tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81565591944169883592024-03-02T06:35:02.324+05:30Candyfloss..Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-21810587149198827442023-07-01T17:03:00.007+05:302023-07-01T17:36:02.136+05:30Where is home?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KlcWI-p63a4e4uwYaSNxAoaHMQCWgcFaWQiMjNqQgYgY1fCX7BfF4Zn8gXlnUnThb-dY68iObULjAnoaNceRPwQxMVmjlpEu5L2XbbWr0tlIGk8VyJ-2MlzGyV8OFmsxneVYZzqV-8nlzlK56V0aGncU8xvFHODyXs0ZA50NgHhxGl4gjoC6ErBjDx0d/s2048/calcutta%20skyline.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1226" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KlcWI-p63a4e4uwYaSNxAoaHMQCWgcFaWQiMjNqQgYgY1fCX7BfF4Zn8gXlnUnThb-dY68iObULjAnoaNceRPwQxMVmjlpEu5L2XbbWr0tlIGk8VyJ-2MlzGyV8OFmsxneVYZzqV-8nlzlK56V0aGncU8xvFHODyXs0ZA50NgHhxGl4gjoC6ErBjDx0d/w400-h240/calcutta%20skyline.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of all the things I miss, the feeling of belongingness is what I miss the most. You know, that calmness which comes with stability, of knowing that you are home. The city where I write from was once a major part of my growing up. But it seems different nowadays, almost unfamiliar. Perhaps it is the price we have paid for growing up, or maybe it is the hidden sadness of an ex-lover whom we have left without saying goodbye..</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yet, on days like today when the rain-soaked city presents itself in all its glory, I am reminded of the long-lost days of my childhood and growing up. Those pre-Durga puja visits to New Market and the mandatory doi chaat in front of Treasure Island afterwards. The sudden rush of excitement when the bus would go past Eden Gardens and its wall of fame. When Howrah bridge seemed like a far-away place, accessible only during the yearly puja vacation to some far-away destination on the most coveted Rajdhani Express. When lovers and friends spent hours chatting at Maidan, new and old friendships blossomed at New Market roadside jewellery stores, Grand Hotel ogled at in the hope of catching a glimpse of the favourite cricketer or film star. Memories are weird, they take you back to places and people and make you melancholic when you least expect to.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Strangely, on days like these, that feeling of belongingness returns. Perhaps for a moment, or a lifetime, who knows. It also brings along the realisation that, amidst all the new cities and infinite house shiftings, home is only one. </div></div>Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-36422091607475043212019-09-04T03:25:00.000+05:302019-09-04T11:18:18.357+05:30Stairway to heaven<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Auld lang syne...</div>
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Old cities, tiny lanes and houses next to one another excite me like none other. Perhaps this is why, I being a south Calcutta girl, have always been fascinated with the north. </div>
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My recent trip to Dubrovnik (Croatia) and Kotor and Budva (Montenegro) reminded me of north Calcutta in more ways than one. The cities are centuries old and exude a certain kind of mystery that is hard to find elsewhere. One could just sit on the cobblestone pathways for hours on end, lost in thoughts, and watch as the world pass by. Life is laid-back in these alleys, where stories of everyday lives spread out in beautiful randomness in every corner. Friendships brew over cups of coffees and gelatos. Fluffy cats sit idly in the shade to get respite from the hot Croatian sun. And magic happens amidst all things mundane.</div>
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Anachronism, yes that's the word. :)</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-74303700709979763982018-01-27T19:41:00.000+05:302018-01-31T14:06:26.597+05:30Kerala solo travel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Of all the exciting things I accomplished last year, my year-end solo trip to Kerala would be the foremost. The seven days I spent exploring the kaleidoscope-esque state gave me reasons to believe that it could be one of those places where I would happily breathe my last. The perfect mix of blue and green, <i>lyadh</i> and liveliness, abundant sunshine and moon-kissed beach walks, sound of waves crashing and tranquillity of solitude, travelling solo in Kerala pulled me out of my comfort zone and changed the way I looked at things. It urged me to find my abode of peace and I returned home with a happiness my heart was incapable of holding and a smile I had forgotten I smiled. </div>
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From rolling tea plantations, peaceful beaches, mystical backwaters, plethora of national parks and a cuisine that engulfs all the five senses, Kerala has it all and more. There is something for everyone, with very little scope for disappointment. I found Kerala to be almost therapeutic, soothing my restless mind and taking me back to long lost eras when lives were simpler and hearts pure. Its laid-back charm and unhurried pace of life constantly reminded me of old Calcutta and Anjan Dutt songs, and made me realise how easy falling in love is. But what struck me the most about the place was the humbleness of the people around, their ever-smiling faces and the warmth you would feel in their presence. This also reminds me of a brief exchange had with a female shop owner in Thiruvananthapuram, where I had gone to purchase a "Kasavu" saree. She didn't speak English, I didn't speak Malayalam or any of the Dravidian languages she was familiar with. So at last I gathered all my courage and hesitantly asked, "Hindi?". She looked at me in mock horror and said "Aiyyyoooooo" and we both burst out laughing. I managed to purchase the saree in the end, but her glass-shattering hysterical tone and the laughter that ensued will stay in my mind for a long, long time :D</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: medium;">*Thiruvananthapuram*</span></b><br />
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My Kerala trip started off purely academically in Thiruvananthapuram where the conference I was attending was being hosted. The three-days event, apart from being very well received by researchers and practitioners alike, provided ample introduction to the Malayali way of life through traditional Keralan delicacies, mesmerising Kathakali dance performances, sight-seeing to nearby beaches, and finally a trip to the famous Padmanabhaswamy temple. </div>
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Personally though, I felt that Trivandrum was more like a commercial capital and shopping hub of Kerala which might do little to quench your wanderlust. Instead, it could be a convenient starting point for day/weekend trips to Kanyakumari and other places in Tamil Nadu. Alternatively one could take the coastal route, visit Kovalam/Varkala, move north to Alleppey for the backwaters and finally proceed to Munnar and/or exit from Kochi. You could easily spend two weeks in Kerala, if not more. I, however, was short of time and therefore decided to spend a couple of days in Kovalam, visit Alleppey for two days and finally take the flight back from Kochi. The first part of the itinerary went as planned. One could easily avail Uber or private Autos for a relatively cheap fare to reach Kovalam from the capital (a distance of about 14 kilometers). The rest of my itinerary, however, went haywire when the heart fell hopelessly in love with the golden sands and palm-lined beaches and decided to take matters in its own hand!<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: medium;">*Kovalam*</span></b></div>
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Kovalam is what dreams are made of. The crescent-shaped beaches, abundance of coconut trees, coppery haze of the tropical sun, the wind in the hair and sands between the toes will leave permanent footprints in your heart for years to come. The red and white Kovalam lighthouse situated atop a large rocky promontory in the southern stretch of the beach is a sight to behold, where one could just spend hours and day-dream! The leisure options are endless here. You could sunbathe for the most part of your day, take a long relaxing dip in the calm waters of the Arabian Sea, indulge in Ayurvedic treatments and herbal massages, read a book or let the mind wander into uncharted territories while sipping on coconut water. December is not a peak tourist season in Kovalam which allows you to sufficiently soak in the peace and quiet of the place without much disturbance. The entire Kovalam coastline is packed with numerous curio and beachwear shops, restaurants, heath centres, resorts and hotels. Accommodation facilities usually range from five star luxury and specialty resorts to budget hotels, while the diverse palate of continental, malabari and south indian delicacies will spoil you for choice. I personally would recommend the Kingfisher restaurant at the Lighthouse beach for malabari-styled fresh seafood and the Palm Beach restaurant for a wide variety of sumptuous breakfast/brunch options. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the hotel restaurant</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lighthouse picture postcard</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwY71KAVUjyhd_r-luPO0LOWoLVTvTjxNZzJfGJ_XHXtfYMYuhh5PPwheics64xB5RSE5VXtW0hNWLlXEwzZpWvDcKLvsBrDNZhxiGIfTaNZyyXIkOa_7R5yJUy2mHHeXwBe8PIxTvouQN/s1600/IMG_20171220_122434.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwY71KAVUjyhd_r-luPO0LOWoLVTvTjxNZzJfGJ_XHXtfYMYuhh5PPwheics64xB5RSE5VXtW0hNWLlXEwzZpWvDcKLvsBrDNZhxiGIfTaNZyyXIkOa_7R5yJUy2mHHeXwBe8PIxTvouQN/s400/IMG_20171220_122434.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up, close and personal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZ6on70bcFnXFNJehxprSayiortB6I960ZGTh-eFpMlqWsKUOmpTcpCLVX6MzbDdS-Dt7M2RhQACTBItrFnnqc8CzkSS9bGCHvC_d8dcwQV861kFaG3xiB1r8GakJ1qLmPTInl_Zsp5RA/s1600/IMG_20171220_123839.