HandMade by Carousel

A very dear friend of mine, Twisha of OneLife.ManyMoments has dared to live her dream. And I want to help her realize how great it is.
Its the first step.
And all great things start with that one little step.
Visit her Facebook Page and have a look at all the quaint little things she hand picks.
Its like weaving magic into your home decor.

She is simply looking for beauty - the kind that can't be explained - only felt.

I got this box customized for my sunglasses :) Can you spot mine and my blog's name in the doodle ? ;) Quirky, ain't it :)

By now, I'm sure you're dying to know from where to shop.

http://carousel-1415.itshandmade.in/

there you go :)

Thank me later :)

You know where to find me.

Love.

Sweet Oblivion.

She woke up to an unrealized dream untangling itself in her sub-conscience. She decided to give it some more time and lied there for another hour, drowning herself in her furry bed covers. The alarm snoozed with a shrill noise and she lazily searched for her phone under the pillow. She called office, two long impatient rings, a silent click and she left a message informing about her sick leave.

Her purple brazierre peeked through her over-sized t-shirt, and revealed all her flaws and scars screaming in the submissive morning light, but she couldn't care any less today. She wore them with an indifferent pride. Her eyebrows looked like little sleeping worms and she woke them up in one fine sweep. The air was filled thick with such delirium; she could cut it with a knife. She looked at herself in the mirror and touched her left cheek, 'My God, I'm so fucking beautiful'. Her ears couldn’t believe what they were hearing. Her modest alter-ego never let her believe this but today was a new day. She twitched her nose and licked her dry lips. She swore she wouldn't tell anybody, but that smile in the mirror told her that it knew what she was upto. She stared at herself smiling a good long while before waking her laptop up and logging into her blog.

I’m not sick, I’m almost never sick, I don’t know why I’ve taken this leave but I have a feeling in my chest that says it’s going to be a beautiful day. Fingers crossed.

(Saved to Drafts).

She pulled her hair back and secured them in a bun, she hadn’t tied her hair this way in years. It gave her such silly joy, she could hardly contain it. She poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it like they do it in  the movies. The very taste of it burnt the inside of her mouth but that made her gulp another sip. And then another one. She put on a green maxi dotted by little flowers at the hem and walked over to the book-store. Every profile on blogosphere said they’d read and loved ‘A Thousand Splendid Suns’, it made her feel like a clown in a ballroom filled with sophisticated people. She bought the book and happily smiled at every stranger who as much as glanced at her on her way back.  

She spent the day devouring the scent of the pages and rummaging through the contents of the book. Her phone was switched off and she promised herself she wouldn’t switch it to life, no matter what happens today. She googled the recipe and baked herself little coconut cupcakes. She did not put on any slippers for the rest of the day and her dirty feet had never felt so good.

I was right. Today was such a joyful day. Niyati says I hardly return a smile to the ones I know, but today I spread it amongst sweet strangers. It was sheer pleasure. That beautiful maxi adorned my legs with such uncalled beauty, I couldn't recognize myself. The wine tasted sour but I drank some more because the real me would’ve gagged. 

I’ve been myself for too long.

I read, smiled, drank, baked, walked bare foot and called myself beautiful today.

I feel liberated.

She titled it ‘The bitter-sweet agony of being me’ and published it.

The next day fell into routine but it too felt special under the shadow of yesterday.

'Down The Road' - A Book Review

This review is a part of Book Review program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books.

Evoked Déjà vu !!

Title: Down The Road

Edited by: Ahmed Faiyaz and Rohini Kejriwal

Publisher: Grey Oak Westland

Published: 2011

Pages: 225

Price: Rs. 195

Genre: Campus Fiction- Short Stories

Down The Road is an eclectic compilation of twenty eight campus tales by sixteen authors. Some writers, some bloggers and some even writing for the first time. A small bunch are still living their campus lives in different parts of the country right now and that made their stories a little extra niche above the others. The whole flavor of the book binds you and impatiently wants you to move to the next one in store. It couldn't have been titled more aptly. I finished with college last year and this book evoked waves of déjà vu for me.

Caffeinated long assignments, punishments, a look here, a smile there, jumping at the sight of food like you're kept starved at home, fighting, crying, laughing your brains out, breaking up, little sweet gestures and then patching up, bunking just because you feel like it today, that first porn video you accidently saw in your friend's phone, that first stolen kiss, ragging and getting ragged, dressing everyday like you're running to meet your biggest enemy, shopping all kind of crap, crushing over the disturbingly handsome programming professor, nudging him into a laughter, xeroxing notes, doodling little hearts all over his oh-so-pretty notebook during the lecture, studying a day before the sessionals, cheating, failing terms and still not letting them affect the next days plans, missing classes every friday to catch the latest, and not to forget, the lamest release, celebrating everybody's birthday with equal enthusiasm, you and your bff bitching evil and nasty things.


Heaven it was. Our very own.

