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Indian Potpourri IIISouth was simply superb. Josh had reached God's own country-Kerala. The profusely viridiscent landscapes glided past in slow motion as he ferried the lakes. There is the immensely variegated boat race festival known as Onam. Long boats are oared by brown, sinewy men-each one vying to win the race. The women dress in white and gold, slowly sway, carrying small mud lamps around colorful patterns drawn on the ground with powders in every imaginable color called Kolams also called rangolis in the north.
Huge elephants are indispensable during Onam. The pachyderms are scrubbed by the proud, smiling Mahouts in lakes and then adorned with red and gold brocade and paraded with howdahs (saddles).This is the land of Kathakali,the indescribably complex, holy and radiant dance-danced by an all male cast. They sit for hours together and paint their faces predominantly with greens, reds, black and yellow and emote subtly yet articulately displaying a plethora of histrionics-pomp, pain, piety and pur
Indian potpourriIndian food was at first unpalatable. Josh had been on an All India trek.He tried the Northern food that was available in every little shanty called Dhabas. It was mainly from a place called Punjab (lit. the land of five rivers). He grew to relish it. They offered bread made in a tandoor (a pot like oven).Fresh, hot and delicious. He tried tandoori murg (spicy chicken cooked in the tandoor), and kofta curries (vegetables/cheese, meat balls smothered in thick spicy gravies), kebabs (skewered edibles), Biriyanis (spiced rice) along with a generous supply of raw onions, curd, green chillies and lime wedges. The spices they used were mainly was garlic, onions, cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, peppers, cashews….
Kashmiri food boasted of fruit-both dry and fresh .He began to enjoy Kashmiri pilaf (rice cooked with pieces of fresh and dry fruit) and naans and kulchas (pancake bread sprinkled with fruit as well) and ghosht (meat mainly mutton).Gujarati and Rajasthani food was succulent even in its b
Happiness is...A red gold sunset
A baby's gurgle
A mother's curls on the nape of her neck
A toothless smile
A distant laugh
A cheerleader's scream
A sailor's ahoy
A home nearing on a cold drizzly evening
A steaming mug of cocoa with a warm book beside
A sister's kiss
Chaos or CosmosIt's amazing....How the greatest anthropologists cannot unravel the biggest mystery ?I would choose the most flabbergasting and bewildering mystery as the human psyche,the essential soul within the Homo Sapien.It is as if we are trying put together the jigsaw puzzle of human race-its beginning and evolution.But the more we conclude the more baffling it gets.Our religions have developed mythological and fantastic theories of how we originated...
To think of how only two percent of the human brain functions.The rest is a colossal waste.Imagine if we could harness all the positive potential that we could build upon and work together with a common goal.But we let our petty differences and foibles rule and stifle our common motto-the ultimate human revolutionary evolution...
Shouldn't we be applying the 'agree to disagree' and 'win-win' strategies to iron out differences and ego clashes between us.After all this body and our personalties are perishable.
The idea of Nirvana is a bit too far-
NavratriNavratri, has the literal meaning nine nights (alliterative!).Celebration takes place for nine consecutive nights. The very mention of the word brings poignant memories The lights dancing along the heavily brocaded Ghaghra cholis. The mirror work beautifully formulated by some unsung artists. A million sparkle-spangled, vividly-hued, intricately embroidered full skirts swishing. Softly tinkling silver bracelets, anklets moving to the exotic rhythms. Hordes of smiling women with foreheads intensely beaded with perspiration. They pant while dancing but have ecstasy writ on their countenance.
The staccato rhythm never pauses while they pirouette. They carry decorated foot-long sticks and clack There's the unfailing beat .
Myriad hues reds, yellows, greens, blues. Gyrating fast and slow. There's the sweetmeats they gorge on to keep their pep. Icecreams, Aam ras, chats. The nights go by They dance till the wee hours of the dawn. Special provisions are made. There i
Blind beliefsJosh learnt the history of India piecing together the events that were narrated by a slew of people including the sants (the beggar monks that claimed to be in a state of renunciation), the merchants (vending all and sundry), the "guides" (who told scarcely credible stories of how, when, where and why the tourist spots existed), the palm readers and astrologers, the eager bystanders who nodded (the very oriental nod) and elatedly spoke gibberish.
