Someone I know, left her two young sons home while she had been away. Upon returning back, she found a few articles and the little one's finger burnt. With much despair she figured it was her older son's act.
Upon inspection it was found that Dexter does quite a few miracles in his lab with fire. So when Cartoon Network advocates that, little kids don't know any better.
Trying to experiment with various juices and water in the house and involving the little one in his pursuit only led to a miniscule-scale destruction - and a mother questioning the social responsibilities of cartoons.
I think its time to put my disliked ones onto a paper airplane and bid them goodbye as I leave them to the destiny of the winds. Here's hoping their landing is safe...

And indeed its time you increase the curvature of your lips as you click into a whole new look of my blog. Apparently, the return called for a celebration - and I couldn't have done better as of now.
Sporting a bright pink and a theme close to my heart - I'm sincerely flying without wings right now with the boards at their end and my life at its new beginning. Perhaps this looks a bit too girlie - but heck, why be ashamed of one's gender anyway?
So for all those anxious ones commenting on the comeback, I need to thank you for reminding me this could use a facelift every now and then. So drop by more often, for its back - with a pink bang.

Chori chori chhora chhori,
Chhat pe milenge,
To khelenge prem game.

On the roof, in the rain.
On the roof, in the rain.

Suddenly, Govinda songs don't sound so bad after all...

Alex Keegan's Teddy Bear's Picnic is a short work of hyperfiction expressed well through Flash. Although, it could've been more dramatic - it is quite real. The work deals with children being manupilated through chatting on the internet.
How a girl is weaned away from her own family and emotionally strained to form a connection with a stranger online forms the periphery of the story. It is, sadly, a very true scenario and quite creepy at that.
Many children today are left unguided on the internet and chatting leads them to believe in false relationships and rely on them emotionally. The consequences are adverse and scar them for lives. They often let go of their own families in the process and accept a stranger as their only companion.
The extent of such manupilation is petrifying and realizing the sheer truth of it all is even worse. The piece above contains pauses before replies reflecting the random thoughts going through her head and shows the vulnerability of a child to such satanism.
A sincere eye-opener to protect the immature ones around us... from themselves.

Its not a surprise that the literary talent in this country is so highly oppressed and their room for growth is limited within dull and basic four walls. Whoever heard of one aspiring to become a writer anyway, and whoever cared enough to read manuscripts of budding writers?
Whoever saw an Indian literary magazine hit the stands - and then sell? Whoever found encouragement in teenage magazines for poetry and prose, instead of boys and make-up? Whoever conducted workshops or even competitions for creative writing?
Ask a near-commerce twelfth-grade graduate what it feels to have dreams to make it big in that industry and not have a single course/source to help him/her out. Ask him/her what it feels to know that no one cares enough to even critique what his/her has written.
Ask me.
A thorough scan of the entire city and its offerings has brought me to a sad conclusion - its time to make it on your own.

I am finally back from my 'short' vacation. There's something about the clean air and fluent punjabi that really can't be matched by Delhi. And being of the sikh religion, it feels like second home.
But what surprises me is pure progression amongst the little kids. The oldest now knows what hairdo suits her well, the next keeps his shirt buttons open over his t-shirt, the next has learnt tricks with his hoola ring and the youngest (a mere four-month-old) has learnt to suck his thumb.
Almost makes me feel like a dunce, not learning anything new ever since I've left school days behind. Infact, my cousin has learnt to do better - more intense - makeup, and another (a twelve-year-old) is ace at driving his Octavia.
Baisakhi turned out to be quite festive, with Viraj (the cute thumb-sucker) being graced with amrit. The morning began with the sacred hymns followed with bhog processions. Everyone had the prasad and went back to their daily activities - dressing, hoola rings and thumb sucking.
I slept over at my cousin's place and dozed off at three watching her Swiss trip tapes - after an intense session of dancing on Mika songs and giving relatives virtual makeovers.
Eating chuski each day, not to forget the amount of junk food I devoured and sweets I relished - its time to check that waistline for any signs of expansion. Being back in Delhi, stuck to my computer trying to forget that there's life beyond it - its almost a relief to be back home.
Almost.

