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Curiosity Opens Up A Briefcase

That black leather briefcase, sitting complacently on the topmost shelf of the cupboard in my parents' bedroom, always fascinated me. Old and dusty, it was barely recognizable amid a pile of magazines  that were no longer read and clothes that were no longer worn and yet my father refused to discard them. Whenever I asked my mother about the contents of the briefcase, she always carefully evaded the conversation. 
As a pesky kid full of curiosity, I had explored my parents' bedroom pretty well. Especially during those hot and humid afternoons in summers when I had nothing interesting to occupy me and my mother was too tired to get bothered and was taking a nap or reading a book somewhere in the house. I used to check out the lower shelves in that cupboard; putting on my mother's jewelries and trying some of her makeup stuffs, wearing her shoes, and so on. Earlier, the briefcase used to be on one of the lower shelves. Once my parents discovered the tracks of my sinister ac…
Recent posts

Cupid Came & Went Away !

It is that time of the year again! Spring is knocking at the door - the warm sunshine feels great amid the slight chill in the air, a delicate scent of flowers lingers in the early morning breeze, and even my neglected garden tries to look good without any help. And I almost forgot that it is the season of love too; through branded merchandise, and corny posts shared on social media.

Valentine's day has a long history. I particularly enjoyed reading through Devdutt Pattanaik's Return of the Love-Godabout the origins of the day and similar celebrations across different cultures. I also unsuccessfully tried to overlook any news covering vandalism caused by certain groups who, every year, make their presence felt on this day by harassing hapless couples. Well, it is hard to ignore the other side of the coin!
While I absolutely hate the commercialization of emotions (and that does not restrict to Valentine's day only), I genuinely feel sorry for those couples who sneaked out …

Protective Mothers or Rape Deniers?

I came across an interesting article in The New York Times last month about a group of mothers defending their sons who had been accused of sexual assaults at college campuses. In the U.S., the guidelines on campus sexual assaults had been pretty stringent so far. However, these guidelines have been blamed to presume the accused students as guilty, who are usually suspended or expelled from the college campuses for a certain amount of time. Needless to say, most of the accused are men.
These mothers are on a mission to save their sons who, they believe, were “wrongly accused.” As protective mothers, they had compelled the college authorities to relook into their sons’ charges. Some of them consider themselves as feminists and hold opinions that how girls today have misconstrued the definition of sexual assault.
In our own backyard, let us recall the infamous Delhi gang rape in 2012. Malti Devi, the mother of one of the convicts Akshay Thakur, desperately pleaded her son’s innocence in f…

“I can Bake.”

The aroma of a "baked" cake wafted through the kitchen. That sweet, savory smell took me back to my mother’s kitchen. It is fascinating that how a particular smell can evoke memories from the past. As a kid, I used to wait eagerly for my birthday, Christmas, and the New Year day to gorge on the cakes baked by my mother. To a five year old me, oblivious to the chemical reactions involved in the process of baking, my mother was a magician who could turn a liquid batter into a round, spongey and delicious chocolatey mass. Well, to a thirty year old me, she is still a magician who can offer the best solutions to my adult life problems.
Anyways, one memory led to another and before I could rewind further, a strange burning smell greeted me. Much to my dismay, another baking attempt had gone awry. I lost the count of the number of times I failed to bake an edible cake. I also lost the number of reasons behind those failed attempts — wrong measurements, wrong baking durations, wrong…

The Unfamiliarity

Through out my life, I have always been on move; never sticking to a place for long and trying to adjust to new surroundings. So when I needed to move to Irving, Texas in early 2016, I just packed my bags without any thoughts. After all, I had lived across six states in India while surviving through different schools, colleges, and jobs. "It’s no big deal," I said to myself.
I was wrong. The moment I came out of the airport, it took me a while to realize that the cars on the road were driving on the right side. Back in my country, we drive on the left side of the road! Right there, I froze. It was definitely not love at the first sight.
Whenever I start residing at a new place, I try to look out for some elements in my surrounding that were common at the places I lived before. Funny as it might sound but it brought me some comfort on staring at a tall, rusty, dimly lit streetlight standing next to the apartment that I called ‘home’ for the next one year. That streetlight sweet…

A Jar Full of Gratitude

Last year was pretty long for me, longer than usual. Though I accept change in my life as a good sign, too many changes usually put me off the track. I was whining, sulking, complaining, and crying; making myself and others around me miserable. And yes, I tried to keep a distance from my friends and family to hibernate in solitude (and think myself as Queen Elsa from Frozen!). Everyone around me was worried about my sanity and I was doing nothing to get a grip on my life. 
For a long time, I assumed happiness to be an ever elusive charm; a state of mind that can be attained after eating tons of chocolates and ice-cream. However, that state of mind was short-lived. As soon as the tub of ice-cream was empty, happiness evaporated and I was back to my whining mode. Of course I am not talking about the perils of being pseudo happy: the jiggling layers of fat on my belly that I accumulated to achieve the short-termed elusive state of mind!
During one such marathon chocolate-eating sessions,…

When I Met Harry

Harry came to my life when I was in the eighth standard. A bespectacled young boy with ruffled jet black hair, green eyes, and a scar on his forehead; a boy to fall in love with. Don't blame me as I was a teenager who wanted a spell of magic in her life and to run away to the Hogwarts. I hated being a muggle and aspired to become another Hermione Granger. I imagined myself boarding the Hogwarts Express and reaching Hogsmeade, going to that magical school, and learning to wave my wand. I had once written a secret letter to Harry on Valentine's day and later decided to keep it safe in my diary. When I watched 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone' for the first time, I lost my mind (and heart!) over that young and extremely cute Daniel Radcliffe.  I remember keeping newspaper cuttings of anything and everything related to him. I still have them, safely secured in my old trunk. Well, that infatuation lasted for a couple of years till I graduated from college. And…