tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50774466158492192212024-03-04T20:56:09.156-08:00Twinnings of the MindI write for the individuals who find themselves lost in the soaring waves of the sea world. For them, who are no-faced on the stage of this world theater. Yet, the ones who aspire to be the directors here. For they are the better perceivers. Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-48083719896532516762015-10-19T12:42:00.006-07:002020-12-12T11:44:56.920-08:00Turning Back to That Time And Staring Meaningfully at It<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I went to my college a few days back and what I found there
this time, about 10 years later, is something I never noticed back in that
time. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">It was hope, possibility, and a huge blank canvas set to be painted by us. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When we enter into the college, everyone tells us how crucial
this time is. How these are going to be the decisive three years for our lives. How
we can mould or crash the beautiful urn we are being chiselled into. But there is one thing that
no one at all tells us. It is about the mammoth possibility we can
plunder, even if we fail here. There is hope, there is life that is beckoning
us. No matter if you don’t grade high, it is not going to snatch away the options
that this world has to offer. Even if you literature a wrong subject,
it does not spell the end of your life. Every individual's life has a unique tapestry that is not similar to any other. Choose your own way. Play around with your wishes and follow your
whims; they will definitely drive you to a place where you will make peace with yourself. And even if you don’t reach that point, it won't hurt you to accept your failure for at least you surfaced your way and trod it. Your way. You will be you, someone unique. Give a chance to yourself, you will never sink. You will definitely
float, even if you don't swim.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We are constantly told about the future that lurks. That is
ready to pounce on us with it crumbling pressure; and most of us try to live it
before the sun sets on them. Amidst all this, what we miss
is the real life. Our heart’s music, an inner voice muted by fearful warnings, threats, and competition. </div>
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Explore yourself. Know where the swings of your heart's vacillation is point at, and move along with it in your own rhythm. That's the only symphony meant for you. You can anytime make your life what you want it to be. You won't need pretensions. Live your life, all the possibilities call upon you!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="MsoNormal">If you do not believe this, go and read the stories about people who became legends, find out what and how they became what they did.</div><div><br /></div></div>
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Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-91621864890971532932015-08-24T13:03:00.001-07:002015-10-19T12:43:02.542-07:00In the Land Of My Eyes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikW0P5cdY6ANICP3o75YmUuDuEtmy0lCQh-iKtgrAH6vti4Q1nXyn_-encCm1bWqzi5g1gncz7OhVN0soiPcRP2ysucocgTkkYdGnGDHVpLMjsefteqsVobKCe9yjmuYyrMOwSxNQm-Sg/s1600/beautiful-indian-eyes-1-620x465.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikW0P5cdY6ANICP3o75YmUuDuEtmy0lCQh-iKtgrAH6vti4Q1nXyn_-encCm1bWqzi5g1gncz7OhVN0soiPcRP2ysucocgTkkYdGnGDHVpLMjsefteqsVobKCe9yjmuYyrMOwSxNQm-Sg/s640/beautiful-indian-eyes-1-620x465.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Water started rising up the building<br />
From ground floor<br />
to first floor,<br />
To the next,<br />
And it reached the next.<br />
Soon the whole building was drowned.<br />
The level of water rises yet above,<br />
And above,<br />
Till the whole sky drowns in it.<br />
And the sky starts raining.<br />
Huge rain drops splash.<br />
And when they fall down,<br />
They fall hard on a cracking land<br />
Ill with draught<br />
Which quickly absorbed the drop..<br />
And I realize.<br />
It was all happening in my eyes.<br />
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Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-28242899568109175782015-07-13T07:33:00.000-07:002015-10-19T12:43:14.366-07:00Being a Woman & Making Most of It!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFEhHvq_ez9XLR4lOhFIqJi5bVPdc0cwtxQe3viani2qNI3uWEDOteJCFKTc6mpjquBCeZ667oWLAykShoUVJ_FzfeXLRJYp95kgsj3niizCNp_AocYr3dZKiGweh508uQ1YT3F3tvLqM/s1600/free+woman+celebrity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFEhHvq_ez9XLR4lOhFIqJi5bVPdc0cwtxQe3viani2qNI3uWEDOteJCFKTc6mpjquBCeZ667oWLAykShoUVJ_FzfeXLRJYp95kgsj3niizCNp_AocYr3dZKiGweh508uQ1YT3F3tvLqM/s640/free+woman+celebrity.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Being a woman fills your life with so, so many
possibilities, that it is wrong if you ever hold yourself back on anything,
conventional or unconventional to your gender. You were created as a woman. Yet
you can be a man too (by the social description). You can be as much a man, as a
man is. You can dress up in formals, earn in dollars, or be physically robust.</div>
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You can support your parents, be the decision maker, take
complete charge of you and your life. But between these, just remember that you
are a woman and there is still more to your identity. You can dress to kill,
you have the luxury of wearing an array of colours, which men usually don’t
have. Remember that style and fashion are dying to be on you. Wearing make up and experimenting with your
look, putting on shoes to sandals to stilettos is your birth right. </div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">And there is nothing wrong in being a romantic. There is nothing wrong
in dreaming, floating in reverie, talking about your girly sentiments, affections,
excitements and passions. Burning away the concepts and ideas which have being
ploughed into you as a girl. Wash away the ashes of social expectations and
live independently on your wet dreams!<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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And yet this does not describe you completely. You have skills
which you might love, but you will never be able to discover it, for some jerk once
told you that it was too conventional to pursue it. And you believed that. Don’t
stop working on an art which you like, just because someone tells you that its
too conventional. Turn back and find out, what all have you left untouched, believing
someone’s half baked ideas of reform and modernity.</div>
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I am a feminist. But that does not make me a man. I have
tried my hands of every girly thing that has appealed to my aesthetic sense.