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZ6on70bcFnXFNJehxprSayiortB6I960ZGTh-eFpMlqWsKUOmpTcpCLVX6MzbDdS-Dt7M2RhQACTBItrFnnqc8CzkSS9bGCHvC_d8dcwQV861kFaG3xiB1r8GakJ1qLmPTInl_Zsp5RA/s400/IMG_20171220_123839.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skyline</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT7t1dxg9IAbJ9Y2zjNYctQ_AWgmVO4gqZG28MNF5KraCoRg9aHuL9J2pnLaa_7K0DUvlHGRN-DcWK9XWK7OP967avV2xKJIRycNEUqAdoyQPbemviJ98PfluKRsmjh-USre7uW0-wjiHC/s1600/IMG_20171220_124201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT7t1dxg9IAbJ9Y2zjNYctQ_AWgmVO4gqZG28MNF5KraCoRg9aHuL9J2pnLaa_7K0DUvlHGRN-DcWK9XWK7OP967avV2xKJIRycNEUqAdoyQPbemviJ98PfluKRsmjh-USre7uW0-wjiHC/s400/IMG_20171220_124201.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From up above the world so high</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq_jb8B7BJqrAT7QdCxFRgDHMp9TlCz9uASlW6mUcpyfbnQuxgZZCb7SDX6PpTZSedBZXUJxmJvs0RIDNYJYHK04vvsDIAB6WYtofgvO8X1iPJ99lZA_TksMUuUVjSENjjJLkeW_O931u7/s1600/IMG_20171220_131201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="954" data-original-width="1600" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq_jb8B7BJqrAT7QdCxFRgDHMp9TlCz9uASlW6mUcpyfbnQuxgZZCb7SDX6PpTZSedBZXUJxmJvs0RIDNYJYHK04vvsDIAB6WYtofgvO8X1iPJ99lZA_TksMUuUVjSENjjJLkeW_O931u7/s400/IMG_20171220_131201.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wall-art</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7nOZRWSAf0-goU9ZRLpRtvP6zsjIMxpILlfHjXL-PwxdbPz768pOwBa2PNtr8GZmR-lTrRd97TYl4rSDfaB-t0jNG_gLWykEZPEIfwLCNcqsWDw6FB3altwfVy0PSuaX7hvv-biSthRe2/s1600/IMG_20171220_132506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7nOZRWSAf0-goU9ZRLpRtvP6zsjIMxpILlfHjXL-PwxdbPz768pOwBa2PNtr8GZmR-lTrRd97TYl4rSDfaB-t0jNG_gLWykEZPEIfwLCNcqsWDw6FB3altwfVy0PSuaX7hvv-biSthRe2/s400/IMG_20171220_132506.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of blue, green and everything in between</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Stunning landscapes aside, there was something unsaid about Kovalam that calmed me in a way Ma's oiled fingers massaging my tresses did when I was a child. Sitting there, the world seemed transparent and frozen in time. At the end of the first two days, I just couldn't bring myself to leave and spontaneously decided to skip Alleppey and spend a couple of days more before heading off to Kochi. One word of caution though, particularly if you are a solo female traveller, would be to ignore the constant stares of random men at the beach and be stern in your responses if they try to communicate. Unfortunately, most would assume that you are available and looking for hookups and might approach you for phone numbers or pictures. Do not let it leave a bad taste in your mouth and be rude if you have to. Keeping yourself safe is your responsibility and therefore do EVERYTHING in your capability to ensure that. </div>
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<b><span style="font-size: medium;">*Kochi*</span></b><br />
<br />
Moving on to Kochi was a mixed bag of emotions. A part of me wanted to stay back in Kovalam never to return, while the other pragmatic part wanted to explore new places and eventually return to the mundane. The nearest railway station from Kovalam is Trivandrum central, from where there are frequent trains to Ernakulam Town (North). Choose to stay in Ernakulam and take the ferry for INR 4 to visit the old town of Kochi, or stay directly at one of the many budget or luxury hotels near Fort Kochi. All the major "tourist attractions" of Kochi are located in the old town and are accessible by foot, which make day trips quite convenient.<br />
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If I have to describe Kochi in a word, it would be "anachronism". Kochi does not belong to the era of smartphones, electric cars, fast-paced life and complicated emotions. Kochi is a celebration of the bygone era. A world not as seen through rose-tinted glasses or Instagram filters, rather, a world that is utterly imperfect yet astonishingly simple. Start off your Kochi tour with the old township of Fort Kochi, wander about the backstreets lined with the famous Chinese fishing nets from centuries ago, inhale the warm concoction of salt, raw fish and earth in the air, and fall captive to the old world charm. Leave the beach road and walk inwards and you will discover a diverse collection of Portuguese and Syrian churches, Dutch cemeteries, Indo-Portuguese museum, Mattancherry palace and a Jewish town nestled between tiny alleys. Visit the old and neglected Dutch cemetery and then walk up to St. Francis church which is the oldest European church in India and the original resting place of Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama. Continue walking through canopied streets and pastel-coloured villas and reach Santa Cruz Cathedral Basilica. It is one of the heritage edifices of Kerala, endowed with Gothic-style architecture and colours. I visited the Basilica just before Christmas and found it beautifully decorated and blushing under the winter sun. I decided to make a stop at this point and randomly found one of Kochi's hidden gems, a tiny road-side European style cafe called Loafer's corner. It captured the essence of Kochi perfectly, and you could just sit for hours on end and watch the world go by. After lunch, I proceeded towards Mattancherry and spent a considerable amount of time at the multicoloured and uninhabited Koonan Kurishu Syrian church. The Mattancherry palace and the adjacent Jewish synagogue were down the road, but unfortunately were closed in the afternoon. So I decided to roam around the Jewish town and discovered several craft stores, jewellery shops and spice market that sold authentic Jewish items. Finally as dusk fell, I made my way to the jetty that would leave behind a town wrapped in century-old history and ways of life and teleport me to the present :(<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb3DT6-vct3yGuRBum8KdrAudOfCk3Bzsm6ip-tUT8SQZcGAsJG_jhcrX3HAteceC3tuM2mP82QclXqLW77s-D810u26BYXGdf5mM2A4P2pLJA2EXJCcTobLZkCHc_vx4RTXGMSOpmgwUJ/s1600/IMG_20171222_113528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="909" data-original-width="1600" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb3DT6-vct3yGuRBum8KdrAudOfCk3Bzsm6ip-tUT8SQZcGAsJG_jhcrX3HAteceC3tuM2mP82QclXqLW77s-D810u26BYXGdf5mM2A4P2pLJA2EXJCcTobLZkCHc_vx4RTXGMSOpmgwUJ/s400/IMG_20171222_113528.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fort Kochi and Chinese fishing nets</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6XYKzvnEy817W_9wEdotKWttTiC9kgNcr-FsVCOtI-zsJ0XaUZW-S0k60t3h-6xgIsXNnM0HSKRG_H4Srfm-2heODwiGqBvJkEoXE-ZVREh4ZrVoNcfw6xw-agdMpYBTA87_kTnOZ4GWk/s1600/IMG_20171222_120232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6XYKzvnEy817W_9wEdotKWttTiC9kgNcr-FsVCOtI-zsJ0XaUZW-S0k60t3h-6xgIsXNnM0HSKRG_H4Srfm-2heODwiGqBvJkEoXE-ZVREh4ZrVoNcfw6xw-agdMpYBTA87_kTnOZ4GWk/s400/IMG_20171222_120232.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dutch cemetery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixml_ZwMLnE9wcn4D8BinoOGVSMQxEY_gk4JYqSqMuwkP2VHEHwoL5K-zRxIIcp9fJvSwNmdj94VAloW4RyQ6lMiQcjNjLIw-qzMEB85t7iQQab_9PtAg-NBNW63-glURYvak5x1EYSw70/s1600/IMG_20171222_120808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixml_ZwMLnE9wcn4D8BinoOGVSMQxEY_gk4JYqSqMuwkP2VHEHwoL5K-zRxIIcp9fJvSwNmdj94VAloW4RyQ6lMiQcjNjLIw-qzMEB85t7iQQab_9PtAg-NBNW63-glURYvak5x1EYSw70/s400/IMG_20171222_120808.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red-tiled houses</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-o0k_t7NAxwytsU64bOx5jFyUO24HoJ4YuwkyU9EtCAe85U2K_fRD_EnusyDMnCdQVj3qT-qL6OJj_savludQf7ToodFF9XZP9pGQzxvzDciepeX4AUbBRbrcrYkt5-vxan8pzMVt2Sdc/s1600/IMG_20171222_122250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-o0k_t7NAxwytsU64bOx5jFyUO24HoJ4YuwkyU9EtCAe85U2K_fRD_EnusyDMnCdQVj3qT-qL6OJj_savludQf7ToodFF9XZP9pGQzxvzDciepeX4AUbBRbrcrYkt5-vxan8pzMVt2Sdc/s400/IMG_20171222_122250.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Francis church</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijGvMH1dtSpC8AFLG9Kx-dPcap8sxdY0hOkTbLpGIDyFEHaKHiaWufPIz9vpWg4JJLF8h21p7_ctXQ0YfnfHXSveGuZ9vQUCs7qnvAlBKXE0wuWds1NhwenQCpPyohAnPiQjGYXh7KiGt2/s1600/IMG_20171222_122824.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijGvMH1dtSpC8AFLG9Kx-dPcap8sxdY0hOkTbLpGIDyFEHaKHiaWufPIz9vpWg4JJLF8h21p7_ctXQ0YfnfHXSveGuZ9vQUCs7qnvAlBKXE0wuWds1NhwenQCpPyohAnPiQjGYXh7KiGt2/s400/IMG_20171222_122824.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Canopied streets</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF5_h2J5dzpGESeZUemOFNahJUBmOAX7WtdDq4J2wWHV1HHPl_NJH8gJDVtGTo1AOFtjxsBuFG8l_OCtS9swQuTfasU3Yeff3NWWJ90iYHqqXpvCUEi7eM0c7moNzYf_sOeXDiMZ03Aiwr/s1600/IMG_20171222_125655.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF5_h2J5dzpGESeZUemOFNahJUBmOAX7WtdDq4J2wWHV1HHPl_NJH8gJDVtGTo1AOFtjxsBuFG8l_OCtS9swQuTfasU3Yeff3NWWJ90iYHqqXpvCUEi7eM0c7moNzYf_sOeXDiMZ03Aiwr/s400/IMG_20171222_125655.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santa Cruz Basilica</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipT2MlkB0eEYX2cBvpf6EMq5pEdoLeYcinTWTFaP6lR4RowyB2PPzEMRZ3AlTUvwn6rOhLav5oRnO6k-BNetR_eQ8cb8Uxb7cOL8xZYzexqKxMrp0h_EKTMjXXRB0v2KwNO6HUN4idvRG7/s1600/IMG_20171222_132045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1427" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipT2MlkB0eEYX2cBvpf6EMq5pEdoLeYcinTWTFaP6lR4RowyB2PPzEMRZ3AlTUvwn6rOhLav5oRnO6k-BNetR_eQ8cb8Uxb7cOL8xZYzexqKxMrp0h_EKTMjXXRB0v2KwNO6HUN4idvRG7/s400/IMG_20171222_132045.jpg" width="356" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loafer's corner, wall-art and daydreams</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJAqw5Uj1Q1Xflvok1Oa-sJABiM2CuwJEd9X7qy_C7CiINgbG4eNpXq6xRkdaYi8g7-D1fhuSzADKEiSG9bMYj-9neFE-GEFzkSuBNzYJqkXWFVOS1lQlqR4TI9GUufsNsXqKUIM7eSmu/s1600/IMG_20171222_152251.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJAqw5Uj1Q1Xflvok1Oa-sJABiM2CuwJEd9X7qy_C7CiINgbG4eNpXq6xRkdaYi8g7-D1fhuSzADKEiSG9bMYj-9neFE-GEFzkSuBNzYJqkXWFVOS1lQlqR4TI9GUufsNsXqKUIM7eSmu/s400/IMG_20171222_152251.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Syrian church</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisQt4mAUUcrKWTFMAsGB1JRLIUw4a4zItIZv_YBOfrBif9fhLBXhccOOdp19qTJs1X4ojsxLhMFnvA6Tm_5RCR4R57uvMUW0nE4aG5UOSNATCmEMmwceqJg3wvT0ai305iFfN3UdquYhdI/s1600/IMG_20171222_150501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisQt4mAUUcrKWTFMAsGB1JRLIUw4a4zItIZv_YBOfrBif9fhLBXhccOOdp19qTJs1X4ojsxLhMFnvA6Tm_5RCR4R57uvMUW0nE4aG5UOSNATCmEMmwceqJg3wvT0ai305iFfN3UdquYhdI/s400/IMG_20171222_150501.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jewish town shops</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
