten acquaintance.. Like a loose contact.. or like a lost contact ?....
The pillared 'pink -painted' house had all its doors and windows open,except that one little window that was once a home to a 'little bird'.Yes, he remembers that too, she was a 'little bird', with a lovely pony-tail fountain on her back,with deep dark dimples.
True, they weren't related to a bird. But still he knew that she wasn't a bird but still 'little' to him. And how the little bird threw her head back laughing hard, pressing her stomach, widening her eyes, and dimples darkening.He knew that too.
The house observed a complete stillness as if a mourning was going on.. Was it?
He took careful steps that went round and round in the swirling stairs outside the house. It lead to the little bird's room,with the one closed window.
The stairs lead to a wooden door. The door opened to a room. Probably the little bird's room.
The room with the one cloed window.
The room of many colors.- of rosy sweetness , of reddish madness , of greenish stupidity, of blackish insecurity.
After all, its the little bird who owns it. Sorry, the little bird who owned it.!
He saw a long procession,through the little bird's one closed window(now open). It carried a wooden coffin. It seemed like a row of ants carrying a cookie piece. But very slow as if the little soul inside the coffin mustn't know where she was taken. The little bird did leave a lot of traces in her room. The arc shaped balcony had much to say about her,as it had been a quiet observer. So Quiet, that even when the little bird walked off it, it did nothing than just being silent.Infact all the living beings that night seemed silent. All of them. Obviously that includes the little bird too.
The balcony gave him a great view of the evening sky. It showed him birds that were flying back home after the days' end. Al birds back to their nests except one. The one with a lovely pony-tail fountain at her back and deep dark dimples. Only that bird and that little bird hadn't returned.As she has now been returned back to the earth, a few miles away.
When he moved his legs,he found himself stamping on a piece of paper. It has a convent style handwriting that said :
" Little bird " hasn't left her one closed window, but has gone to a nest whose windows were always open to her "
He sighed- desperate or relieved ?
Your choice.
written by ROSHNI RAVINDRAN .
WHEN BIRDS LEAVE THEIR NESTS...
He took slow steps through the concreted sidewalks of the road. Slow soft steps... as she had once showed him.Bougainvilleas and scarlet roses hung in bunches from the stone walls of the house where his Slow soft steps stopped.
Push one gate and then pull to open the other, you can easily escape the unpleasant creak that those rusty railings made. These were too her words.He never knew from where he had recollected them.
For memory and memories were not his friends.Enemies neither.Like a long forgotten acquaintance.. Like a loose contact.. or like a lost contact ?....
The pillared 'pink -painted' house had all its doors and windows open,except that one little window that was once a home to a 'little bird'.Yes, he remembers that too, she was a 'little bird', with a lovely pony-tail fountain on her back,with deep dark dimples.
True, they weren't related to a bird. But still he knew that she wasn't a bird but still 'little' to him. And how the little bird threw her head back laughing hard, pressing her stomach, widening her eyes, and dimples darkening.He knew that too.
The house observed a complete stillness as if a mourning was going on.. Was it?
He took careful steps that went round and round in the swirling stairs outside the house. It lead to the little bird's room,with the one closed window.
The stairs lead to a wooden door. The door opened to a room. Probably the little bird's room.
The room with the one cloed window.
The room of many colors.- of rosy sweetness , of reddish madness , of greenish stupidity, of blackish insecurity.
After all, its the little bird who owns it. Sorry, the little bird who owned it.!
He saw a long procession,through the little bird's one closed window(now open). It carried a wooden coffin. It seemed like a row of ants carrying a cookie piece. But very slow as if the little soul inside the coffin mustn't know where she was taken. The little bird did leave a lot of traces in her room. The arc shaped balcony had much to say about her,as it had been a quiet observer. So Quiet, that even when the little bird walked off it, it did nothing than just being silent.Infact all the living beings that night seemed silent. All of them. Obviously that includes the little bird too.
The balcony gave him a great view of the evening sky. It showed him birds that were flying back home after the days' end. Al birds back to their nests except one. The one with a lovely pony-tail fountain at her back and deep dark dimples. Only that bird and that little bird hadn't returned.As she has now been returned back to the earth, a few miles away.
When he moved his legs,he found himself stamping on a piece of paper. It has a convent style handwriting that said :
" Little bird " hasn't left her one closed window, but has gone to a nest whose windows were always open to her "
He sighed- desperate or relieved ?
Your choice.
written by ROSHNI RAVINDRAN .
Monday 14 July 2014
I learnt this today!
ITS ALL IN YOUR MIND........
Whatever you hold in your mind will tend to happen in your life.If you continued to believe what you have always believed,you will continue to act as you have always acted.If you continue to act as you have always acted you will continue to get what you have always gotten.If you want different results in your life then you will have to change your mind....
And i have changed mine..............
Monday 26 May 2014
So
we Indians are open about our differences; we do not attempt to subsume
overselves in a homogeneous mass, we do not resort to the identity
disguising tricks of standardize names or uniform costumes or even of a
common national language. We are all different; as the French, that most
Indian of Europeon peoples, like to put it, albeit in another context,
vive la difference( live the difference !)
-shashi tharoor (The great Indian Novel) —
reading The Great Indian Novel
-shashi tharoor (The great Indian Novel) —
reading The Great Indian Novel
debates continue on how a huge country with a vivid variety of masses need to be governed balancing the opinions and views of the so called majorities and minorities. but to me the change lies in how we see things.i believe that what is left to do, is to realize the strength of that common thread that binds all of us.
yes,
bengalis, gujaraties, malayalles,madrasis assameese and many more we are. In spite of these many differences ,what you are with spirit for your country is what counts the most. so let me make a change to it mr.tharoor, long live the unity of India !!
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