And imbecile, thought-less people have hated me for my very obvious and evident
girlishness. I cook, I stitch, I do embroidery, I dance, I play guitar, I am a green
belter in Judo, and finicky about my beauty and style statement ! </div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">Just know, what you
want from your life. And not let anyone else decide it for you. For only you
know, how your heart beats. And there is no flaw in it. This is how god made it
to beat. Follow its rhythm, rather than tuning it on some other music. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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People who have heard words like independence, without
reading it, forget about understanding it, have also hated me. For they think that am not
yet free of my gender. And there will be people who will hate you too, for your
being “excessively” girlish. But if your stop there, and put a check on how you
feel towards shopping, fashion, make-up,
laughing like crazy, being whimsical, sentimental, and more so, of being yourself, just know, you
are emancipated by no means. You are a slave to someone else’s ideas.</div>
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So, to all the girls who are a victim of someone else’s
thoughts, I want to make a suggestion that just be yourself. Cook, eat, love
children if you really love them, love nature if you really do, stitch, do embroidery,
love simplicity, or keep adding spice to your look or just do whatever , if you
actually love doing it!</div>
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<b><span style="color: #990000;"><i>A child is not a poem, a poem is not a child. there is no either/or<o:p></o:p></i></span></b></div>
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- Margaret Atwood</div>
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Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-36745092326136133052015-07-09T13:27:00.000-07:002015-07-10T09:45:30.014-07:00To Rage, or not to Rage, Is The Question! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Anger is bad. It is bad for health. Chuck the health! Anger is bad
as a part of your personality. It also makes you unapproachable. And it is worse for
people around you! I am angry when I am wronged. Angry might be a little too guiltless,
too neutral word. Still, I am generally a very loving person. Everyone
around me opts to confide in me, and
approach me for suggestions. But yes, I go mad in rage. I am a spitting fire when I am
in rage. I ooze hatred and heat. Every inch of me feels the slithering flames
of this fire. Every atom of me, throbs. My nerves, my blood vessels, throb. And
yes, I come to feel all of these in my body, when I am angry. It is bad! I know
it. Ask our doodle society, they will tell you that it is even worse, since as
I am a girl. I am sure there are a lot of people who are like me.</div>
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But why do people behave selfish, mean, deceitful if they
hate my anger so much! I wouldn’t care what my no-kith or kin thought about me.
I don’t give a straw to what rattles in her/his. But if it is coming from
someone I care for, I shout out loud and shriekier. If you have read ‘Mill on
the Floss’, or ‘Jane Eyre’, I swear you know me in and out. The way I was able
to relate with Maggi and Jane , I have never related with any other character
real or fictional. Just like Jane calls
out, “Unjust! Says my reason!!” I shriek, I cry. Just like Maggi, I fail to
understand why people behave the way they do. Why can we not live our own lives,
in our own little space. Because people love to nag? They love to take more
interest in others’ lives than their own. And I swear if they did take interest
in their own lives, their’s wouldn’t be so rotting and sulking. SO full of
grudges and accusations spitted on others. I at least believe in myself and my
own decisions. Wherever I stand today, I take full responsibility and credit of
it. I have no one to hold responsible.</div>
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Though, I agree that I need to mend my temper. I need to
mellow down to other’s nonsense and rather choose to dodge it. Embarrassingly,
I have shouted on many, ever since I stepped into youth. My first victims were
my college mates. I have never been able to reconcile with a few of them. And the
lot that stayed with me, I absolutely love you people! Today when I look back,
I realise that everyone is struggling to create her/his own impression. Most of
the people consider themselves losers, and internally keep repeating that they
are the success masters. Trying it hard, till they see this happening. Till
they read it in other’s eyes, till they hear it from others.. I don’t hold a
grudge against anyone, once the anger passes away. I realise, I know, it’s that
neither I, nor no one else has a right to be angry. It’s a kind of sin. A sin.
As you are failing to understand that the other person is weak. Failing to
accept that we all err.</div>
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My next victim was my boss from my first office. He was a
pro at handling me. When I would be angry, he would <b><i>not let me speak</i></b>. He would
just stare into my eyes and tell me to calm down. He had those snake like, piercing
eyes which enter into you. As my eyes burnt in rage, his piercing eyes and his tact of not letting me speak!<&%(&*!!
would put me in place. He is probably the only person after my dad, who has
been able to put in place.</div>
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Being angry is not good. Neither for you, nor for people trying
to survive around you. I have picked up a habit of writing, when I am angry. Instead
of spitting rage on someone, it is better to rant unimaginably self-obsessed
piece of writing, on your blog.</div>
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Thanks if you actually read it till the end. :) If you have any opinion about my crazy, self
centered piece, do drop it in the comment box and then leave. </div>
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Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-55630994631703068612015-01-14T01:00:00.002-08:002015-01-14T01:07:18.819-08:00Wild<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My dreams bite me</div>
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Dreams scathe me</div>
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I was burnt by dense fumes of my mind</div>
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Who collected,</div>
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Who coagulated </div>
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And made my sight misty</div>
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Fumes of dreams,</div>
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Baked on the heat of desires</div>
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Fumes of dreams,</div>
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Clot reality from my life.</div>
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My Mind and my body detached</div>
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My mind in the vapours</div>
My feet floored, away from mind<br />
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I run,</div>
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I run wild!<br />
Run with all my might!<br />
With the sky I rhyme<br />
With trees I twine<br />
I look for you<br />
But you, only in poetry,<br />
shadows of you I find...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJo-e0sdFXMghGm5rHTpI5LnZaYDxPWYSufubmpWPBVookWpwLjyBBANabZw-fK3YCNtgJIXu-UQvd3cskfBvb1SxzpsM3RMD6GbtMpTYy7CuyDIo-IlvODtxk_FArWrEG2fLgOVMVJtU/s1600/running.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJo-e0sdFXMghGm5rHTpI5LnZaYDxPWYSufubmpWPBVookWpwLjyBBANabZw-fK3YCNtgJIXu-UQvd3cskfBvb1SxzpsM3RMD6GbtMpTYy7CuyDIo-IlvODtxk_FArWrEG2fLgOVMVJtU/s1600/running.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-81179837248472458792014-08-21T21:51:00.001-07:002014-08-21T21:53:15.594-07:00De-Mask<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPrO-K2iVh56mR0-MAyxLjPxZPlVRPw8d2RXCoUQELp-zf4MOgk0GwG1TT94lWDo5JmthPcCJAe6XmaHIIS8CmwPuCrpj7uWGLoB_vsAU8Fk1NEpR1BCX4-dEwflwDzLkpirlTpipkoEY/s1600/Stop-Violence-Against-Women.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPrO-K2iVh56mR0-MAyxLjPxZPlVRPw8d2RXCoUQELp-zf4MOgk0GwG1TT94lWDo5JmthPcCJAe6XmaHIIS8CmwPuCrpj7uWGLoB_vsAU8Fk1NEpR1BCX4-dEwflwDzLkpirlTpipkoEY/s1600/Stop-Violence-Against-Women.jpg" height="320" width="289" /></a></div>