If you ask me, I did not find Kochi to be visually spectacular. But, it tugged at my heartstrings in more ways than one. In fact, that in a nutshell was Kerala for me. I left a part of my heart there, perhaps to come back and collect it some day. This is why my first solo trip in India will be special, very very special. Because it will always remind me of things, places and promises to come back to when I shall breathe my last.</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-74462474908228532332017-10-21T13:54:00.000+05:302017-10-21T14:45:47.200+05:30Between Right and Wrong<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
As the national capital makes a mockery of the Indian legal system on Diwali with its shocking nonchalance to Supreme Court's cracker ban, it is time we address the elephant in the room: the utter negligence of most people towards sustainable environmental practices and their deep-rooted self-centeredness.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHInOjZqsu4qExdhuSmhDc_LZLWOdK7nj2hyphenhyphen_HnCwDJcImbBeex07_VIWOB2Nyjsl7wNLaALkXupzMWve4_fGwgMQGIqZa5oHqu8XHMVhFvT9l9dIIK1UN3jPWW1wypvB4jdZ9BQpSlAFF/s1600/2-45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHInOjZqsu4qExdhuSmhDc_LZLWOdK7nj2hyphenhyphen_HnCwDJcImbBeex07_VIWOB2Nyjsl7wNLaALkXupzMWve4_fGwgMQGIqZa5oHqu8XHMVhFvT9l9dIIK1UN3jPWW1wypvB4jdZ9BQpSlAFF/s320/2-45.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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"The city wakes up to a better air quality than 2016", the media reports. While this should be sufficient consolation for many, do we ask ourselves what is BETTER? Does better mean the picture on the right? Does better mean going down marginally by a few points on the air quality index yet remaining in the "severe" zone? Does better mean people will not suffer from respiratory problems and lung cancer on account of prolonged exposure to such air? Does better justify wrong only because it is done by many in the name of tradition? The English language does not allow for quantifying comparative adjectives, but fortunately Statistics does. The numbers are out there, for all to see. To see the grave danger we bring upon ourselves. Yet, we are busy endorsing irrelevant communal and religious arguments by illiterate celebrities and political leaders and crying our hearts out at the violation of "birth rights". We are busy overlooking facts and outdoing each other in the "best Diwali pic" race on Facebook. We are busy prioritizing own entertainment over bigger and critical concerns and conveniently putting the blame for all things bad on the next-door neighbour, the government, China and so on.<br />
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Growing up, bursting crackers on the night of Kali Pujo gave me joy like none other. The lights exuding all sorts of multicoloured hues, the night sky breaking into thousands of stars and the happinesses on the faces were unparalleled. The lungs gave out after a while, yet innocent pleasures went on unabashedly. So did things like littering on the road, on railway tracks and not caring about the environment in general. The first time I was asked not to throw empty tea cups on the road, I gladly obliged because it was important to the friend who had asked. It was purely based on emotions and not on own realisations. But maturity changes us no? Giving us the ability to introspect, to distinguish right from wrong? To think beyond ourselves? To "be the change you want to see in the world"? </div>
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Yet, on days like today and most other days I am left wondering if compassion is just a word. If altruism exists only in Economics textbooks. And if self-righteousness has indeed driven us to the farthest corner of humanity.</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-51697663794277880652017-08-09T17:43:00.002+05:302018-04-21T16:40:41.912+05:30Life and the Box of Crayons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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For all the cumulonimbus moments life threw at me last week, it compensated with a silver linings playbook of realisations. Realisations that provided my aching body and soul with the comfort of a কোলবালিশ, tied my spirits to hot-air balloons and let it soar high up into the clouds. Realisations that made me giggle like a two-year old being chased across the room with a bucket placed over the head. Realisations that reaffirmed my belief that just a few people are capable of changing one's world in the most beautiful way.</div>
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So last week, a severe bout of food poisoning happened that left me three kilograms less within the first two days and induced an urge to throw up and poop every few minutes. The husband being away in the hometown, the burden of taking care came upon myself and needless to say, as health fell down and broke his crown, mood came tumbling after. To top it all, parents started freaking out, considered impromptu visits, sandwiched the brother, informed everyone who would care to listen, and made themselves sick from worrying. After three days of no change in condition and all sorts of "I-have-lived-alone-for-five-years-and-able-to-take-care-of-myself" arguments falling into deaf ears, I was threatened with dire consequences to visit a doctor. Meanwhile, the two besties decided to intervene and convinced me to stay with one of them for a night or two. The international one virtually hovered around day in and out, while the physical one mothered relentlessly. In the end, what was intended to be a day stay turned into a week, soul-sisters turned into mothers, family turned into backbone and the heart melted into puddles of joy.</div>
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This is not the first time that life has bestowed upon me selfless care and love from the people around. People I call my own, my home. People I can count on one hand. I have known my two "sisters of spirit" for a very long time, from a time when sharing a section and being able to sit on the same bench were perhaps the biggest achievements of life. The memories we three share are endless, and documenting them would put Chitragupta's book of records to shame. Yet, there are events the mind remembers distinctly and fills the heart with unfathomable affection. Events when we have loved fiercely and fought vehemently. When we have been judged by the other disturbingly accurately. When tears have rolled down from all three sets of eyes for one broken heart. When love for food, Jacques Kallis, Roger Federer and jewellery shopping at Esplanade/Gariahat have been shared in a heartbeat. When the sisterhood became life's guardian angel and biggest strength. </div>
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Speaking of which, brings me to the one who has been mistakenly born to a different set of parents, in a completely different culture and country, yet somehow managed to become the soulmate. The one who is my analogy for the saying "what we seek is seeking us". As she continues to ping me on Whatsapp at this very moment, I smile at the infectious energy she brings into my life with her mere existence. In the last six years, our talks have evolved from formal acknowledgements to discussing human excreta and bathroom habits, which I believe is the final test of security and comfort in a relationship and proof enough that it will last forever :D. We have taken time to love each other, laugh at the idiosyncrasies, and share every embarrassing detail of life. She is a thousand times better version of myself, my role model at being organised and disciplined. She scolds me unabashedly for skipping a conference session or for not drinking enough water when sick, yet defends me with all her might as and when the situation demands. She is a roller-coaster, crazy and garrulous just like me. Yet she fits in my life like that one piece of missing puzzle. I could go on and on, but I refrain. Not because I have nothing more to write about her, but because she knows :)</div>
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These people are as much family as the one whom I call my anchor. The only person except myself who amuses me to no extent with his weirdnesses. The one who gives me thousand instances for wanting to kill him. The one who speaks sarcasm as the first language. The one who criticizes favourite actors knowing it bugs me to no extent. The one who makes the blood boil with snide remarks about almost everything and then tries stupid tricks to pacify. The one who makes "grudge" sounds in the dark just to scare. Yet, the one who gives thousand-and-one reasons for loving him. The one who stays up all night over phone while I wait alone at a deserted platform amidst drunkards thousands of miles away. The one who holds my head down as I throw up in the toilet after a crazy drinking night. The one who refuses to be vocal about emotions, yet whose voice echoes care and concern when there is no water supply in the flat. The one, who is like none other.<br />