They colored her lips a soft pink and painted her nails red. Her arms were lavishly donned with gold bangles and its weight hindered her free movement. Thick jewels penetrated through her earlobes, forcing a suppressed scream from her lips. Her neck felt heavy with the family valuables.
They swiftly worked their way around her body – leaving no inch of skin untouched by extravagance. They were her relatives, her friends, her accomplices. People she grew up with and learnt to grow fond of – none of whom felt sympathy for her. They only felt overjoyed to dress up the bride.
They made a lot of chatter. Everyone speaking at the same time – and none of them making the slightest sense. Traditionally they teased about her in-laws and especially about her to-be-husband, wandering often – but not for long – in the untraditional territory, where their Indian-ness forgot its bounds and let loose to more western fantasies.
Most of them were young and fascinated by the rituals that led to the grand ceremony. But the few old ones were experienced and their experience reflected in their gray hair, their motherly touch and their sarcastic remarks. Their own marriage had brought out the cynic in them and their cynicism was only realistic advice for those plunging into the institution.
She never spoke once. Only listened. Listened to the jokes and the giggles that followed. Listened to discussions over the fabric of her dress. Listened to the distant voices of aunts singing traditional songs. Listening to the mindless cacophony the day had brought forth, ignoring only the voice within which screeched for an escape.
She was ready finally to carry her attire and reach the sacred area where she would marry some man that she’d met a few times, but never known. They covered her head with the heavily-embroidered dupatta under whose weight her head felt even heavier than before. Tears escaped her eyes as she took a last glance at her room and they wiped them away warning her not to cry – else her mascara would smudge leaving behind an ugly bride.
She didn’t want to leave her domain. Never wanted to go into another’s house and treat it as her own. How could she be so stupid as to surrender under pressure? How could she take his word when he said he would keep her happy? Didn’t they all say so? And didn’t women still undergo deaths, divorces, abuse?
They pushed her and urged her to hurry. The auspicious time had arrived and it was only right to finish the ceremony within the time span. The music got louder and she could distinctly see her fiancé struggling to keep up with the eager crowd.
The music got even louder – almost tearing her eardrums apart. They pushed her hard, hurting her with their nails, making her shrink under her clothes. And they forced her next to the man they had chosen for her. The tall, rich guy who knew nothing about her past. Who could never know what she had underwent. Who could never understand what she felt or believed. Who only perhaps wanted to marry her for her father’s money or for her fair skin.
And she stood next to him with her head bent. The procession began with chants of holy hymns. And they stood and waited for instructions.
Suddenly, without a noise, a bullet pierced through his head and blood ran over his cream-colored attire. Her own dress was spotted with his blood. They screeched and cried, few even trying to locate the source of the bullet. And he fell with his mouth open next to the holy fire.
She sat next to him, staring at him as tears sprung in her own eyes. And she covered her face with both hands.
And she smiled…

Coke introduces Vanilla Coke in the desi market - the answer to the favorite coke mein ice-cream formula. Although it does go overboard with the vanilla fragrance and the taste barely even differs, its commendable that now even pesticides smell as good.
The new product is endorsed by the current heart-throb Vivek Oberoi who apparently does justice to the likes of Jeetendra and Mithun in his media advertisements. With the Pepsi Blue and Pepsi Lemon failing miserably in the market - the Cokewallas must be busy pleasing goddess Lakshmi nowadays.
If nothing else - at least it'll start a new trend. Beware - Pepsi's whats there is soon to be replaced by Coke's Vakauu!

I am in the process of putting down the 'Refridgerator' of my blog where I'd be listing the best posts till date.
But of course, I really can't be a good judge of that, for each post is written with equal passion and the noblest intentions. So its best I ask you your favorite posts till date - since you're the ones who keep me going, day after day.
Kindly leave your favorite posts in the comments - along with its permalink (which you can get at the bottom of the particular post).
You know you'd have a very grateful and overjoyed little girl here :D

Numerology has to be one of the weirdest phenomenons deviced by the human mind. And numerologers have to be damn rich people.
Ever since the infamous Ekta Kapoor has named her creations starting from a K (or even a double K in some cases) and doubled/tripled any given letter within according to her whims and fancies, not giving any regard to the fundamental rules of language - it has deemed itself popular amongst celebrities and the star-struck public alike.
And many have even changed that identity that separates them from the next - their names! Now your name is rendered unprounciable, but for some good reason, it should be a matter of pride that the numbers are in your favour.
You think I should get Llimeise.com?

The sheer stupidity of bollywood songs has forced me to make another post on the same lines, this time inspired by the lyrical genius of the upcoming 'Lakshya'.

Main aisa kyu hoo,
Main aisa kyu hoo?
Main aisa kyu hoo,
Main jaisa hoo, main vaisa kyu hoo?

Now, even the On the roof song doesn't sound so bad, after all...

Source: CNN
Link: Silromen.com

Dutch eye surgeons have implanted tiny pieces of jewelry called "JewelEye" in the mucous membrane of the eyes of six women and one man in cosmetic surgery pioneered by an ophthalmic surgery research and development institute in Rotterdam.
The procedure involves inserting a 3.5 mm (0.13 inch) wide piece of specially developed jewelry -- the range includes a glittering half-moon or heart -- into the eye's mucous membrane under local anesthetic at a cost of 500 to 1,000 euros ($600 to $1,200).

I think they can develop a 'lime' for my eye...

Is pretending to do something truly different from actually doing it? Not talking of taking lives here, for the only measure of its success would be the complete execution of the victim. So definitely, pretending to kill someone would be a far cry from actually doing it.
But talking of the 'sins' of the society - is pretending to kiss onscreen in a steamy movie scene any less sinful from doing it otherwise? Why is there a different attitude towards the same thing - just because we justify it as pretense?
Is shedding clothes because the 'script' asks for it any more decent than walking skimpily clad on the street? Why are skirts looked down upon whereas the item numbers are hooted for?
Is abusing someone in a pretense environment - even if you mean it - any more cultured than doing it in an actual setup?
Where are we drawing a line for condemning a certain act and why are we so double-faced in our critiques. Is it the way we've grown to be, telling ourselves that pretense is a complete different take from reality?
Is it really?