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Violence is not just punching someone in nose!<br />
Violence is screaming on someone and rattle her soul<br />
Violence is not just slapping someone in face<br />
Violence is breaking someone’s courage.<br />
Violence is moulding someone’s existence with your might.<br />
<br />
De-mask your brain!<br />
<br />
You don’t just breakdown someone in form<br />
You breakdown people in spits of your rage.<br />
You don’t just bind someone in cage.<br />
You turn a blind eye and let someone bleed through her age.<br />
<br />
Freedom is not a feeling suspended in universe<br />
Spirit is not a word in verse.<br />
It is that air in which<br />
everyone and anyone<br />
can rinse and bathe.</div>
Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-56903480684228184672014-06-23T05:36:00.004-07:002020-12-12T11:53:23.117-08:00Power Play and Indian Weddings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpDbC0dURRXJ6SYe11oVjXHdaoOvmGkAj7sAScqQCWlVGRecYdjuENTIW3OUlQ9sgFK-RAds6iqR3t5ZhXXgHLCca1cv9f4A7dtWJS5iXwoZ-vUplZKbU99ATBN1ckEQrpvu2N0mnTCKc/s1600/indian+weddingd.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpDbC0dURRXJ6SYe11oVjXHdaoOvmGkAj7sAScqQCWlVGRecYdjuENTIW3OUlQ9sgFK-RAds6iqR3t5ZhXXgHLCca1cv9f4A7dtWJS5iXwoZ-vUplZKbU99ATBN1ckEQrpvu2N0mnTCKc/s1600/indian+weddingd.jpg" /></a></div>
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We are taught right at the onset of our learning about wedding as a concept, that this alliance is a power play. One is above and the
other is under. One is essentially the underdog, and the other one is bound to have
the upper hand in this relationship. The burlesque gameplay ensues on the eve of the wedding, when the
bride steps into the groom’s house! There are wedding
games. ‘Games’ at first sounded fun to me, like the hide and seek, or the ring a
ring a roses. I grew up to find out that the game wasn't meant to be as
innocuous as it sounded. It was shrewd and a pure example of a pervert
human brain. Like the one in which a ring is submerged in a bowl full of
petals. Whosoever finds the ring sooner, gets to dominate the household. And
if you lose, you are doomed for life. This constant drilling in idea, that the alliance is going
to be a struggle, a tug of war, where either you win over him, or he wins over
you.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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They do it
tirelessly over and over, in every wedding. For bad or for worse, this trend
survives!<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is not the only stale bite that you get of the big
wedding cake. Right after the ‘feras’, the father of the holy bride, hands over
his daughter to the groom. And we call this ‘donation of daughter’. Can a daughter be really given like elms to the groom? While the bride is reduced to a
substance, she retains her position as worse than that begging, seeking groom, looking up to
his wife as a booty. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you have heard the concept of ‘the big fat Indian
wedding’, you should watch it personally. You will get a glimpse of our glorious hypocrisy. The couple might hail from a middle class, but the parents of the girl will throw a big, fat lavish wedding, that sucks every
little penny that the parents of that girl might have saved so far. We put up a show to live the glorious past! we put everything on stake for it! We might not have it, but we
shall fake it, till we lose it all. While most honorable of men have started
taking initiative of sharing the cost, there is no change in the mass unconsciousness.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there is a big list of good omens, and bad omens attached to our wedding ceremonies, which
might cause you a jaw drop, if you are are an outsider. We look for symbolism in nearly everything. If the two wooden logs hit each other, there will be a lot of
clashes in your marital life. If you kick that kalash (bowl) of rice on the
doorstep before entering the house, it will bring prosperity in the groom’s
household. I would rather respect a thing that I eat, than kicking it out for
prosperity. And then the best of it, which I personally love the most <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span> . A bride, while bidding adieu to her parental home, throws rice backwards in the air, to return all the favours her
parents extended to her. A paying back of all the food she had in their home. It
is probably the best way to pay back the love you receive. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
This, and a lot of other reasons push me to elope, than getting
married in a traditional way. I somehow wish to dodge these traditions of a
jerkwater town and escape them all. No matter how many books you read, what qualifications you attain, if you can't see the insensibility in trends like these, you are as bad as a poor uneducated grown up, of unfortunate circumstances. I have been pretty bad with the game ‘when in Rome, do as
Romans do’, through and through. And I mock the imbecility in face.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-42684388055638667542014-06-23T05:31:00.000-07:002014-06-23T05:31:33.098-07:00Songs and Romance of the Time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPT2ASyAMkmf1OjIeqUxIqSbHtf1BhuLX-cHGsDika7CSIQ3CZlcW1fj75VzZWbmZWINhqWH5bE7RGO4TzN2ahI57pcRrldcAykLGtmD19C12kiCTF7XWxTuQDR31yHnMNfH5dcBXkbmc/s1600/kareena-and-shahrukh-hot-look-wallpaper-ashoka-movie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPT2ASyAMkmf1OjIeqUxIqSbHtf1BhuLX-cHGsDika7CSIQ3CZlcW1fj75VzZWbmZWINhqWH5bE7RGO4TzN2ahI57pcRrldcAykLGtmD19C12kiCTF7XWxTuQDR31yHnMNfH5dcBXkbmc/s1600/kareena-and-shahrukh-hot-look-wallpaper-ashoka-movie.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Romance. How do you define it. Romance might not always be
with a beloved. Romance is that state of- complete intoxication. Some songs become
romance, if you listen to them on reprise in solitude. I can put down a finger
and identify how and when some songs become the emblem of romance in my life. And
surprisingly, they are not the tunes that I enjoy with the love of my life. It’s
that romance, intoxicating powerful, commanding romance, that whisks me to
another world, and I have to give into. Some fragrances are romance. The way
they capture your consciousness and make your existence purer than dreams. But
it won’t happen anytime. It happens on certain time and writes its peculiarities
in bold, engraved letters in you, forever. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-74990195877069144082014-06-10T02:21:00.001-07:002020-12-12T11:40:11.033-08:00Welcome To The World Of Hypocrisy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIzBbcZjpenO7z3ReeKq3wVqU0iwcgz07rTOy9W6dyQiQ5-ryC7gagBdx71k-9dBw8gu5SX3gEn7YEsN8JPSKg2nGCI-laenlqi5OuNC-LiZf0B7HgthI-GMPkHwGSnHcbJr-gVexBOvs/s1600/download+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIzBbcZjpenO7z3ReeKq3wVqU0iwcgz07rTOy9W6dyQiQ5-ryC7gagBdx71k-9dBw8gu5SX3gEn7YEsN8JPSKg2nGCI-laenlqi5OuNC-LiZf0B7HgthI-GMPkHwGSnHcbJr-gVexBOvs/s1600/download+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I remember my bosom friend telling me this sometime back, “you
have made peace with the world”. I was happy to hear that. Because I believe in
her knowledge of me. Here I am, after that rare day, realising, that
was not 'peace made with self', it was a writer’s block. Not just an incapacity to
write, but a mental dormancy and emotional lacuna.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p>World presses itself against me and once again all my faculties
are surging back in revolt and revulsion. We live in a world of hypocrisy. Which
essential means, that there is a trench of difference between what we preach
and practice. We appreciate things but have no intention
of adopting them; and I fail to understand the reason why we shroud around such hypocrisies.