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Some people change one's world in the most beautiful way. People who I call my box of crayons and happily-ever-afters :)</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-7432696323870655652017-03-31T18:42:00.002+05:302017-10-21T22:00:21.740+05:30Denial<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A class 12 student goes missing from a locality in Greater Noida and is found dead a day later from drug overdose, and community residents barge into the flat of his Nigerian neighbours accusing them of cannibalism and drug dealing. An angry mob of six hundred locals come out on the roads to protest against the death and severely injure five innocent Nigerian students. Random attacks take place in the heart of the city, racial abuses hurled, men and women ogled at supermarkets, and we the citizens discuss instead the xenophobia that exists everywhere in the world except the perfect country we live in.</div>
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I wonder at what point in time we would get over the ultra-nationalistic bullshit and accept the double standards and deep-rooted stereotypes we have towards the skin colour. Travel to major tourist spots in India is never complete without noticing the extreme preferential treatments white tourists receive. They are admired wherever they go, stopped on the road to take pictures with, idolised even. But, ugly name-calling and prejudices towards black students and immigrants doesn't even raise enough eyebrows. When Indian techies are shot in the U.S. or Indian students are attacked in Australia, we are appalled by the hate crimes and discuss at length how we are racially victimised in these foreign countries. Yet when we do the same, beat up innocent students on account of their skin colour and baseless accusations, the Government condemns it as an isolated incident that has nothing to do with racism. Talk about the country becoming intolerant, and you are ridiculed. Talk about jingoism, and you are an anti-national. Talk in favour of the religious minorities or criticise the rise of Hindutva, and you are called a pseudo-intellectual. Apparently, the new wave the country is riding high on is called "being in denial forever"!</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-60037086357547565712016-11-10T15:26:00.001+05:302016-11-10T15:49:27.470+05:30Of new beginnings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Calling any city other than Calcutta "home" wasn't something I had planned on doing while growing up. And then, life happened and all the plans went for a toss. The warmth of home was found in a far-away German town amidst strangers who turned into soul sisters, love made its "P"ermanent residence in the heart, and some of life's biggest lessons were learnt.</div>
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This time too, moving to a city I am not particularly fond of wasn't part of the dream dreamt since long. True, the transportation system fascinates me and leaves me in awe. The chai makes me want to lick the cup over and over again when no one is watching. The academic job market looks straight in the evil eyes of unemployment and winks. But, the city isn't passionate enough when I look at it (yes, "it" and not "her"; I have my own sets of rules and reservations) through my Calcutta-esque glasses. It does not let the mind sit on a time machine and visit nostalgia-land. It does not provide the warmth of pithe-puli, nolen gurer sondesh and Gariahat. The pollution slowly awakens the dormant migraine. And, it makes me realise that "নদীর ওপার" is indeed a real place that I can visit not everyday. </div>
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Yet, it gives me reasons to be happy. Dancing-on-air happy. It fills the heart with puddles of joy everytime I walk along the lush green sidewalk of the famed institute. It transforms me into a starry-eyed kid in a candy-store as I ogle the entry gate, the widespread graffiti and buildings that had once housed my dreams. It pulls a P. C. Sorcar act on all my tears and fears and replaces them with hopes, prayers and promises. And, it makes me realise that the best things in life always take the longest to happen.</div>
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The city is special, therefore. Not because of the infinite number of things it doesn't have or give. It is not Calcutta, it never will be. First love can happen only once right? But, it does give the comfort of home-made Espressos and long morning cuddles. It compensates for the heart-aches with the company of best friends and family. Most importantly, it makes the dream of doing what I love and sharing the address with the favourite roommate, a reality :-).</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com0India20.593684 78.962880000000041-8.5806465 37.654286000000042 49.7680145 120.27147400000004tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-32150619602785666562016-05-05T19:38:00.000+05:302016-06-19T17:34:12.567+05:30Unchained melodies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As John Denver continues to magically transform my thoughts into songs and make the heart ache a little more, I look outside and realise it is raining. I run to the balcony, barefoot, and try to smell the rain. There is none. I am disheartened for a tiny second. The strong wind tangles the hair and I try to brush it off the face. But then I strain the neck out and let the rain caress my face, feeling the corners of the lips twisting to a familiar shape. And then suddenly, I see them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I see them, lost in conversation, walking along the lanes of their hometown as the Kalbaisakhi continues to make her presence felt. I see them going back and forth several times on the metro and chatting the hours away. I see them spending the entire evening looking for the perfect flower-bouquet for her parents' marriage anniversary. I see them s<span style="font-family: inherit;">itting for</span> hours in cafes and restaurants, eating cakes and pizza quattro formaggis and later complaining about how much they have eaten. I see him making "grudge" sounds in the dark to scare her and she almost waking the neighbours up with her screams. I see him calling her on a Saturday morning while she sleeps, asking her to open the front door as he stands outside, having travelled for hours just to give a surprise. I see him going down on one knee in the middle of the crowded food-court, taking her hand and slipping on her finger a ring. I see him waiting patiently for her </span>tuition<span style="font-family: inherit;"> classes to end so they can walk back home together. I see an obese her, running across the Dhakuria bridge to catch a bus, and him waiting in front of the door and stopping the bus until she has reached. I see him pulling her leg constantly about NGOs, and later strangling her body with the arms in an attempt to pacify her.</span> I see him baking his first cake and writing her a long testimonial in an attempt to compensate for fights. I see him running wild with excitement as she shows him around her second favorite city in the world. I see her reading out loud to him lines from the Bengali book that she reads, as he works on his laptop with the head on her torso.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I see them lying in bed, watching "Bariwali" perhaps for the umpteenth time. I see them decorating the room with tiny Christmas lights and traditional Rajasthani dolls and their wedding pictures. </span>I see them enjoying a quiet birthday dinner at a small Fondue restaurant atop the hills on a gloomy day and later taking a lazy walk by the lake. I see them talking sadly about things and people who continue to hurt. <span style="font-family: inherit;">I see him preparing coffee each morning so to let her sleep a few extra minutes. I see him insisting on buying her that expensive silk scarf on their honeymoon because he likes it on her. I see them holding hands tightly while walking around the holy fire, as he puts the vermilion on the parting of her hair. I see him being on the phone with her the entire night as she waits for the night train at an empty railway station amidst drunkards. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I see him behaving like a kid-in-the-candy-store when she gifts him the ONE ring and those tiny Minions. I see him calling her every couple of minutes to get updates on the tennis matches that Federer plays. I see her waiting at their familiar meeting point, while he secretly buys roses for her from the corner shop. I see them in the kitchen, cooking together and talking about his excessive use of garlic in anything and everything, with snippets of romance thrown in here and there. I see them video calling and taking snapshots, her blabbering away to glory and him checking himself out on the video the entire time. </span>I see them trying to "Moonwalk" at Michael Jackson's songs in the middle of the night and giggling endlessly afterwards. I see him holding her head down as she throws up in the toilet after a crazy drinking night. <span style="font-family: inherit;">I see him teaching her a "little Physics" and her staring blankly the entire time. I see her balancing on the training ropes at the jungle resort and him carefully standing at the back for support. I see the look on her face and the lumps in her throat as he gifts her the solitaire on the wedding night. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I see them on their good, bad and ugly moments, when they love fiercely and fight vehemently. </span>I see her watching a movie alone in the theater without informing him, only to stay away and punish him for his mistakes. I see her leaving the house and going for a long walk after a fight, and him nervously asking what took her so long as she returns. I see him not talking for an entire night, and in the morning, leaving his sim card for a phone-less her to use during the day. <span style="font-family: inherit;">I see the disappointments, the tears and arguments, </span>all the flaws and complaints<span style="font-family: inherit;">. And then </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I see them growing up side by side, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">choosing to stay together till the end of time. I see the support they give to each other, in good times and bad, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">realising that is how love should look like. I see the look on their faces as they meet at airports or railway stations after months, realising that is how happiness should look like. I see them having </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">moments of small insignificant happinesses, realising that is what life should be all about. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I smile, realising, that is how the feeling of "home" should feel like. <span style="font-family: inherit;">M</span>agic, in the mundane :)</span></div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com2Southern Europe47.989921667414166 10.195312527.319438667414165 -31.1132815 68.66040466741417 51.5039065tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-91981223875618236522016-02-17T19:24:00.002+05:302016-02-17T19:42:31.936+05:30Marriage Materials<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You know that feeling when you meet an ex-lover/friend after ages and have no clue what to talk about? You put up a straight face, smile a <i>Sheldon Cooper</i> smile while mentally cursing yourself for not delaying the meeting, try to make small talks and embarrass yourself to no extent. But at the same time, you experience a tug at the heartstrings at the very sight of the person and cannot help but realise that love indeed is a strong emotion. </div>