He moved through the (high class) discotheques and through sleepy villages that had never seen power supply. There was rubbish strewn on roadsides some places and there were touching tales told of how people worshiped the Gods that took forms of trees, animals, human beings (yes, pantheism was rampant in India).He found it disconcerting that people, who were that sagacious and sane, worshiped snakes (often offering milk to the hooded asps called cobras) and the bloodthirsty Kali (mother Goddess).They had deities and demigods that ruled over mo
TajHe had visited most tourist spots that India boasted of, including the pearl Mosque city of Agra (at its bewitching best on a moonlit night) he snapped copiously away at it. The scented night made deep lasting impressions in his memory. He visited Chandni Chowk with its myriad hued hawkers. The festive iridescence casting a spell in its native chaos
He was spell bound at the peddlers and their wares. He then inferred something. There would never be that merry gaiety and pomp contiguous with the rich, splendid culture that this
new world had offered him in his country. Behind the garrulity and (seemingly) rude conduct of these simple hearted, almost bucolic mannered people, there lay a warmhearted concern and solicitude that no one in his "developed" continent could ever hope to match. He saw these curios, antiques and artifacts that were tremendously well-crafted and painstakingly wrought.
He saw sophistication in the city created by Le Corbusier called Chandigarh.
He saw the vas
Paradox ParoxysmsOne thing that India did not lack in was variety. People were seen in a myriad of colors, shapes and sizes. And they did a multitude of tasks. Josh was in an awed reverie when he suddenly was shocked by a sharp slap on his right arm .He turned right in time to see a
cow ruminating lazily swishing her tail about. He just about missed a dollop of dung.
He resumed his journey afoot wary of the penny pinching tricycle driving autowallahs.
He, then was awestruck by something he had never imagined .
A Mercedes E-class. The classy silver colored luxury on wheels was turning around the corner. He was aghast at the paradoxes India was offering, every minute of his life
He passed by a mixture of sorts-raggedy beggars and street urchins ,men urinating and spitting some awful red stuff that corner shops offered as paan.
Piles of malodorous foods-Samosas (some kind of potato filled pastries), Bhel Puri-(something that had no valid name in the more civilized world he knew of), Sweets made
Indian welcomeWhat was that again? Josh squinted in the merciless sunlight. A sign that said in a variety of scrawls "Ramanand Rao-("A cuer for the incueribals-homeopathethic doktor with hypnatics and reversel of blake maggic"). He was riding an "auto"
-a kind of a modified tricycle that honked and blared with a hideous cacophonic noise.
Yes, he had passed by the same "market" at least twice before. He had no clue about the
viciousness (literally akin to the "vicious cycle") of these swindlers
The man was crazy. He kept ranting on in a language that he called "Inglees"
The "auto man" was gleeful alright (at leading the lamb to the slaughter) through the narrow alleys. Josh wildly gesticulated at the blithering idiot and put on his most authoritative voice and ended up yelling at the smirking, smug Autowallah.
They had reached a nook .It was a dilapidated building. Ah! There was the lodge
That said (in the by now familiar variety of scrawls)"Shanthi Niketan"
He jumped out and was immediate
Bathtime"Sherman! It’s time for your bath!"
Uh-oh. Sherman was trapped. This was one of the worst possible things that could ever happen.
He hated it. The cold water (which was due to the fact that he delayed his bath for as long as he could) the fact baths always stopped him from playing, the scrubbing, the inevitable bedtime afterwards…it was no fun.
What was he to do? There was only one thing for it - to hide. So that’s what he did. Thinking quickly, he hid under his crib and hoped his father wouldn’t find him. Perhaps if he lay still enough, he wouldn’t be noticed.
He could hear his father’s clunky footsteps coming closer. The door creaked open. There was a silence, then a short sigh. Sherman heard Mr. Peabody nearing his crib and within seconds, he found himself getting pulled out from under it. He shook his pudgy fists about.
"Come now, Sherman, let’s not have this," Mr. Peabody muttered.
"Nooo! I don’t wa
Sherman's Mother"Are you alright, my dear?"
Mr. Peabody’s attention had been drawn to a shifting in a nearby alleyway. He squinted at the dark, hunched figure. He guessed it was a woman from the sound of her voice. Unfortunately for her, she was retching. Despite the repulsion, the dog kept a good distance away while she finished emptying her stomach. For a few moments she didn’t move and Mr. Peabody stepped forward to see if she was alright, hand extended.