Ahmed Faiyaz is a writer with substance and he has proved this time and again in this book. Its divided into sections for the reader to grasp its purpose more clearly. Although Knockout had a confused end for me but I praise Ahmed for the rest. But Paritosh Uttam stole the limelight for me. Sororicide was touching and showed that people may choose to show you one part of them but that doesn't mean they have nothing more to them. A young school teacher is handed a bunch of bratty kids to handle. Her awkward hands dangling by her side conveyed much more than Paritosh might have meant to. Although the books mentions that Between Friends has been repeated from Urban Shots but I don't see a valid justification there. The first section Attendance is Compulsory is more of a fun roller coaster which also contains the lovable Smells Like Home. Ira Trivedi's Rishi And Me was built on teenage betrayal and it turned out really well. I was sad and sorry for her characters. But then again, her second The Music Room was even better. Read this book for her if nothing else.

The unmistakable character description by all these wonderful authors was a high for me. The stories ranged from excellent to good to bad to boring but all in all I don't think I can complain. Remember Me ? is a mere promotion of Another Chance by Ahmed Faiyaz but then again he can't blamed for that. If, by God's grace, I get my work published someday, I know it in my bones that I'd promote myself shamelessly at any and every provided opportunity. The second section deals with much mature issues like Placements, Politics and College festivals. The Cafe With no Name was a mature innocent tale. It couldn't have been better.The Worm That Turned by Malathi Jaikumar steals the show in Lights Out. Fiction on Campus was not as good as it promised it to be.

All said and done, its a light coffee read and you won't regret picking it up.

My Rating: 3.5 on 5

You can buy it at Flipkart.com here.

Closure

She could not operate machines. Not then. Not now. She always alleged Technology eats away the little joys that make me happy. Squinting into the wide screen with eye brows meeting in the middle and typing around the haphazard arrangement of alphabets gave her liquid pain across her cheeks and an acute sting in her skull.  She preferred pens, ink pens, for their sheer simplicity and beauty. She loved filling them with ink when they ran out of it.

She took out her aged diary, dotted with tiny speckles of her daughter's mischief, picked up her pen and started doodling little hearts in red ink at the torn corners of the page. It brought back memories. Memories of happier times. Memories of innocent smiles. Memories of him, and them. One abstract thought, and she tore the page off. That painting hung in her living room for a very long time now but ironically it was a metaphor today. The sky had stopped pouring. The dew drops wanted to fall off the frail stem, demanded closure, but something kept them desperately dangling.

A tear fell, hot as acid, and scarred the flimsy white.

Nostalgia won. Again.

She wrote. And then, some more.

She could not find it in her heart to forgive him for dying on her. She felt cheated. He promised to grow old with her and watch bad TV throughout the day's length. Why did he have to break it ? Time moved too fast for her to keep up with its pace. They said it'll be painful for a few months and then her life would adapt itself to this subtle change. Why hadn't her pain subsided ? Four long, wistful years had rolled by. Hadn't she suffered enough ? These questions itched her fate and she couldn't scratch it. Once again, there were no answers. She didn't know what to feel anymore. It was a tiring task. Right and wrong agreed with each other. Her face broke into infrequent tremors of grief, pain and wishful longing.

She too needed closure and somehow it hid itself well.

A sudden squeak of wood against the floorboards and a barely audible thud. Her husband was home. She could hear him hang his trench coat behind the door. She had been a faithful, loving wife to her husband all these years yet somehow she cursed herself for betrayal, a part of her cried for a different destiny, mourned the irreparable loss, everyday.

She got up and hid the brown diary back into its place.  

Dilapidated

His sleep had probably become the only time peace and calm visited him. His wife gently ran her thin, pale hand through his hair. Those translucent veins evidently tried to run through the gaps between her fingers. He let out a sigh and opened his eyes. This was a beautiful customary routine. She would wake him up with the same teasing ruffle of his hair and even if he was awake, he waited for her gesture, it assured him of her love in a complacent way. She spoke a million words in that little soothing moment.

Another day full of hopeful prayers. Another day of an incessant struggle.

He bathed, got dressed, a crisp blue shirt paired with semi-black trousers that miserably failed to hide the bloat he was carrying around himself. His hair were parted on the same side his mother used to do them, carefully disguising the grey strands and the bald spot on the top. He dabbed a few drops of coconut oil to keep them in place. His shoes shone in an egotistical middling manner like they didn't have a care in this world. His wife nudged him with a quick breakfast and he rode on his quest.

The guard at the door greeted him with a refreshing smile, but then, smiling and bowing down to the people rushing through these glass doors defined his job description. An uncalled whoosh of air wheezed into his shirt from the ceiling airway, making the hair on his chest rise. He could barely cease the inappropriate act of rubbing his chest publicly in a hurried fashion, eyeing every corner of the well-lit hall for cameras ensnaring his manners like a vulture. He placed himself on the velvety sofa, admiring its comfort in a secluded indifferent corner of his brain.

"Registration Number 1509 ?'

'Yes, yes, that'd be me, M Sreesaran'

'You may go inside.'

A breathed in paunch, synchronized documents, neat laces, toes struggling to stay in place, and he felt as ready as he'll ever be. His interviewer looked as a sybarite at first, but the proceedings were smooth. After 3 uneasy hours of anticipation, wanting to grab every hint of hope that flew in the air, he was informed that this job wasn't made for him.

He took the same bus back home. At the dinner table, his daughter grunted 'Are we having yellow dal again ? Why is this never up for debate daddy ?'

There lay merely one string on his monochrome bow, unemployment, and life played it in different yet, recurrent monotonous tunes every single day.