Blowing Over The Dust

I recently read the article A Dust Over India by Mark Manson in the online PostMasculine. Evidently the author who was on his first trip to India could not have found a more god-aweful place to be at and decided to spew his bile in an article that paints the country in every shade of black that could possibly exist.

I'm usually perfectly nonchalant about articles such as the aforementioned. One man's experience can never be the base for your impression of an entire country. But there seemed to a certain rage in Mark's writing that got me thinking.

Paradise, Lost - IV

If you haven't read Part III, click here.

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She learnt of the encounter on the lake only two weeks later. Mohan’s battalion had descended upon the shikara like a hound of tigers. Shards of old pots hit the water as they uncovered the grenades. Armed men in pathanis seemed to appear out of nowhere. Two men lay dead within minutes in the cold lake as grenades went off. Ismail opened fire first. In the shootout that followed, Bashir and Qadir were the first to go. Ismail dove headfirst into the water, never to be seen again. The militia had been overpowered. As shouts of jubilation ran across the shore from the army tents, Gulaabo stared out at the lake, hand holding gun, eyes shining with tears. She had promised Allah she would avenge her beloved land and her son. It was all finished now. As she stood in the blazing sunset, it struck her how much of the red in the lake was human blood. Gulaabo wept as paradise bled.  She decided she would rather die than go with the Fauj. It was time. She closed her eyes and raised the gun to her head. She hit the ground as the last grenade exploded in the midst of more gunfire with an impassioned cry, “Ya Allah!”

Paradise, Lost - III

If you haven't read Part II, click here.

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Meanwhile, Mohan had tripped over a platform and landed straight at Gulaabo’s door. Ismail threw him bodily to the edge of the boat. With a growl he said, “Stay away. Nothing for you here.” Mohan’s face remained impassive. But for all the aggression, Ismail betrayed a slight fear.

Paradise, Lost - II

If you haven't read Part I, click here. 

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“Bhaijaan!”

She had run like the wind that fateful day, trying to follow the jeep that unexpectedly turned a corner, never to return. It was then that she felt Gulaabo’s cold hands on her shoulder. She had stayed with her, taking care of the old cripple through rain and shine.

Paradise, Lost - I

This is my entry for the RTE Guide/Penguin Short Story Competition 2012. I want to publish the story in several parts, because as a reader, long blog entries make my head go for a toss. So I keep my entries short and sweet, thank you very much. 
Background: 
When I was growing up, my neighbour across the street was a fairly creepy woman who would spend nearly her entire day staring out to the street from her window. As a kid, one of my pastimes was to imagine what her life must be like. One of my first written poems was inspired by her. The character of Gulaabo in this story is a very twisted take on her too. When I was looking for a place for the setting of the story, I came across a news article on new clashes erupting in Kashmir. Click here to read this article. So, here goes. This is a love story set in Kashmir. 
Disclaimer: This is not the mushy stuff that Mills & Boon is famous for. Happy reading!

Happy Anniversary, Ma and Baba

Read this while you play 'Dark Horse' by David Lanz. Just for dramatic effect. 

It was a fairly unremarkable courtship, I hear. Baba had come home from Ghaziabad, taking a break from his bachelor life there, absolutely unaware of what was awaiting him. So when the family sprung it on him that they had picked out a girl for him, his default answer was no. Ma, apparently, didn't care either way. She wanted to work. Married or not.

Ma and Baba had
'Love is..' coffee mugs
as newlyweds ^_^

How they went from there to being married and off to Ghaziabad together in a month is a wonder that I can only marvel about.  

Phallic Towers

Washington Monument, D.C, July 2012
Photo Courtesy : Muddit Poonia

So, there I was at Washington DC on a hot, sunny day, taking in the sights. Standing in the lawns of the U.S Capitol, with the Smithsonian Group of Museums on your left, what you see in the distance is the Washington Monument. Tall and erect, it shoots right up from the ground to the sky, a 555 foot tall marble obelisk - a monument to the father of the American nation - George Washington. First question that pops into my head - - of all the things they could have done with the fairly large area encompassing the monument, why did they decide to build a pretty huge..erm..phallus?

Reborn

New name, new template and an all new approach to writing. This time, with a purpose. Its been almost a year since I last took the time to write something here. Ye old blog, how art thee?  :-D

Looking back on my old posts before I start again, I can't help but exclaim how extremely depressing my writing was in my previous foray into blogging! It kind of borders on pathetic.

To all my friends who read the sentimental bull**** and never beat the **** out of me :

 
As it turns out, I am kind of a magnet for all kinds of weird incidents (and people, but that's a different matter). I reckon it will make for fairly interesting reading for a lot of people. And oh, I want to start putting interesting pictures on here too. Funny stuff I've come across.

Here's to a whole new blog, new style, new template, everything! But I kept the old posts. Just so I can look at my former sorry self and laugh at her. Happy reading :)