But at that moment she raised herself up, almost tripping up on her dress. She swayed outside onto pavement lit by the streetlamps, the pale light reflecting off her shiny, auburn hair. She glanced down at Mr. Peabody.
"Whadda you want, mutt?”
Mr. Peabody showed little sign of offence, knowing fully well that she was still under the influence and therefore not thinking straight. “I was just concerned for your well-being, ma’am.”
"Huh. My well-being. That’s a joke… Along with eeeverything
It had been a long grueling day out in the desert, and as usual I was on my own. I was travelling with a group of fellow archeologists in order to check out an old tomb for some possible hidden treasure and artifacts. Unfortunately for me, I was stuck navigating this hot and musty old ruin by myself! My group had chickened out after watching The Mummy the night before, and decided against following me into the ruin. I made my way through the decrepit tomb, looking for some sort of special treasure to bring back. Sadly, searching ruins isn't as glamorous as they make it out to be in movies. There aren't any large caches of treasure, mystical artifacts, or Daedric weapons situated anywhere. It's a good thing that's the case, I'd hate to be transformed by some kind of weird magical artifact again!
I wandered through the ruins, and looked about for anything worthwhile. Finally, I found a strange room in the back of the ruins. Sitting in the middle of the room was a glistening golden statue
Goodnight DadHere's some music to go with this story
* * *
The elevator doors opened and out stepped Sherman. He was all grown-up now and had travelled all the way from his home to visit the old penthouse he once lived at. Now it was just owned by the famous Mr. Peabody, who had disappeared out of the limelight quite some time ago, due to him not appearing as often.
The reason? Mr. Peabody was too old.
Sherman’s shoes squeaked against the laminated floors as he glanced around at the mostly unchanged house he used to roam about in as a child. He entered the lounge, looking about for his father.
"Hello?" he called out.
Suddenly, there was a quiet thud at the door. Sherman swivelled around and saw it open slightly. A cane came through, shortly followed by the hunched, greying figure of Mr. Peabody himself. His green eyes sparkled the moment they set upon Sherman.
"Ah Sherman, my boy," the elderly genius greeted, "so glad to fin
Giving Life to The MoonBlackness. She was going in and out of blackness. It was consuming her, pulsing around her. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think.
A voice kept coming to her, faint and quiet. She couldn't understand it. It was too far. She felt as though she were underwater. Everything was distorted beyond her senses.
And then there was pain. It shot through her like the talon of a hawk, or the fang of a dog. It gripped her tightly, and held her it's prisoner. She could smell blood. She could feel the blood. It was all over her. And it was overpowering.
There was that voice. She tried to open her eyes, to see who was speaking to her. It was hopeless. She knew she was going to die. Is this was death felt like? Pain and darkness, consuming her? It was horrible. She wanted it to be over.
"Timidbreeze? Can you hear me? Just breathe, okay?"
Her ears twitched. She felt herself take in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. She opened her eyes slightly, blinking her blurred vision away. Bre
Giving Names to The Moon"Timidbreeze?"
She felt her body shudder with her sobs. A small bundle was held between her front paws, her warm tears dripping down upon it. Two other small bundles were nearby, both mewing and wiggling around. But this one.. was still. And silent.
She sobbed again, trying desperately to drag her tongue across the unmoving brown kit. She thought she would taste it's warm pelt and fur, but instead she got a mouthful of her own salty tears, and felt his cold body.
Her head shot up, her eyes locking on the form of the grey pelted medicine cat. He stared at her sympathetically, and moved closer, glancing down at the brown tom between her paws. His voice was calm, and quiet, "Timidbreeze.. He's gone. He's with Starclan now. I'm sorry."
She tried to speak, but only made a few small grunts instead. Her paw came across her eyes, wiping away some of her tears. How could any of this be real? With everything that had happened in her life, she had no idea her heart could possibly b
My Gorgeous Rose: A SonAmy FanFic. Ch1 It was morning, the sun was glimmering like diamonds. 13 year old Amy Rose was sleeping in her bed. "Amy..." a voice called. Amy got disturbed and continued to sleep. "Amy get up you're gonna be late again!" Amy opened up one eye to see who was calling her. An 16 year old blue hedgehog with Hair that reached to her thighs, a bang on the side of her head, 4 eyelashes on each eye that were separate. (Like Tails' eyes.) She was dressed in her Sailor uniform for school. "C'mon Amy, you're dozing off. Get up now it's past 8:00!" Amy got up. "Eh...? EH?!" Amy got out of her bed quickly and took
Off all her night clothes and goton her Sailor Uniform quickly. "Let's go, Amulet!" Yelled Amy. Amulet stood there and sighed. "Okay." Then Amulet ran downstairs and saw the Amy already left for school. "Amy..." Amulet grabs both of there lunches and ran out. Amy was still running the fast as she could. "Amy! Wait up" yelled Amulet. Until Amy was in fro
The Wanderer She was known as the Wanderer.