People feel warm in this woolen, coarse blanket of hypocrisy that is welcoming to their imbecile minds that conveniently hops from one belief to another in a matter of seconds. But who do we deceiving with this? Do people successfully lie to themselves too?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once again I am disillusioned and zoned out from this ‘civil
society’, shrinking from the
idea of being normal and together with the crowd. People cook hypocrisy, love to
top it with formality and respect, and serve it as old and rotten as it is. No,
you don’t need to be 50 year old, to face hypocrisy. It is right there in front
of you. If you are a humanities students, you will know you are dumb. You can
ask your relatives, and they will happily tell you how big a looser you are, for
you opted for humanities. Then no matter how many times you shout that it was
your choice. Your conscious decision. All you can do is to wait for time to be history,
to do the talking for you. No, the irony is not just with humanities students. If
you are a science student, you just have a different frame, but definitely, you
are framed. Science students cannot have a heart, and humanities students cannot
have a brain. Could I only offer them a piece of brain. Sigh. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you are on the threshold of 30 years, and pursuing your
career goal, instead of entering into a wedlock, you will be tirelessly shown a
thousand couples with kids and talk about it as an achievement against all the
effort you invested in doing something constructive. And if you are a woman
aspiring for something higher, prepare yourself for even worse a situation. You
will be told that it is because you have no hopes from your future, and you are
wasting yourself. Practically, you are loosing the chance of hooking a handsome
guy to you. And if you do have someone in life, you are damn so good at hunting
down the net and entrapping good options. Underscore, you are born with crooked
instincts, and you have to live under restrictions to live a well regulated
life. Sometimes I think, if I sluice people who so religiously practice hypocrisy,
will they ooze blood, or a filthy slime ?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You grow up, and find out that it is good enough to sleep
with a stranger in an arranged marriage (for both, girls and boys), but it is a
matter of shame if you love someone. And if you find someone and your
families do reluctantly acquiesce, you are bound to live under the stipulations of their culture,
their experiences and their hypocritical believes. A place where for no good
reason, a family thinks too great of itself while marrying away a son, and that same family is low to the ground, when it has to settle his sister, or say its daughter.
They accept inferiority, just as they believe in their divine power of owning a
son. Here, a morsel for your famished thoughtless brain, yet to evolve as a mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here, people swear like a pig, feel like a bull and act like
a mice. Claim to read a thousand books, and cling on to the hypocrisies as a
reluctant accomplice to the practice. </div>
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<o:p></o:p>I am all glad to be here. A place where I am a thing to be
seen at. Where all my acts are taken with a grain of salt. I am a badass social critic, because I am a
student of literature, which shows you how to think. And has better logics than
you have in your fact science and commerce books. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-30449385984723242852014-06-03T02:35:00.002-07:002020-12-12T11:30:49.094-08:00Do All Parents Tell Stories?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7CWTtmKpCize9ixV0WtOe5-roiIoiisMVAZ9X5Ke6cdrRInkeXRfr-CuQOv9rXWX3nzmT79qoueTGNhTU2iF-YLOWv6S1OymMJ6HRP9pZfYMeDd3ckdO4LaZoodkI7913SWOWoAAFx9E/s1600/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7CWTtmKpCize9ixV0WtOe5-roiIoiisMVAZ9X5Ke6cdrRInkeXRfr-CuQOv9rXWX3nzmT79qoueTGNhTU2iF-YLOWv6S1OymMJ6HRP9pZfYMeDd3ckdO4LaZoodkI7913SWOWoAAFx9E/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
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Do all parents tell stories? I am not sure if they do. Most of
the kids spend their time with their grandparents, listening to the timeless stories
of their youth, twists and turns that their life took. Bad people they walked
into, and the good people they found like rolling stones. All the grandparents have
their stories to tell. But with me, it was different. I didn't get a chance to
meet my grandparents. No grandma rocked on the rocking chair, weaving sweaters and the stories of the bygone times. No grandfather took us to the
toffee shop on his shoulders. There was no grandma telling me stories of how
she had to manage a living during the tough times of independence, or granddad
telling how emotionally torn he was, working under the British regime in a government office. I
have seen them in the photographs and I do remember their faces clearly though. A newly married
young man, proudly standing by a bicycle, holding its handle firm in his clasp. A lady clad in a heavy banarasi saree, laden with heavy jewellery and pounds of cloth. That life
never touched me. I had no chance of asking them all the questions that
loom in my mind as I look at more such pictures. Some of them were answered
by my parents, but for most of them, even they don't have an answer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
My parents have told me astounding stories of their childhood, a world so unknown and mysterious that I can't help marvelling at them. I remember waiting for the power cut as a child, to sit under the candlelight and listen to my mom and dad as they traveled into their past to bring us some milestone incidences and hilarious occurrences. With
my dad’s huge family of 7 brothers and a set of parents; it was an overbearing
emotional surrounding, against the weak emotional environment of my mom’s
family, with a set of parents living on different stations, and no sibling
to live by. I used to listlessly listen to their journeys. Each has its own flavour very different from the other. But they do belong to the same world that ticked out ages ago. I remember these stories like sweet lullabies, sung to me by the past itself. Just like lullabies, these stories have succulent emotions that lulls me into sleep. Time has strengthened
my bond with their memories, and now whenever my dad/mom repeat an incidence, I already know it like it were my very own past. That's almost me telling story of a particular day in my past. I am scared
of being severed from these ever. These have meditational value for my soul. Is
there something that you live by too? <br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-83000983920779006122014-05-30T12:18:00.000-07:002014-05-30T12:44:22.655-07:00To Err Is To Be Human, But to Arr..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDZnh7Mbg1EszdILL7z9RaMc3uHj5jglr_8dwZqbnz1BzMEA3-AXYGJrlX5j91ARtkUH0zh9GtNfHExQQAgF-YRVrzVVrmHeBVRuUm9mVH79bTfOyU1HmGmjTlBol0m-394trjSmv8yA8/s1600/blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDZnh7Mbg1EszdILL7z9RaMc3uHj5jglr_8dwZqbnz1BzMEA3-AXYGJrlX5j91ARtkUH0zh9GtNfHExQQAgF-YRVrzVVrmHeBVRuUm9mVH79bTfOyU1HmGmjTlBol0m-394trjSmv8yA8/s1600/blog.jpg" height="231" width="320" /></a></div>
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To err! To err! To err! To err is human. To err and
wrong is to be human. You wronged me, and I wronged you. And we acted human. Does
not change the good deeds that you did to me. Does not change the good you intend
right now. And I can not hate you for long. As, I know, to err is human. I am around friends who have erred a hundred
times, and a sister who has erred a thousand times. And myself, who has
erred a million times. Not that my sins of erring are greater than
their’s. More you know someone, faster your err count rises. I know my friends. I know my sister
better, and I know myself even better. I am not pointing at the times, they
erred when I wasn't around. None of us thinks of it. And the errs you did, do not cloud the space between us. Because on a subtle layer of our mind, we
know, we err, and live for good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How can we expect perfection, when people wrong themselves. That too normally, and commonly. Over
and over, they wrong themselves, but some of them turn into a sack of regret. They
regret and turn bitter, because they fail to forgive even their own selves.
They can never forgive your erring. They love perfection, and they don’t have a
space for their own happiness. Forget they will understand, that you have the nature bestowed authority to ERR, for you were created as human.