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Well, that's exactly how I feel as I start to write this blog post. It has been so long that <b>Candyfloss</b> and I have seen eye-to-eye, that the very thought of coming up with a proper excuse for having committed the sin makes me nauseous. Then again, the happiness at the sight of the familiar territory that accompanies the nausea, is unparalleled. So here I stand, guilty as charged, and try to seduce the angry heart of this ex-lover with.. words!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzhZM4n9KwWClSVPb3zUm7CHz8xs6GTl56SOrlJqn312pQjPWW4lJszEir6rGl3qb9MfhI5b6Cq15FlOTjL1-REUb_a6c_3nAVIwvbgjkIP-s4-2ZJJaHnnn__YpcTs5czE5HSbr9-uTac/s1600/IMG-20151227-WA0001.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzhZM4n9KwWClSVPb3zUm7CHz8xs6GTl56SOrlJqn312pQjPWW4lJszEir6rGl3qb9MfhI5b6Cq15FlOTjL1-REUb_a6c_3nAVIwvbgjkIP-s4-2ZJJaHnnn__YpcTs5czE5HSbr9-uTac/s200/IMG-20151227-WA0001.jpg" /></a>First things first, WHY have I not written all this while? I have since long been accused of the fourth deadly sin (as a matter of fact almost all of them, but let's not go down that road), which I believe is the only path for achieving <i>Moksha</i> and is my eternally-valid excuse for anything and everything. I would also conveniently put the blame on the social hullabaloo that happened a couple of months ago and say that I have been leading a sedentary lifestyle ever since. The finishing of the PhD and the complacency that followed, served as the cherry on top. No wonder, work took a back-seat and so did writing, while all efforts to shove and push the lazy mind out of hibernation were wrapped in woolen blankets and stacked in old almirahs to be used for the next year :/. On that note, I have often wondered why the guy would call me 'cat' so often. The amazingly accurate picture showed to me last Christmas explained why, and I couldn't help but gasp at the similarity! Yeah, love works in strange ways, mostly through such unabashed name-calling :D</div>
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Anyways, having talked about the Ph.D. in several of my previous blog posts, let me talk about the one thing that is rather new in my life: Being the Mrs. This reminds me of the several conversations had with strangers-who-called-themselves-my-relatives the last time I was in the hometown as a newly-wed. </div>
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Conversation 1:</div>
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Her (upon entering my room): "Dear lord, you do not <i>look </i>married at all! What's with the shorts and tops and empty hands and no vermilion? You look exactly the same as you did before you got married!" *the look of utter anguish and horror follows*</div>
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Me (in the most polite way possible, which I never thought I knew): "I dress up the way I feel most comfortable in. I <i>do</i> look faintly married when I am out at some social event. But at home, I prefer not being a clown".</div>
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Her: "No no. Aren't you a newly-wed? You should do it also at home! So have you legally changed your surname yet? You know, these days it is a fashion among <i>modern</i> women to keep their maiden name".</div>
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Me (on the verge of losing my cool but still with the plastic smile on the face): "I have decided not to change my name".</div>
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Her (almost choking): "What? What does your husband say to that? And your in-laws?"</div>
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Me: "Well, I didn't seek my husband's permission in the first place. But he is perfectly fine with my decision. He would never force me to do anything that I would not want. Also my in-laws". </div>
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Her: "Good good. You must be very lucky to have landed such an amazing husband who seems to be fine with everything. Okay, I take your leave now"</div>
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Me: *mentally looking for a knife to back-stab the retreating lady*</div>
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Conversation 2:</div>
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Her: "What's this? Why are you staying at your parents' place instead of your in-laws? You mustn't forget that this is no longer your home".</div>
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Me (blank expression): "The husband is not in the city, so I have decided to stay here most of the time. But I would ofcourse visit my in-laws".</div>
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Her (to my mom who is sitting next to me): "Why are you accepting this? Next time she is in town and she visits you, give her some sweets and ask her to go to her <i>own house</i>".</div>
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Me: *silently leaving the room and realising that ignorance, indeed, is a bliss at times*</div>
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Conversation 3: </div>
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Her: "Wow you are glowing after marriage! How does it feel to be married?"</div>
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Me: "I think I look exactly the same as I did before. And I feel no change whatsoever. I have known him for almost a decade now, so there are no surprises in store for me" ;)</div>
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Her: "Still, you <i>should</i> feel different. Every woman does, after marriage. You may know him from before, but now he is your husband and no longer a lover. There should be some difference. Also, what's with this তুই-তুই? Start saying তুমি now. তুই doesn't sound good to the ears!"</div>
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Me: *let me find a bar of chocolate*</div>
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The reason for putting across excerpts from random conversations for everyone to see is not to demean the people involved, nor to establish the fact that I am above all social boundaries. Because I am not, else I wouldn't have gone through the social convention in the first place. But কুপমন্ডুকতা bothers me, and makes me sad. Yes, the society is changing and as hard as it must be, one should go with the flow instead of conveniently blaming it on "generation-gap". It bothers me that in Bengali marriages, mothers of the bride and groom are not allowed to watch the wedding rituals, lest the happiness of the bride and groom be ruined. It bothers me that women hold such low opinions about women who show the courage to break social shackles in whichever way, and instead criticize them for not joining the bandwagon of blind faith and beliefs. It bothers me when someone tells me that it is okay if I, having completed a Ph.D., do not work as long as my husband has a stable source of income. The ease and obviousness with which all these statements are made bother me to no extent. And then life goes on, we forgive and forget things that bother us or have bothered us in the past and go on living life the way we know best. </div>
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But, on a lighter note, marriage in India is certainly not just a cumulonimbus playbook of age-old traditions and customs. It comes with its own silver-colored perks ;). How else would you <i>socially </i>enjoy the notion of friends-with-benefits? How else would you immerse all shame in the holy waters of the Ganges and hold hands or hug in front of the parents? How else would you explain the late-night chats that were once reasons for infinite fights in the household? And how else would you get to spend the rest of the life with the <i>part-time lover and full-time friend</i> and have this tiny conversation in the middle of watching a Bengali movie?</div>
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P: " "ভালবাসা আর কিছুই না, অভ্যাস মাত্র"~ এই ডায়ালগ টা শুনেই তোর্ কথা মনে হয়েছে! আমায় কত বলতিস ঝগড়ার সময়, মনে আছে?"</div>
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I: "হুম, আছে "</div>
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P: "এখনো তাই মনে হয়?"</div>
