Skip to main content

My Indian Trip Home

Indian magoes... yummmmmmmmmm

Waxing in India: cheeeeep

Waxing itself: hurts big time, and bleeds.. bt smooth skin

Indian weddings: huuuuge waste of 2 days.. shld start and stop at the reception

Indian wedding choultries(if a word like that exists): fun fun fun.. like camping indoors with generations and generations of family members under the same roof, cramped up space with a mad rush for the only bathroom half an hour before the next round of functions begins

Bangalore: crowded, conjested, dusty (left my handphone by the window at night, wake up in the morning to find it covered with a film of red sandy earth).. no point becoming such a big city if those who've always been here no longer feel that this place can be their home

Cofee Day: yummm tropical iceberg

Indian Handphone System: U SUCK

Bagalorean drivers: kick ass

Bangalorean Roads: we spent how many millions on the Ring Road again? Three years down the lane, the pride of Bangalore's infastructure has just become another sign of Indian (in) efficiency.. pot holes and rough roads.. not to mention the big block of stones that a car had rammed into on our way back from the wedding.. they were dropped right in the middle of the dammed road.. like any driver would be able to see them without street lights..

Life in India: as a friend says.. ppl earn lakhs a month, have nice cars, have lotsa cars, belong to clubs.. go clubbing and gripe when they get shut down so early, have a couple of maids.. so they don't have to pick up the sponge when it falls on the floor, nannies aged ten or eleven to take care of their toddlers.. one for each toddler... down the lane there are ppl who struggle to get hundreds in their pockets, contemplate stealing, devise huge scams in their heads on how to rob the rich then end up lacking the balls and going to the temple to pray for money..

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Celebrations

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 16 ; the sixteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton . It was a hard ground that felt like sand paper. When he started his journey, it was the soles of his feet that were in contact with the ground, but now as he pulled himself closer to the station, it was his whole body. His elbows were scraped, bloody and fresh scab peeled bled out to leave a trail of red on the wicked hot dusty ground of pain and suffering. All around him slow moving bodies crawled towards the direction of hope, all along leaving patterns of blood, sweat, skin and pus. These bodies had seen civil wars, droughts, genocide and lived to tell a tale of a people who now belonged to a nation listed as one of the poorest countries in the world. This is now, but before the list, was a struggle of massive proportions, under reported and quietly hidden

Escape

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 10 ; the tenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton . The Temple Widow A narrow dirt path, generously peppered with tiny pebbles, tiny miniatures of their gargantuan ancestors, leads to a bridge. It hangs, rickety and old. Old but not well used, old like abandoned and not frequently used. The bridge hangs low over a small stream that slowly gurgles past, happy unlike those that visit the place. The bridge leads to a temple. It is not very big, only perhaps the size of a small hut and at the most the size of an average temple hall. The temple has no deity; the temple has no one corner that doesn’t look like the other. It is clean, well swept, and empty. It has no furniture, and excepting a series of well spaced out windows, the walls remains uninterrupted. She stumbles in, the lady. She is not very tal

Time Travel

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 8 ; the eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton . I haven't got the memory of a vedic tantric. Neither do I ever claim to remember all. All I know is what I know, question my memory if you want to. I don't ask you to remember, I don't ask you to believe. In fact, I'm not asking you for anything at all. It is your choice to be here, to read this. So no, I don't owe you a favor. I happened to chance upon a watch, on one of my travels. Turning the dials of such a watch, could transport you to the past, to the future, to any time. But time, my friend, is not how you think it is. It is not a straight line, and you cannot just by chance hop into the world of dinosaurs and wooden weapons. It is a series of transparencies, like films of clean sheets of paper laid on top of each other. You look from above