Don’t break your divinity for them. ANd the rest of the people, don not even notice that they err. They
are devoid of sight, and cannot hold to relations for longer. Just like they can't hold anymore space here, on my blog. Someday, when your image of perfect is cracked, might be the right time to look back into
this blog. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People make follies, and they live with it. Imagine erring
on your wedding alliance, and ending up being in a bad marriage. Or taking up a
wrong job, and living with it for the rest of the life. The turmoil of your daily chore is like the pains of giving birth to a demon’s child, each new day. There are
follies foiling people everyday. Each day, someone is shot down by the erring
process. You and I, we both know people who erred, and are living with their
folly.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it is not about them. It is about you and me, face to face.
I know you wronged me, but that doesn't change the good behaviour we shook like handsome hands. Or the intentions we hold for each other, for that matter. There
are times we wrong each other, we bitch, we abuse, turn our backs against each
other. We wrong it all! But all the good things remain there, no?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
But some people don’t just make mistakes. They live it, feel it,
and paint a world with it. As a sensible mind, I can never have a place for such
wrong intentions. They Arr, as pirates, unlike us, who err as humans.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-37090345025064779812013-10-09T05:39:00.000-07:002013-10-18T23:31:51.028-07:00Translation of a Song By Gulzar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLM7Qy22lMIowRnEqPRFyYqpee-1nEpXKON7KAY2kPaccwTWetOVI4lPMiFe5IKXFJwZBpN9_OeZ-Vmg4ywZ0Zc1naiQYG4CNJ9_9CTLL6i4K9Vkv3B5xLzzq4KZonVoLhquqjAp142o/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLM7Qy22lMIowRnEqPRFyYqpee-1nEpXKON7KAY2kPaccwTWetOVI4lPMiFe5IKXFJwZBpN9_OeZ-Vmg4ywZ0Zc1naiQYG4CNJ9_9CTLL6i4K9Vkv3B5xLzzq4KZonVoLhquqjAp142o/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
<b><span id="goog_1607472301"></span><span id="goog_1607472302"></span><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Tujhse Naaraaz Nahiin
Zindagi<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Hairaan Hoon Main<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>O Hairaan Huun Main<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Tere Masum Sawaalon
Se Pareshaan Hoon Main<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>O Pareshaan Hoon Main<o:p></o:p></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Life, you don’t upset me,</b><br />
<b>But you do astonish me.</b><br />
<b>Your blatant questions do disturb me</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>Here I am, all disturbed.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Jeene Ke Liye Sochaa
Hi Nahi<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Dard Sambhaalane
Honge</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Never did I believe,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That life would mean to nurture pain. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Muskuraaye To, Muskuraane
Ke Karz Utarne Honge<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Muskuraauun Kabhii To
Lagataa Hai<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Jaise Honthon Pe Karz
Rakhaa Hai<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smile, I have to pay a pound of me for each smile</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smile, when smile touches my lips,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know it’s a mortgage settled there forever</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span> </div>
</div>
Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-52856455907778448162013-09-12T23:13:00.000-07:002013-10-18T23:32:14.182-07:00 Sinfully Perfect<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvh_hQGjl93LwwXr9nhEXKrJbVQnYuv7627oLM_xl4eifG-Ogk-icQQtR93oSxkIkOv-2Or-w32lVskk0OhJPQdw-paeNFiZCBdS8ikyrBTR33GyccPgkpHRygkwVFBwTyjyEbUC3_3Ig/s1600/blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvh_hQGjl93LwwXr9nhEXKrJbVQnYuv7627oLM_xl4eifG-Ogk-icQQtR93oSxkIkOv-2Or-w32lVskk0OhJPQdw-paeNFiZCBdS8ikyrBTR33GyccPgkpHRygkwVFBwTyjyEbUC3_3Ig/s320/blog.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.75pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #3c3a35; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.75pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Pressure points drilling in.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
Pressure always makes me sin.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
Sinfully perfect in every way.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
Sinfully perfect in my own despair.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
<br />
drinking the flames</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
I </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Pass through
the fire <br />
Spewing a raptures inferno –</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
from within.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">fire howls atop ma pale skin.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
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I see it within your glistening pools</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
that sinful desire – ignited, needed.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
Press it again – make me sin</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
ride this fire deep within.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
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Growling further into my own despair</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
Diving headlong into my own hell –</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
divine hands couldn’t save me now.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
Pressure always makes me sin.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
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Let crimson flames roar.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
Let my sin – make you sin.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
Ride this fire deep within – await</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
the rapturous inferno when I’m within.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
<br />
Sinfully perfect in every way,</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
I’d not ask for it any other way.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
Pressure always makes me sin,</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
and I beg you now - press it again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-3802555534091855362013-01-01T06:07:00.001-08:002013-01-03T00:23:15.871-08:00Survival Of Love: My entry for the Get Published contest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRaBW1qG3Pg8m8Y-6ShMH7B2MWHoIgzuiScz0MvL-guFYiNNr9IB_V4v5PVzPhYWav35rQLofQvXcb7hMOtAN4foPk2XTnzAmB_QrAMNi8O8zzH7vVDU74o0b1rAgKSwnHfvGX4OTEvP0/s1600/books+and+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRaBW1qG3Pg8m8Y-6ShMH7B2MWHoIgzuiScz0MvL-guFYiNNr9IB_V4v5PVzPhYWav35rQLofQvXcb7hMOtAN4foPk2XTnzAmB_QrAMNi8O8zzH7vVDU74o0b1rAgKSwnHfvGX4OTEvP0/s320/books+and+me.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A literature student, who knows more about the
corners of her dusty college library than the race to high paying careers,
