Friday, February 26, 2010


“So what does “home” mean for me?

I guess…it’s the one place I can be dressed in pajamas all day long; where the cook doesn’t raise his eyebrows if I have ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner ( no, I’ve never actually done that!); where I can leave my paint brushes to dry alongside my toothbrush and where I don’t have to ask permission to use the oven at 2am for firing porcelain bowls that I decorated with ceramic paint the night before. It’s where I can be rude to my house partner yet neither he nor I can throw the other out. Where we mute all the T.V. commercials and instead of being polite about watching mindless junk, we can have furious arguments; where I can have guests who irritate me rather than be the one who irritates my host; where I am the one whose signature is requested by couriers who wake me up in the afternoons.

In short, it’s the place where I can behave badly to my heart’s content! A rare and pleasurable treat."

By author Manjula Padmanabhan

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

over heard conversation -II

Yesterday while going back home I heard this -

An old man was standing in the semi crowded bus and his wife sitting next to me, enquiring about the address they wanted to go.

One person stepped on his feet while going ahead in the bus.

Old man: Arre dekho to sahi…

After sometime another person stepped on his feet while going ahead.

Old man: Yeh boot pahanewale logonko patahi nahi chalta shayad kisine chappal bhi pahani hai!

I kept thinking about his statement.

Thursday, February 18, 2010


'Hey, Oliver, did I tell you that I love you?'
' No, Jen.'
' Why didn't you ask me?'
' I was afraid to, frankly.'
' Ask me now'.'
'Do you love me, Jenny?'
She looked at me and wasn't being evasive when
she answered:
' What do you think?'
'Yeah. I gues. Maybe.'
I kissed her neck.
' Oliver?'
'I don't just love you...'
'Oh Christ, What was this?'
' I love you very much, Oliver.'

Love Story , Erich Segal


The bride first. Jenny stood facing me and recited poem she had selected. It was very moving, perhaps especially to me, because it was a sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett:

"When our two souls stand up erect and strong,

Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,

Until the lengthening wings break into fire…

From the corner of my eye I saw Phil Cavilleri, pale, slack-jawed, eyes wide with amazement and adoration combined. We listened to Jenny finish the sonnet, which was in its way a kind of prayer for

A place to stand and love in for a day,

with darkness and death hour rounding it."

Then it was my turn. It had been hard finding a piece of poetry I could read without blushing. I mean, I couldn't stand there and recite lace-doily phrases. I couldn't. But a section of Walt Whitman's Song of the Open road, though kind of brief, said it all for me:

… I give you my hand!

I give you my love more precious than money,

I give you myself before preaching or law;

Will you give me yourself? Will you come travel with me?

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live? "

Love Story by Erich Segal