Today my mom asked me to go get fall bidding done for her new saree. Navratri has begun and Durga Pujo is just around the corner. This year we are planning to go Pandal hopping on a Saptami instead of an Ashtami or Navmi to avoid the jams and the crowds. I will wear a saree too and my Punjabi husband will tag along for the delicious food. In a multicultural household like mine, most festivals are a big deal, especially Navratri and Durga Pujo. But in the hullabaloo of festivities, we don’t stop to think of its essence – why do we celebrate Durga Pujo or Navratri at all. To celebrate Ma Shakti – a prompt answer from my mother. Navratri is a celebration of the nine stages of womanhood – a tribute to the power of the female.But to us commoners, it is a festival of dancing to the tunes of Garba or dandiya or Bollywood music. It is our turn to wear our best clothes, head out in the night, meet family and be merry. And once, this is over, the female form goes back to being what they always a…
I feel sorry for ‘Sorry’ – such an abused term. When you come to think of it, it is just a word, right? It holds significance in some instance and at times, it is a mere excuse. But we humans absolutely love it as an excuse, don’t we? I use this term a lot; I mean a lot! I think of myself as a kind being, and hence, if I happen to push or ignore (deliberate), I say ‘sorry’. I say sorry for things that may not need a ‘sorry’. I say ‘sorry’ to people I am not really feeling sorry for (don’t read this the wrong way). In short, I say ‘sorry’ a lot like I have already admitted. It is my ticket to moving on, a ticket to redeem myself for mistakes and sometimes, tinged with slight sadness (maybe).
But is ‘Sorry’ the right word? Mean, is it even appropriate? Like they say, first you commit the murder and then say sorry. What is the point of it? I would say nothing. Sorry – the term originated from the West Germanic term Sore that evolved to Sarig, meaning pained or distressed. It is also known…
Meet Akhila: forty-five and single, an income-tax clerk, and a woman who has never been allowed to live her own life - always the daughter, the sister, the aunt, the provider - until the day she gets herself a one-way ticket to the seaside town of Kanyakumari. In the intimate atmosphere of the all-women sleeping car - the 'Ladies Coupe' - Akhila asks the five women the question that has been haunting her all her adult life: can a woman stay single and be happy, or does she need a man to feel complete? This wonderfully atmospheric, deliciously warm novel takes the reader into the heart of women's lives in contemporary India, revealing how the dilemmas that women face in their relationships with husbands, mothers, friends, employers, and children are the same world over.
It is difficult to be born as a woman. From day one, she is burdened with expectations. No, I am not talking about Indian women only but worldwide. There are many a moniker bestowed upon women – she is a dau…
One with the winning team! I am never good at
keeping promises that involve spending time away from home (hubbytoo) on Sundays. Unfortunately for me,
many a blogger meets have happened on Sundays. While I signed up for most of
them, I never made it to either of the venues. My loss completely and now
I know how! And this is why I am really glad I pushed myself to attend the 'Pantene Nature Fusion Women's Indiblogger
Meet'. On a fine Sunday
morning I happily hopped into the Delhi Metro heading toITC
Sheraton, Saket. As luck would have it, I found the first Metro station
crowded, so much so that the queue for tickets snaked out till the auto stand
(not exaggerating, I swear). Plus, my Metro card had no balance and was far off
the validity date to be recharged. Thankfully He was close by to rescue me,
driving me up to the next empty Metro station. So my late entry into the meet
has ‘blame-the-mismanaged-Delhi-Metro-ticket-counter’ written all over
I was late yet when I en…
Source: Google Images
On days when the sun has abandoned us, hiding behind the grey, moody clouds. Do they sit inside their hills and wonder out loud? Do they stare outside at the rain, measuring the raindrops, letting thoughts splotch all over? Does the earthy petrichor take them down the memory lane? Or are they content with what nature has to offer? It is a part of their lives, isn’t it? They dredge up foods daily, diligently build their hills, even if it is to serve their queen, only to enjoy it on days like this, no? Maybe they do take stock of things, of their bearings. They ought to sleep it off, take a day to rest or do they lament on the lost time?
When I gaze out, a gazillion thoughts fly by; some worthy of the pen, some so disturbing that I often question my sanity. I like the grey skies though. They seem like textured canvases waiting for me to scribble something. The lazy raindrops wetting the streets below and casting a temporary stain on window ledges bring a…