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I: :)</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-15739032611724235412015-11-08T23:52:00.002+05:302015-11-08T23:55:27.392+05:30Four years.. wrapped up!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As the days of being Piled Higher and Deeper come to an end, I try to gulp down the lump in the throat with no success. Writing this makes me melancholic, and reminds me of that late October afternoon four years ago when I had arrived in this small German town and even smaller railway station with a bagful of dreams and butterflies in the stomach. Looking back, the town with an unusual pronunciation hadn't taken my breath away on first sight. But as they say, love is beyond first sights and red roses on valentine's day and rather is that feeling of "at home", I fell in love with her without even realising when. Yes we haven't always shared the perfect relationship. Sometimes she would be like the new lover, trying to impress with her sunny warm weather and charming happy faces all around. Sometimes she would be as dull and gloomy as an old couple watching T.V. on a Friday night. Sometimes she would all of a sudden shower on me thin light snowflakes and make me feel like a Disney princess, and at other times she would be as cold and distant as an angry spouse after a fight. However, in all these, she gave me infinite moments, moments that painted the most wonderful kaleidoscope on the canvas of my life. She gave me people who stood by me as I struggled through frequent academic and emotional turbulences and loved me in spite of my weirdness. And she taught me the true meanings of knowledge, compassion and tolerance. She is special therefore, very very special, because in the last four years, she felt like home.</div>
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So thank you Jena for loving me without conditions, for giving me my so many firsts, for accepting me as a part of GK that I'll forever be proud of, and for gifting me friends and memories of a lifetime. I'll miss you, more than I would have ever imagined. Auf Wiedersehen :(</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-51025264925567242602015-06-22T02:02:00.001+05:302015-06-22T02:44:30.155+05:30iSpeak<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Of all the things that I missed during the prolonged limbo, writing was the foremost. Oh, by writing I mean anything other than ECONOMICS, the last millions of years were only about that. The PhD grilled me like a raw steak on charcoal, extracting every ounce of energy and leaving me a walking dead! But, it also left me with a lifetime of experience, a hardback as proof of three and a half years of existential crisis, and in the end, time for what I love to do the most. Hence, I decided to forgive and forget, sit by the window on a rainy Sunday evening in the heart of the city that takes my breath away every single time I watch her from <i>up above the world so high</i>, and write.</div>
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If the prelude looks like I have something extraordinary to write about, clearly it is not the case. I wanted to write about the rains, that strangely makes me romantic and transports me to a wonderland where memories are served as welcome drinks, lunch and dinner (yes, I do relate everything to food, that's a genetic disorder). But as I start to write, I feel an array of dark clouds hovering around, mystifying the thoughts. On and off conversation with Ma distracts me, while at the same time fills me with a happiness that was missing in the past several months. We talk about life, love and experiences that have molded us, hopes and dreams, and destiny. She tells me stories of her childhood, her upbringing, when a teen-aged version of her met Baba and fell in love, and their journey ever since. She talks about her childhood crush, of friends she has long lost contact with, her school and college days, and I listen with a lump in the throat and the rain pouring incessantly outside. I have listened to her stories umpteenth times, but I still love to hear them. It makes me dreamy, and her too, as I continue the conversation with snippets of my own stories of a teen-aged version of me falling in love, of traveling around and making friends and memories for life, and of misjudgments and naiveté. I urge her to secure her stories in the pages of a diary and lock them there, as I would mine someday, only to open them on days like today. On days that turn out to be perfect, not for their <i>fifty-shades-of-grey</i> weather and intermittent activities, but because of rainbow-colored conversations and laughter that resonate across the room. No wonder, even after spending an enormous amount of time trying to write something in an organized way, I end up with nothing in particular. Only with a strange post that soothes :)</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-67792470858109287592014-11-12T06:10:00.001+05:302014-11-12T22:50:09.902+05:30The brown monster<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I haven't managed to write in a very long time. I wouldn't have even written in a long long time, given the surreal pressure of being Piled Higher and Deeper. But here I am, almost in the middle of the night, trying every possible trick in the world to keep the mind off the pure evil that's sitting right there on the kitchen counter and silently laughing at my misery. I call it my nemesis. Officially though, people call it Nutella. </span><br />
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It was exactly three years ago that I had my first tryst with this sinful hazelnut spread. I had thought, "well it's made of hazelnut, how much bad could it be?" It tasted breathtakingly good, insanely addictive, was promoted as a healthy breakfast spread, and was consumed by a wide mass of people. So I convinced myself that it was definitely not something to be worried about. Initially, nothing happened. I kept on buying jar after jar of Nutella and spreading it on breads, crackers, fruits, and anything I could lay my hands on. Eventually, they gave way to spooning out dollops of the spread right off the jar and putting it in the mouth, and even more stacking of empty jars in the kitchen. Three months later, clothes started getting tighter. The zipper of the favorite pair of jeans wouldn't close. And people started commenting on how "fuller" my face had become. I didn't pay much attention, until I weighed myself one night at a friend's dinner party who happened to have a weighing machine at hand. 12 kilograms more than the usual weight, it told me. At first, I thought the machine was broken. But it wasn't too long before reality hit me. I remember crying that night, on my way back, and promising myself never to let that devil wreak havoc in my life! Ever.</div>
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It has been three years since then. I have lost all that weight, followed a healthy lifestyle, gained wisdom and a hell lot of experience. However in all these years, except for a few Nutella crêpes here and there, never did I once let myself be rendered helpless at the hands of that particular spread. Until, recently. Three days ago, I went to the supermarket to buy the weekly grocery. It was cold and gloomy and dull and everything bad in the world and I was craving for something that would lift up the spirits in a jiffy. I browsed through the racks for more than fifteen minutes, but didn't find something that would make me go weak in the knees. And then, my eyes fell on the familiar brown jar with the white cap. I looked away instantly, knowing how fatal the attraction could turn out to be. But in the end, I found myself picking the jar up and proceeding towards the cash counter, and returning home with a smile I had forgotten I smiled.</div>
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On the first day, I behaved. I ate only a couple of spoonful and put the jar away and didn't look back. I thought I had gained enough self-control in all these years to be able to stay away. But, boy oh boy, was I in for a surprise! That was Sunday. Today is Tuesday. And, I can almost see the bottom of the 500 gm jar. It probably won't last one whole week, eh who am I kidding, half a week even. All I did in the last two days after coming straight back from work was sit in front of the laptop, watch a few episodes of F.R.I.E.N.D.S and gobble down spoonful after spoonful of the orgasmic goodness. And now I feel exactly the way I felt three years ago: ashamed and disgusted beyond belief at the sinful over-indulgence, but with a happiness that says "if loving you is wrong, I don’t want to be right"! I now, can die, peacefully :)</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-55518704664484919982014-09-20T05:11:00.001+05:302018-01-18T13:44:26.950+05:30বাঙালিয়ানা <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">মাতৃভাষায় এই প্রথম কোনো ব্লগ-পোস্ট লিখছি। না, শুধু ব্লগ-পোস্ট লিখছি বললে ভুল বলা হবে। মাতৃভাষায় এই প্রথম কিছু লিখছি, অনেক অনেক দিন পর। লাস্ট সেই ২০০৫। মাস টা এপ্রিল বোধহয়। উচ্চ মাধ্যমিক পরীক্ষা। তার পরে তো কলেজ-এ উঠে সাপের পাঁচ-পা দেখে বাংলার বদলে ওই কিসব অল্টারনেটিভ ইংলিশ নিলাম। কি খুশি-ই না হয়েছিলাম সেদিন। বাংলা থেকে মুক্তি, সারাজীবনের মতো! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">বাংলা-র সাথে বরাবর এর শত্রূতা আমার। স্কুল এর পরীক্ষায় কোনদিন ৫০ এ ২০-র ওপর পেয়েছি বলে মনে পরে না। ক্লাস টেস্ট এ অচেনা রচনা লিখতে দিলে ১০ লাইন এর বেশি লিখতে পারতাম না। ব্যাকরণ এর উত্তর পাশের জনের খাতায় খোঁজার চেষ্টা করতাম। </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Parents-teachers </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">মিটিং গুলোতে টিচার দের বরাবর একটাই অভিযোগ থাকতো- বাংলা তে আরও ইম্প্রোভমেণ্ট</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">দরকার। প্রথম প্রথম মা বলতো, বাঙালির মেয়ে হয়ে বাংলায় এত খারাপ! পরের দিকে, নিজের মুখ বাঁচাতে মেয়ে কে তোতা পাখি করে পরীক্ষায় পাঠাতো। রচনা থেকে শুরু করে ব্যাকরণ, গদ্য-র প্রশ্ন উত্তর থেকে পদ্য, কোনো কিছুই বাদ থাকত না মেয়ে কে দিয়ে মুখস্ত করাতে। স্বাভাবিক ভাবেই, মাধ্যমিক পরীক্ষায় মা এর মুখ উজ্জ্বল করে লেটার-মার্কস এনেছিল মেয়ে।