would probably never imagine her man, coming from an MNC and talking about his
trade of corns in Europe. And no man, who knows it is smart to talk about
gadgets, would date a girl bound to classics. But it does happen with the
narrator, who meets Kabir for the very first time at her home. She finds a
known sheen of dream hidden behind a pair of spectacles. Kabir is someone who can
handle a group of fake people, but does not know how to respond to simplicity. He
looks several times below, when he so wants to keep looking in her eyes. Our
narrator, Avi, and Kabir talk for about 10 minutes, and their conversation free
them in a way. In each other, they see an unknown side of life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Kabir had read and appreciated her poetry several
times before, not knowing who she was. Now that Avi tells him about her works
of poetry and stories, her simplicity draws him in, and he reveals a lot about
himself. He finds something magically appealing about her. They talk about
books, they talk about their own poems and part with a promise to come back
with their writings. A promise made on a thin ice. Which would better be
broken, but better kept by an unseen pull, a force. He, a drifter by nature,
who would recluse from anyone who tried to come closer. And Avi, someone who has
just trusted books so far, finds him strangely close. Avi emphasizes him to
write, instead of typing his poems. She has this vague confidence, that she can
judge a writer through his writing and work, combined. Her queer way of relating
him closely with her books maybe?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After this unexpected meeting at her home, where he
just drops in to return few novels that her sister had borrowed from her, for
him to read, a series of meetings unfold. And everything happens so naturally,
that they both feel like they are flowing on water. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On their second meeting, he comes with his poetry
that titles, “You are not welcome”. And she comes with her poem, whose first
line says, I was a dream, now a reality, soon to elapse as memory”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Both are fearfully aware, that they live in
different realms of the world, with different social circle, topics to talk
about. They live their lives for different purposes, which do not recognize
eachother. And even together, they see this one single world, very differently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">While on the first date she has this flighty feeling
that says –“you belong somewhere else”. By the third date, she feels that she
is dancing in a crystal ball, with a strong blizzard blowing around. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If you have picked up the cue from ‘blizzard’ in
their crystal, you will know a lot is to happen next. A lot is to happen
between them, helping them grow together, and know themselves better. A lot
more than a plain love story, peek into their world, to know what happens the
next. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">This is my entry for the HarperCollins–IndiBlogger Get Published Contest </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"> </span><a href="http://www.indiblogger.in/getpublished/">http://www.indiblogger.in/getpublished/</a>, which is run with inputs from <span style="color: windowtext;"><a href="http://www.yashodharalal.com/">Yashodhara Lal</a></span> and <span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><a href="http://www.harpercollins.co.in/">HarperCollins India</a></span>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-36798514335875919682012-12-18T10:51:00.000-08:002013-01-01T21:05:16.986-08:00May Worse Than One Can Imagine Fall On You<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">How I wish something better had 'inspired' me to
write, instead of this sheer provocation. We are still sleeping on the
soft, cushioned, and flabby pillows, happily shutting our eyes against all the vicious
acts happening around. We give and accept statements, laud and hoot eachother’s
voices. And how nicely we do it. Elated by the performance, happy to have proved our brainpower . The charade is over in a day or two. And we are back to
our tables. Brooding, how to churn out chunks of money, what to buy for today,
and sell out for tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">Ironically, the brainpower is limited to the chatrooms, parliament discussion, in the pages of newspaper, twitter, facebook (if not found offensive to anyone) and the media discussion grounds of course. The intellectuals are on a mental work out till they vitiate all their energy.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Their ideas fail to feet on the ground. And the brainpower
is exhausted, leaving no scope of acting on the brilliant ideas and suggestion, which could have made a huge difference. We are exhausted miles behind
the effective decision taking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We are here again. The black deed is done. the girl
dies there, in the darkness with the echoes of loud noise from discussions. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When will this rising din of revolt touch the future
of girls? And save them from the dark shadow always lurking behind them? Can
anyone in this country save the girls from a traumatic today and a scary
tomorrow, that has already scarred not just a few, but whole of their sex? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">Is there even a single girl, who can stand up and announce she has not been through some sort of sexual harassment? We are a shame and a disgrace to humanity, till we can save and rescue each girl from such fate. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As for the case, I would like to quote my lovely friend- Bitch Slap's golden words,
moulded by a heavy & hot iron “If any of the rapists are reading this, Yo Bitch
Go cut your dick and stuff it in your fucking mouth!!” I believe she did what no one could do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-40061775816501709552012-07-18T00:33:00.001-07:002012-07-18T00:33:21.330-07:00Resale<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Death
is building up in me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Reconstructing
my too old existence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">and
there is a new sun for this new structure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Too
strong for my withering bones<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I
will soon be compressed as sand <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Under