A modern-day Forest Gump or Jesper Olsen, she went from place to place, going wherever her feet led her.
Except unlike both the fictional and non-fictional people mentioned above, she was on the back of a horse.
Sitting astride a black horse, she rarely said a word other than a simple 'thanks' when news vans and curious passerby recognized her and swarmed like bees to a congregation of pollen-laden blossoms. Her once frightened and flighty horse had turned into a trusted travel companion, merely looking at the noisy crowds with seldom a flicked ear. On her mahogany-colored custom-made saddle rested saddle bags filled to the bursting point with necessities such as her wallet, clothing, grooming supplies, a first aid kit, and other items of that nature.
One might wonder how one such person is able to feed the ravenous appetite that a horse brings. Well, when one is a national celebrity, one does fin
HIMH Ch. 18Ch.18
“Austy... Wake up… I’m back…” Riley said poking his cheek softly trying to wake him up.
“Mm…” He groaned and stirred to the other side. “…5 more minutes…”
“Austin you’ve been sleeping since I left! Which was at like 3:27 in the morning… and its now…” She paused and looked at the time. “5:12 in the afternoon…”
“Get up.” She grabbed his legs and pulled him out. Austin being a bit on the smart side grabbed onto the bed posts to avoid getting out. “Austin! You’re taking the bed with you! Come on let go!” She kept pulling until finally he let go and they both went crashing into each other.
“Oof!” She said once she landed on her back. She shook her head and looked to see Austin on top of her… still sleeping. “Seriously?! Austin get up!” Riley pushed him off which finally cau
Indian potpourri IIKarnataka- the painted sign proclaims (in three languages).The train grinds to a halt. The smell of metal is in the air. It's been a grimy journey. But eagerness and anticipation fills Josh Hartlett as he has reached Bangalore (Bengalooru)-all cosmopolitan. The itinerary says it was known as the pensioner's paradise a few years ago. However urbanity has hit it and made it more urban than most other cities. It is inhabited by a few foreigners. It was easy for Josh to see why. Its temperature was more pleasant than other cities.
It is also known as the garden city. It has plenty of greenery. But it was sad as he realized that pollutants are taking their toll. There were the green, cool gardens- Lal Bagh, Cubbon Park-to name a few. He found decent food in Bangalore- Pizzerias, McDonalds, and KFC… Quaint British villas hobnobbed with huge skyscrapers.
He found most people speaking good English, Hindi and Kannada.
This is known as the Silicon Valley. He found colossal IT parks with delegate
Stranger LoveI am not the sunlit wing-print
splayed out on the bedroom wall.
I am not the dark mass forming
in a corner of an airless hall.
I am not the viscous vengeance
where you sink your spinning wheels.
I am not the leaky bucket
hung up on your wishing well.
You are not my soul mate missing
wandering a winter's night.
You are not the sound of angels
singing by a candle's light.
You are not the rasp of fingers
fumbling with a hasp of steel.
You are not the tattered towel
soaking up the things I feel.
I am the oblivious child,
dancing where the wildflowers are.
You are my unwitting captive
lighting up a jelly jar.
A Week Of KissesA Week Of Kisses
The first day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your shoulder,
Well before I thought about your lips.
Because I don’t know what I am doing, firstly,
But more importantly,
It’s because I know things can spiral quickly,
If things start shifting
After we lay down the concrete.
So I kiss the foundation,
Before we reach the soil.
The second day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your elbow,
Because it holds together the touch
And the flex.
To exhibit it,
I must kiss the joint that bends
And combines us together.
The third day I told you I loved you,
I lay my lips to your temples,
As I learned about the temple of reform,
For the Youth in North America.
Kissing you there signifying I will protect you,
As well as your temple,
As we re-form, into something more.
The fourth day I told you I loved you,
I’d kiss you softly on your forehead.
Because that’s what holds your brillian
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More