</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"বোর্ড এর পরীক্ষায় এত নম্বর পেয়েছি যখন, তাহলে হয়তো বাংলা তে এতটাও খারাপ না আমি"। এই চরম ভুল ধারণা আর </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">over-confidence</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">এর কারণেই ক্লাস ১১-এ উঠে </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">second</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">language</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> হিসেবে শেষে বাংলা-ই নিলাম। স্বেচ্ছায়। ভেবেছিলাম- মা তো আছে, দরকার পড়লে না হয় কোনো একটা টিউশন এ ভর্তি হয়ে যাবো। আর সেখানেই হলো গন্ডগোল। প্রতি রবিবার, ১০ টা থেকে দুপুর ১টা। এই ছিল টিউশন এর সময়। শুরুর দিকে যদিও বেশ মন দিয়েই পড়াশুনা করতাম। তারপরে একদিন, চি</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ৎ</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">পটাং হয়ে পরলাম। প্রেমে। ওহ সে কি প্রেম, কি প্রেম! টিচার এর চোখ লুকিয়ে টেরিয়ে টেরিয়ে দেখা থেকে শুরু করে, বাস-স্টপ এ অন্তহীন অপেক্ষা, ছুটির পর তার পেছন পেছন হাঁটা, ক্লাস এ সেজে গুজে আসা, অন্য কোনো মেয়ে তার পাশে গিয়ে বসলে মনে মনে খুব গালমন্দ করা- বাদ দি নি কিছুই। শুধু বাদ পরে গেছিল দুটো জিনিষ। তার সাথে কোনদিন মুখ ফুটে কথা বলা টা। আর যে কারণে টিউশন পড়তে ঢোকা, সেটা। প্রথম বোকামি টার কোনো প্রমাণ নেই। দ্বিতীয় টার আছে। উচ্চ মাধ্যমিক পরীক্ষার মার্ক-শীট। বাংলা-য় ২০০ তে ১০১! এবং তার সাথে সাথে টোটাল-মার্কস এর একলাফে ২০ গুন কমে আসা। মা-র "লজ্জায় মরে যাওয়া" মুখ দেখে সেদিন ঠিক করে নিয়েছিলাম, অনেক হলো নিজের যোগ্যতা কে </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">overestimate </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">করা। আর না। তার সাথে এটাও যে পড়াশুনার জায়গায় প্রেম করা এই শেষ। এক্ষেত্রে কিন্তু প্রথম টা মেনে এসেছি অক্ষরে অক্ষরে। এমন কি, পরবর্তী কালে প্রেমিক দের দেওয়া </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">love-letter </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">এর ভাষা-ও কোনদিন "</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">SMS</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">-বাংলা"র ওপর ওঠেনি বানান ভুল হওয়ার ভয়ে। আর দ্বিতীয় টা? থাক সে সব কথা! ;) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">যাই হোক, তা আজ হঠাৎ ব্লগার এর </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">language-options </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">দেখতে গিয়ে "<b>অ</b>" চোখে পরলো। বুঝলাম, বাংলা তেও ব্লগ-পোস্ট লেখা সম্ভব তাহলে। আর সেখান থেকেই এই </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">juvenile পোস্ট</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> এর সূত্রপাত। </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">বাংলা ভাষা নিয়ে অত্যাধিক উত্তেজনা কোনদিন-ই ছিল না আমার। তাছাড়া, </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ইন্টারনেট এর সাহায্যে ইংরেজি তে টাইপ করে বাংলা-য় লেখা আর পরীক্ষার আগে রাত-রাত জেগে ব্যাকরণ মুখস্ত করা অনেক আলাদা। তবে, এতদিন পর বাংলা লিখতে বসে <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">অদ্ভূত</span> এক ভালো লাগা অনুভব করলাম আজ</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">। প্রতি বার, বার বার, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Pretty Woman" </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">দেখে মনে হয় যেমন। </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nutella</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">-র শিশি তে সামান্য এক ফোঁটা চকলেট লেগে থাকলে যেমন। বা </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Paris </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ঘুরতে গিয়ে রেস্তোরার কাঁচে হাজার খানেক ভাষায় লেখা </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">"welcome" এর মধ্যে "ভিতরে আসুন" খুঁজে পাওয়া যেমন। </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">বাংলায় কি বলে জানিনা। ইংরেজি তে একেই </span>বলে হয়তো, <span style="font-family: inherit;">soothing :)</span></div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-58245332945735199542014-09-09T03:40:00.000+05:302014-09-09T06:11:29.752+05:30The dark side of Youtube<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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So, today was one such day when my craving to munch on chocolate chip cookies knew no bounds. Given that I hardly ever keep them at home for fear of finishing the whole bunch in a single sitting, I decided to satisfy my pangs by watching "how to make chocolate chip cookies" on Youtube. It was then that I came across this- <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyJycsyhufY" target="_blank">How to Make Cookies</a>. The recipe had the highest view count among all cookie recipes (over two and a half millions) and the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/HowToBasic" target="_blank">channel</a> had over three million subscriptions. Naturally, I inferred that the recipe would be a mix of extreme decadence and guilty pleasure and would perhaps revolutionize cookie making, having no clue of the catastrophe that would unfold in the next couple of minutes!</div>
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I understand funny. I understand wit, sarcasm, spoof, meme, caricature, and prank. But I do not understand insanity. I do not understand psychopathy, nor do I understand nonsense. Basically, the guy mimics real recipes in some of the disgusting ways known to mankind, and pokes fun at the very art of cooking. So, while in a "how to make cookies" recipe, he smashes eggs against the kitchen counter, puts cookies and milk in the oven and immediately flushes them down the toilet, in the "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgRlfgV0h9w" target="_blank">how to make brownies</a>" tutorial, he puts all ingredients in a food processor, adds a raw fish, mixes everything together, bakes them for a couple of seconds and flushes everything down the toilet in the end. Initially, I thought I missed the point- afterall how on earth could recipes so absurd and plain gross draw millions of views and comments from Youtube users? In an attempt to better understand the humor, I checked a couple of his other tutorials and figured that the guy indeed is a massive retard. Apart from food videos, he has horrifying videos like "how to babysit" and "how to make love to a chicken", which are beyond the maximum level of human tolerance (*spoiler alert*: do not check these out, I suffered enough!) They are plain absurd and disgusting and will make you loathe yourself for the rest of your life for having checked these videos in the first place.<br />
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But, sadly, that's not my point here. I do understand that people (even a madman like him) are open to upload whatever their heart desires on social media. So much said and done about freedom of speech, freedom of expression and so on, I can still tolerate attempts by pathetic individuals at redefining humor. What I fail to understand is how the channel is among the most watched channels on Youtube and how three million subscribers find it "hilarious". Is it the humor that I have so plainly failed to understand, or the "innovative ways" that have struck a chord with the viewers? Is it really the fact that people are so bored and have nothing else to do that they watch crap like these? Or is it that people, on principle, enjoy sadism?<br />
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I wish I knew the answers. On second thought, I pray that I never!<br />
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-51386377436886871602014-08-30T06:27:00.000+05:302014-08-30T06:27:38.238+05:30Et cetera<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Valencia. A city that has one of the busiest seaports in Europe. A city that is a storehouse of energy. A city so warm that it compensates for living in a country with an almost-perennial winter. A city that basks in the happiness of being kissed by the Mediterranean everyday. A city that offers the best Paella and Tapas in the whole world. A city where people are loud, pleasantly unruly often, that reminds of home. A city that is Spanish in every way possible. A city that needs a separate blog-post of her own. And a city with brief and not-so-brief moments of solitude scattered around. </div>
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When I first arrived here a couple of months ago for my research stay, I was reminded of a starry-eyed three-years-younger me who had just arrived in a new country where people spoke in a strange language. It reminded me of the first night that I had to sleep alone in a small apartment and the exponentially-increasing heartrate, of the infinite nights spent crying out of homesickness and loneliness, of the innumerable embarrassing incidents experienced on account of not understanding the language, of the niceness of people around, of all the rights and wrongs done along the way, and of growing up. While all these past experiences have definitely helped in coping with this all-over-again newness, it has also made me realise one very important aspect of life that I have most often overlooked. </div>
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Learning to ski on the Alps or swim for the first time in the wavy Mediterranean waters are perfect definitions of testosterone-fueled activities as far as I am concerned. But I wonder if it would have been the same had there been no one to dismiss their own interests and patiently and persistently teach me the sports that day. Would it have been less scary that Friday night on a lonesome train station with drunken men around if there was no one to virtually give company the entire time? Would walking on the beach on a warm summer night with the wind ruffling the hair evoked the same emotions had there not been the perfect company to incessantly gossip with? Would ogling random French guys been as much fun if there wasn't anyone to share the naughtiness with? Or would it have been the same to try Tequila for the first time, without that look of concern displayed all across that particular onlooker's face? </div>
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There is hardly anything more satisfying than getting a chance to experience a new country, new people, and new ways of life. Staying in a big apartment with guy roommates that's still considered a taboo back home, enjoying conversations and hard liquor without caring about people, time or place, roaming around in shorts and tees and not being judged or stared at, and experiencing freedom, can be a hell lot of fun. However, nothing in the world can match up to the feeling of feeling absolutely lost and lonely on the first day of arrival in a new city and then being taken on a night-tour of the city by the still-new roommate. It is then that one realizes how much incomplete "independence" is without a companion :)</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-79362477472759784802014-08-09T20:34:00.001+05:302014-09-20T19:25:22.159+05:30Tryst with history<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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".. because when life throws lemons at you, collect them, cut them up, and enjoy with some tequila and salt!"</div>