its burning hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-25070691314002840182012-03-22T01:39:00.001-07:002012-03-22T01:41:24.968-07:00Andekha Tufaan<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXFB_pNZv2CPuQQF8an_mERtMWPBjRqLP90uzjgm1wQektnU7QY4vlHzZNT3eVkiPEr2Fl3RKF-ScOkel5DXA_XLls_SJgeczKup67M6tnbtAeuiW8nyHwODPQqx7HoEZx0-fx_9sKw9c/s1600/sea.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXFB_pNZv2CPuQQF8an_mERtMWPBjRqLP90uzjgm1wQektnU7QY4vlHzZNT3eVkiPEr2Fl3RKF-ScOkel5DXA_XLls_SJgeczKup67M6tnbtAeuiW8nyHwODPQqx7HoEZx0-fx_9sKw9c/s320/sea.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722638620511633186" /></a><br /><br />Namkeen paani kuch idhar bi hai baandh ki peeche tufaan ki tarha thapede marta hua. baad kabi yaha bi aati hai ehsaso ka dum ghoti hui. <br />aur beh jati hai imarate jo bani thi palko ki chaon mei, sapno ki narm ithose. <br />ye paani samundar ki tarha vishal na sahi . <br />kabi chkh kar dekho. ye kam kadwa bi nahi. <br />baad ke bad sanate ki goonj khokhla ek aks chod jati hai, sab kuch cheen kar...Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-43688264363831712782011-11-15T05:05:00.000-08:002011-11-15T08:18:46.962-08:00Two Hours Of Resurrection<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie0QRRH2cP7SHaGE6uLr6nBg9SISSDYwEkmKk2qu3Ca1gmorfNMwBXtM0B4D7cAKW8K7lPTtSN7Mh40KDbevKx-zXMaylRR4Olya6yOwgsj3DQghXETGSVvgmJqJpo7auT702XJpL_Ezw/s1600/nita.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie0QRRH2cP7SHaGE6uLr6nBg9SISSDYwEkmKk2qu3Ca1gmorfNMwBXtM0B4D7cAKW8K7lPTtSN7Mh40KDbevKx-zXMaylRR4Olya6yOwgsj3DQghXETGSVvgmJqJpo7auT702XJpL_Ezw/s320/nita.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675219448610723842" /></a><br /><br />Go back to the diary..<br />Go back to that dusty library...<br />Sip coffee once more..<br />Drink the writings once more..<br />Chew on the ideas<br />Romance the feeling of words<br />Give me back my world, in two pennies of those two hours.<br /><br />I can’t word<br />Give me a word mask to resurrect<br />Athirst for thoughts<br />Famished for food to brain.<br />Long lost the nights, to unfinished stories of dreams.<br />Long lost the meals of sentences to the morsel of words.<br />Lost plateful books to empty shelves of years<br />Living with minimum, I scribble sharp poems<br />Instead of the couches of essays.<br />Where a few disjoint and lost words come together<br />to deliver a gesture.<br />Far forsaken by lengths of expression<br />Of the writing.<br /><br />I was a dream<br />Now a reality<br />Soon to elapse as memory.<br /><br />Lost my metaphors somewhere<br />Standing in a lacuna today<br />I walk a step and breathe heavy today...<br />Just wrapping up a debilitating unfinished story ...<br /><br />I would generate memoir of the past two years<br />Smelling the yellowing pages in these two hours<br />That doused before I could have realised.<br /><br /><br />This post has been written for Indiblogger's Surf Excel Matic Get Smart Contest - If you had two extra hours in a day, how would you spend it? To Participate click <a href="http://www.indiblogger.in/index.php">here</a>.. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.indiblogger.in/topic.php?topic=46"></a><a -llzgCoi_CwM/TsJkf4Spk7I/AAAAAAAAAUw/ZMOiT0u3eqQ/s1600/untitled.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 313px; height: 108px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDG38DW7lkCJLws9jfl1YRcqLbzIrxI9h-3PUkTF23uff31R__loYVk2eaEepvbzxc3vP7Z_580jMh2xMg8XB6XBVQGEv2pVb6q6xZyWohoRAXiAvupdrtCeuWGiVUzQJ8P8eAghsAGI/s320/untitled.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675208979289576370" /></a>Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-27637223648530434342011-10-29T12:54:00.000-07:002011-10-30T21:58:40.591-07:00A Mountain Castle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZmo14_cVJHPWT-q5m_6_FWRiUm2g9TOfaywh__MDHNcdBZ2rAoiHRNwdpRiif79JlrIESbqfJ-bvycxTOcZHmeUa5tKHAZcGnOi8eCDIgk-G3NXtiWXfbkut001pAWgmArdACFpR3N2A/s1600/castle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZmo14_cVJHPWT-q5m_6_FWRiUm2g9TOfaywh__MDHNcdBZ2rAoiHRNwdpRiif79JlrIESbqfJ-bvycxTOcZHmeUa5tKHAZcGnOi8eCDIgk-G3NXtiWXfbkut001pAWgmArdACFpR3N2A/s320/castle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669006147525685266" /></a><br /><br />High up in the mountains,<br />looking out over the rim.<br />there the sky is clean blue.<br />There the trees glass green. <br />That’s the place I once lived in.<br />There life is aglow<br />aglow with a beam.<br /><br />Throughout the night, under my bedcovers,<br />I would hearken the silence of night<br />and the sound of wind.<br />the snow falling soft and white.<br />Pure as my heart’s wishes.<br />It would fall on and on, on<br />the lovely cones of tree leaves<br />and the thick hill beneath the trees.<br />And the hills above the sky.<br /><br />Today, the very same hills,<br />With changing patterns and whims,<br />They shroud a new look <br />Smelling redolence. <br />With the first fall of snow…<br />So many secrets they preserve…<br />Only to me they show.<br />Deep whispers in the walls of my white castle..<br /><br />A sudden dusk...<br />A loud whimper of a wistful longing <br /><br />A new morning...<br /><br />And the slipping sand in my hand<br />under a new moon....<br /><br />A beautiful castle ....Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-13065629148489142342011-10-25T12:48:00.000-07:002011-11-16T02:00:28.279-08:00Is Everything That Straight?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzol5Wit2McxDH3LrpC87nn8mwfvcZ3SF8ktWh90BdckfZAH3gc8aSbiuWkeTV4bZSv0RcsyK93wpoCkmgsj17e2t8mXe004tBGo-HI_wqZDpK5r5k3qgtlnyqCZ1KYYbykRnoB-pLNww/s1600/Good-Friday-Cross-Wallpaper.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzol5Wit2McxDH3LrpC87nn8mwfvcZ3SF8ktWh90BdckfZAH3gc8aSbiuWkeTV4bZSv0RcsyK93wpoCkmgsj17e2t8mXe004tBGo-HI_wqZDpK5r5k3qgtlnyqCZ1KYYbykRnoB-pLNww/s320/Good-Friday-Cross-Wallpaper.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667519785822345794" /></a><br /><br /><br />Can you think when was the last time, when you found solace with a companion of your sex? Bear that moment in your mind while vouching to read further. <br /><br />We often come across terms like transgender, transman, transwoman, Polysexuality, omnisexuality, polysexuality, third gender people, two-spirit people, gender queer, transvestite et la! Do we actually understand what is it all guided by? In the boulevard of love stories, bush is not so green today. Men are no more men, and women no better fit in the frame of their sexuality. Turning your back to each other, you are pouting an affronted emotion, or complaining about a piqued ego. Has it not been enough for your while?<br /><br />Think when did you last complain about your bad relation. (just to make sure that the soil is moist enough to sow this fresh variety of seed). Is it not more or less about worth? <br /><br />I believe, what we are looking for in life is 'value'. People of dysfunctional families develop this sexual complexity, as they see the shredding of reason behind marriage and the pointless clinging to the love theories long cherished. The bottom-line is, they have realised that there was no Cinderella. And who knows if the other facts, long learned and adhered to, are serious enough? When even Cinderella wasn't, which they believed in through their childhood. <br /><br />They have seen, in a dysfunctional mechanism, the coupling didn’t work. And you cannot physically relate to a gender, that you can not trust. And you start seeking satisfaction with someone from your gender, who feels his/her own emotions just as clearly, or roughly as you do. And you strip the gender holding you back. Sexual act is just the last cement to fix your new identity in a new life.<br /><br />Here I am badly reminded of the Highway Stripper by A.K Ramanujan. I request you to step afore from voyeurism and decode the hidden aspect of it. A women stripping off her gender, just at a time when she is high on a highway! She is probably driving with that sense of freedom which often comes with a power over the steering wheel.<br /><br />One last time, just think of the time, when you flinched at the idea of commitment in a relationship. Just a little mellowed form of transsexuality, where you are unable to completely accept that opposite sex? Commitment phobia is just a swerve of freedom. Freedom of what? Somewhere deep under, it is the fear of being defined under one sexuality. <br /><br />This is something, which can probably just be felt and understood by writers, who have the patience to step into someone’s shoe.Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-42431602631830712852011-10-13T21:50:00.000-07:002011-10-24T09:30:11.467-07:00Dreams Twinkle In My Eyes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghriRLKa-JFOyj42rT-4kRzc7dXhfkJM4emt8wKG2UlIy_J7T07Cnbc71NX71yyW5DnahcAT8s08NDYyuVTtFa2HgXIiGqn4VFm0mF-gKHfFpBf87wWXSJJvHZ4aDKlDxgp-1SLI4hgoI/s1600/eyes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghriRLKa-JFOyj42rT-4kRzc7dXhfkJM4emt8wKG2UlIy_J7T07Cnbc71NX71yyW5DnahcAT8s08NDYyuVTtFa2HgXIiGqn4VFm0mF-gKHfFpBf87wWXSJJvHZ4aDKlDxgp-1SLI4hgoI/s320/eyes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663206493485976562" /></a><br /><br />Dreams twinkle in my eyes<br />But a world breaking down on the hinge side..<br />It is dusk<br />And the darkest and lightest colour of the day and night,<br />Come better as shades…<br />Time to come back home..<br />Time to stop and return to the abode …<br />Half asleep, I am just enough awake..<br />Half dead, I am just half alive<br />Besotted in my mind, <br />I am burned by my own dreams and desires <br />Turned to ashes <br />I am scalded under this little too vast sky…Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-24200207493944010332011-09-19T09:47:00.000-07:002011-09-21T00:20:35.882-07:0037 lines<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFf9xYuhMHhus7ZhVVhjONM-9mXm9jbZuVEcdcI7kp_xYzOhJ7eHj7Sn6AOTonddMBNgEsUmwVgVF-W9BM3-ZB4JSAygLDgYYK6XEtOI3Wp-sEceoQLh0t8vGFaKUexzc2azQWXjAh5o/s1600/pad.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFf9xYuhMHhus7ZhVVhjONM-9mXm9jbZuVEcdcI7kp_xYzOhJ7eHj7Sn6AOTonddMBNgEsUmwVgVF-W9BM3-ZB4JSAygLDgYYK6XEtOI3Wp-sEceoQLh0t8vGFaKUexzc2azQWXjAh5o/s320/pad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654113849473950178" /></a><br /><br />I am withering in form.<br />Can u see?<br />Life mocking at me.<br />How can I be?<br />Dark must,<br />Of a hollow pervasiveness.<br />A devil deep in my dwelling.<br />Scaring and scarring.<br />A nightmare coming true in its casting.<br />A ghost livening up in masses.<br />A death tolling in the middle of dances.<br />A life blowing in glances.<br />Messed up are my chances.<br />Spirit lost in the sand glasses.<br />True blue in the grey of the matter,<br />Not a spec of colour lasting.<br /><br />How many times do you sew a linen?<br />Ravel the threads of my clothing.<br /><br />Deep injuries casted.<br />Mania surrounding the masses.<br />A body conjured,<br />Lost in the movements of moments.<br />It’s dead. It’s holocaust.<br />Don’t carry it to the Halloween frost. <br />Dead should depart.<br />Compelling it is nothing of art.<br />It’s done, it’s off.<br /><br />I am free I can not be framed.<br />Freedom from fixture..<br />In the freedom of soul I swim.<br />Seasonable is this gain.Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-35531936486061015012011-07-21T05:40:00.000-07:002011-09-13T06:09:00.644-07:00A Death Foretold: By Ministers: Bombay Blast and Its Mysteries<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVUeQxIh8KQNbho2zo0c717oIuPKin92Ym3wQ6dpPVeH0qlZrkdja-tnoftilTBJYyP3hQT0s5t8ocNpSjIL_rDub5gnbnXJc72GHximYueWQYX5f2Ojrd6jVJvY87mCbgqnwZ4Wp_vLE/s1600/blast.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVUeQxIh8KQNbho2zo0c717oIuPKin92Ym3wQ6dpPVeH0qlZrkdja-tnoftilTBJYyP3hQT0s5t8ocNpSjIL_rDub5gnbnXJc72GHximYueWQYX5f2Ojrd6jVJvY87mCbgqnwZ4Wp_vLE/s320/blast.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631786939234492098" /></a><br /><br />The “democrats” could have narrated this blast beforehand; just as well as Gabriel García Márquez unravelled it in A Death Foretold; i.e., with the power and insight of the plot writer. Politics is getting too dirty, and people are looking at this incidence with a critical view, that holds the government in the dock. It is a call for us to stop behaving as snobs with technique in our head, and money in our pockets, and rather take up a responsible position in this “save<br />India” coup.Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-82196335682379053352011-06-28T00:43:00.000-07:002011-06-28T02:52:33.110-07:00Monsoon Again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xVZF2yKaC10yhYtcllodKmHnUP8SeEWFWXkWlkBZPdWo6DVLUnhcY43Qqua7JNUivWzCLEtj_XNjtS5TffLdWj7bI1NrqouqAaMiev3qMNo0gNtqQdxrRe9fb2B2OfT9EqFwwElM9Oc/s1600/monsoon.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xVZF2yKaC10yhYtcllodKmHnUP8SeEWFWXkWlkBZPdWo6DVLUnhcY43Qqua7JNUivWzCLEtj_XNjtS5TffLdWj7bI1NrqouqAaMiev3qMNo0gNtqQdxrRe9fb2B2OfT9EqFwwElM9Oc/s320/monsoon.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623173283227256450" /></a><br /><br /><br />When hard luck n a fat chance build your way... <br />When it is like standing on a crater crust,<br />Which can spue fire any day,<br />You can predict<br />You can not commit<br />Better get carried to a destination<br />where it takes you today<br /><br />A desperate urge to fly<br />A relentless heart to get high<br />Once it wanted a calm stay among shy leaves<br />Like waves of a restless sea,<br />My heart rattles and rambles this dusk. <br /><br />The day I left your shadow.<br />I knew there would be no sunlight for me.<br />There is layer of dark clouds in the sky.<br />And the monsoon is back calling again at meAvantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5077446615849219221.post-18309755659026647062011-06-26T08:12:00.000-07:002011-06-26T21:49:25.220-07:00Identities and Shadows Behind<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZ6AsEjwvzubscs5jFU1nQYCgU3Q2cpIWIIFAnA57AzrBJ-8j3HPU3oLFwiUzdnDoWjyYTuacTQd28YfmZw-FMAal6-i0SUZq3apGJnSbPpkvTWCHLsORy6nFcxNElSYW41RKwhz8XMI/s1600/me.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 314px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZ6AsEjwvzubscs5jFU1nQYCgU3Q2cpIWIIFAnA57AzrBJ-8j3HPU3oLFwiUzdnDoWjyYTuacTQd28YfmZw-FMAal6-i0SUZq3apGJnSbPpkvTWCHLsORy6nFcxNElSYW41RKwhz8XMI/s320/me.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622547748937556226" /></a><br /><br />A part of the "Dear Lucky Agent" Contest on the GLA blog at www.guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog<br /><br /><br />"A child is not a poem,<br />A poem is not a child.<br />There is no either/or.<br />However."- Margret Atwood<br />(A canvas can lodge your subtle thoughts and ideas. But you need more than a canvas to reach here) <br /><br />Just to introduce myself, I am not struggling with my identity, like many others. But there are a few things that do divide me. I don’t like taking the cover on my face, and colliding my face with the mask, to give impressions of me. Yet I take to conceal myself in various ways. I know there are things which are better left unsaid or suggested. And I leave the responsibilities to the subtle strokes of my paintings. Hope you like them.<br /><br />A confident smile cutting the sides of her well formed lips. <br /><br />Applause followed the long perfectionist’s speech. Being a successful artist in 40s, gave a power to Momita over her senses. Confidence sells the quality in you, and even the headstrong trust in yourself for that matter. Her dad called her paintings rogue and senseless, when she first started it at the age of 14 years. But she did prove a point in favour of her art, did she not? It was the 22nd painting exhibition she was holding and…Avantika Kaushikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11016793973660997327noreply@blogger.com2