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There's hardly anything more blissful than unwinding the Spanish way with a dear friend after an enormously exhausting month. However, nothing in the world prepares you for accidentally bumping into the oldest restaurant in the world (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sobrino_de_Bot%C3%ADn" target="_blank">Sobrino de Botín</a>) <span style="text-align: justify;">while taking a lazy walk down a tiny alley in the capital city and then getting a chance to dine in! @that tequila-shot moment :D</span></div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxhvipisG3mNKU53IFoIq1sdNAYXSazcnWn9kk2_4Ovelecxwpvw34H5fHozMfLUYG9c_DTFEXFXJBgA7IpjC-mmstzPM3o-3GHkqKZHGzujIcDBb4h7Sn4GHreqUmooItT456z9IH5RY/s1600/DSC06572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxhvipisG3mNKU53IFoIq1sdNAYXSazcnWn9kk2_4Ovelecxwpvw34H5fHozMfLUYG9c_DTFEXFXJBgA7IpjC-mmstzPM3o-3GHkqKZHGzujIcDBb4h7Sn4GHreqUmooItT456z9IH5RY/s1600/DSC06572.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Sobrino de Botín</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWlnhpwELw8q982DSwUTXkuTqUcKCjuv5VR_kUMWwUDWlcclE97wy8hYO5pJQU1WuEjUfKYrpxfldNvZL38vzRFiScI54LMOQE541Dpkj8hw6aCj6b-MJ4bT5HuzOZ_7HTVxVXKWwMUDNj/s1600/DSC06485.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWlnhpwELw8q982DSwUTXkuTqUcKCjuv5VR_kUMWwUDWlcclE97wy8hYO5pJQU1WuEjUfKYrpxfldNvZL38vzRFiScI54LMOQE541Dpkj8hw6aCj6b-MJ4bT5HuzOZ_7HTVxVXKWwMUDNj/s1600/DSC06485.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The entire structure of the restaurant, on display</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRymzVoUfo_qVHpk0_z2v6GFJbWYr91cpEWozt1ODlSKvSUt8UKrNirkOHfBGal9jmjWHZF9Gq0VlvDBbmbS783e9iG6HsJ72Nid_oNu9fcTnVuX4jp_a9AhOKjGU7Dp-fIf_BYsmYf7cS/s1600/DSC06486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRymzVoUfo_qVHpk0_z2v6GFJbWYr91cpEWozt1ODlSKvSUt8UKrNirkOHfBGal9jmjWHZF9Gq0VlvDBbmbS783e9iG6HsJ72Nid_oNu9fcTnVuX4jp_a9AhOKjGU7Dp-fIf_BYsmYf7cS/s1600/DSC06486.JPG" height="320" width="249" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The certificate</td></tr>
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The restaurant has four floors. The ground floor has three big kitchens, the reception and the alcohol stock on display. The first floor hosts the guests and has an additional working kitchen. The second floor is mostly for personal use and provides services. Finally, the cellar is completely made of stone and is the coziest (and perhaps the most romantic) place to dine in! :)</div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKA24da6zH6Kjb5-056Z4vz2Hih4U4qDixvR4WgHLg5TFBvTGrYOv_gHdPtCFYYsSGUUlA3y37asFnumBoCLDEt8JYMd70RT0q22AX-hOMwyTPEl4IcdAuZHFIZZj6sd2w9-CRskqClPla/s1600/DSC06492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKA24da6zH6Kjb5-056Z4vz2Hih4U4qDixvR4WgHLg5TFBvTGrYOv_gHdPtCFYYsSGUUlA3y37asFnumBoCLDEt8JYMd70RT0q22AX-hOMwyTPEl4IcdAuZHFIZZj6sd2w9-CRskqClPla/s1600/DSC06492.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Ground floor, and alcohol stock</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8t0v5uSq2rOkvAfyI6oX8OPRJ_TcDGf9273PUnbgfWSV3CajvhDXZHzYuK4aXHKJAylPRajMlXH3UdUvT9Gdi3UtyxOligjZ5UuosYGmY3yfYxJARc8Tj8BlC4qb1u8xnD2BS08snzrz/s1600/DSC06574.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8t0v5uSq2rOkvAfyI6oX8OPRJ_TcDGf9273PUnbgfWSV3CajvhDXZHzYuK4aXHKJAylPRajMlXH3UdUvT9Gdi3UtyxOligjZ5UuosYGmY3yfYxJARc8Tj8BlC4qb1u8xnD2BS08snzrz/s1600/DSC06574.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Jewels, in the shape of certificates and merits, <br />
adorning the walls</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRgmSZioTM5fpImFKQctQl31uP2tjyJHwbPBwcWjnwrlG9rStaevI7auu-Oi-y5dVK1tQyuxNuPb1yHs_IgXLE2PxPEuOlkVEXfXPd8vGKu-CoXosX2OfZezD1NI2znZmwUU4ukh8PepZ-/s1600/DSC06575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRgmSZioTM5fpImFKQctQl31uP2tjyJHwbPBwcWjnwrlG9rStaevI7auu-Oi-y5dVK1tQyuxNuPb1yHs_IgXLE2PxPEuOlkVEXfXPd8vGKu-CoXosX2OfZezD1NI2znZmwUU4ukh8PepZ-/s1600/DSC06575.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Translation: year 1725</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGLN8Rm6YkN9Zp1dbmTLsCuiisuK4SfxCfrglU9u-OOaZbkak3dy7wdF9HQOdWAAOKafZ22eXPGYqm1fpYrN4yboVsyIFtubaqxVkfwmPEl95FvkderFhqkVJ3jCO8qvqVWd4C_kULYngY/s1600/DSC06487.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGLN8Rm6YkN9Zp1dbmTLsCuiisuK4SfxCfrglU9u-OOaZbkak3dy7wdF9HQOdWAAOKafZ22eXPGYqm1fpYrN4yboVsyIFtubaqxVkfwmPEl95FvkderFhqkVJ3jCO8qvqVWd4C_kULYngY/s1600/DSC06487.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The head chef with the suckling pig, the specialty <br />
of the restaurant</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjBd2BYyjy7YEVxbyOqu1WDE1EN828wtl4o-zRMLXVIh0f9HmUtyJG6BTP5CK0CYNoOQLb-sT9axVB1_wfwFZpyXnI7zQycJwA_c8TCUekhSo0DU9mSqF33avyR656HayWZAFGiAOhrr_Q/s1600/DSC06489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjBd2BYyjy7YEVxbyOqu1WDE1EN828wtl4o-zRMLXVIh0f9HmUtyJG6BTP5CK0CYNoOQLb-sT9axVB1_wfwFZpyXnI7zQycJwA_c8TCUekhSo0DU9mSqF33avyR656HayWZAFGiAOhrr_Q/s1600/DSC06489.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The 18th century firewood oven</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghcII2hW68Q3_jwlc-f8JeaZiho7QJD0M7ttJJZhAozO-Lan6lYBZsz-6sqe-bk3VwrGwlPWQ3Kph7ZQut42zoI1zkkISjUKsblEduo9EqQbrsLCn9_vlrqgW5sycyIyuQ5goLPzJM2zEk/s1600/DSC06597.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghcII2hW68Q3_jwlc-f8JeaZiho7QJD0M7ttJJZhAozO-Lan6lYBZsz-6sqe-bk3VwrGwlPWQ3Kph7ZQut42zoI1zkkISjUKsblEduo9EqQbrsLCn9_vlrqgW5sycyIyuQ5goLPzJM2zEk/s1600/DSC06597.JPG" height="201" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The cellar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bm7dIVcyIkpJPjuSpb_FQh8yYlrBPxzwd-xLnjCA8F6UUXVzUjWaEhTN0tki92KS8eTlALoeKKCJLQUvD5akcO1KAakMHegiBCrD3uAlbwv_VPl6an25h-C8FNUWImlNLCFZLG4dVDGU/s1600/DSC06598.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bm7dIVcyIkpJPjuSpb_FQh8yYlrBPxzwd-xLnjCA8F6UUXVzUjWaEhTN0tki92KS8eTlALoeKKCJLQUvD5akcO1KAakMHegiBCrD3uAlbwv_VPl6an25h-C8FNUWImlNLCFZLG4dVDGU/s1600/DSC06598.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Guests being entertained</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhluz5EeeKadeg-oKPNWuoKTYkhiMafAmuh-ovKw4UwrFkgQhPDQgSYiQCYoQ3a_brKHt4tk8upHm-qbQ7iJxv99B57buhyqOJZHgv1Fa1ruuVuUzivbCbXM6iOIpe8D3FrFqLzWzGhwA5w/s1600/DSC06488.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhluz5EeeKadeg-oKPNWuoKTYkhiMafAmuh-ovKw4UwrFkgQhPDQgSYiQCYoQ3a_brKHt4tk8upHm-qbQ7iJxv99B57buhyqOJZHgv1Fa1ruuVuUzivbCbXM6iOIpe8D3FrFqLzWzGhwA5w/s1600/DSC06488.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Stairway to heaven :)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitGk7kb6fENrWSol1cTlYfWsL42stNUanrq3cRYCLO-OsYxuJAr0ysjw4ULlresGuTQoL4mZxCKQGkZX1_QCASf6V96hbd4P8d2ehNbVuEHp34yS5RjVP9mK3kFgTLYUFUomS_yYGCrje6/s1600/DSC06578.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitGk7kb6fENrWSol1cTlYfWsL42stNUanrq3cRYCLO-OsYxuJAr0ysjw4ULlresGuTQoL4mZxCKQGkZX1_QCASf6V96hbd4P8d2ehNbVuEHp34yS5RjVP9mK3kFgTLYUFUomS_yYGCrje6/s1600/DSC06578.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interior</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdesbQe4vfRZlJxmnoMBG4Dnn4KszA9mp5ylSbslSGRCH9wuSl1DFFhVc_VjWsrd7YALuadH6xCpLVf9qRTgrqfkRZtbrxmVFL7THQAQyCwUpO4Ia7kTcLXutvyDYmSqIr1QtYHI-GfjZH/s1600/DSC06585.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdesbQe4vfRZlJxmnoMBG4Dnn4KszA9mp5ylSbslSGRCH9wuSl1DFFhVc_VjWsrd7YALuadH6xCpLVf9qRTgrqfkRZtbrxmVFL7THQAQyCwUpO4Ia7kTcLXutvyDYmSqIr1QtYHI-GfjZH/s1600/DSC06585.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mug which Sangria came in</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTMuXFcZasMX61h7-po6Bd8upMBPBRbcpnR8puoykZxesyPdnnS9udZvlJ0zVown9q6AQSWSM2XrDObMcTfBrQRDNL7VP4hJyeG8Q49N8T9ybOnD5l3vLOqN-F1BmkycrSel2plF2RQNfl/s1600/DSC06589.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTMuXFcZasMX61h7-po6Bd8upMBPBRbcpnR8puoykZxesyPdnnS9udZvlJ0zVown9q6AQSWSM2XrDObMcTfBrQRDNL7VP4hJyeG8Q49N8T9ybOnD5l3vLOqN-F1BmkycrSel2plF2RQNfl/s1600/DSC06589.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Free service</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl_Yq2stRd1X7pVkJ45y7V0iiAlNWK_nqCNYikfTrV2t6P4eb-hHLnn6RSIoGFL1cC8dTNThwFu7WI3PPcFFvQdqjDeOzZKIxa_GK6GWdOwpCiulJbM6sTAw8qn7Rqbsh-tWHM81g_Ed4u/s1600/DSC06593.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl_Yq2stRd1X7pVkJ45y7V0iiAlNWK_nqCNYikfTrV2t6P4eb-hHLnn6RSIoGFL1cC8dTNThwFu7WI3PPcFFvQdqjDeOzZKIxa_GK6GWdOwpCiulJbM6sTAw8qn7Rqbsh-tWHM81g_Ed4u/s1600/DSC06593.JPG" height="173" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">and that's when the evening turned from nice to magical! :)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
</div>
Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-34638947703884979942014-07-07T06:06:00.001+05:302022-09-24T16:05:51.836+05:30Federer, and a Sunday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Apart from getting up very late and missing three hours of work that's due for tomorrow, the Sunday had started on a reasonably high note. Arrival of two important emails that I had been waiting for since weeks, extension of the deadline for a very important conference, a wonderful news from a close friend, and finally, a teeny-tiny bit of leftover chocolate spread found in the jar while searching for possible breakfast ideas- somehow managed to slightly twist the otherwise crabby-looking lips to a familiar U shape. Unfortunately, my morning failed to show the day. Hence, in the end, I ended up looking like the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grumpy_Cat" target="_blank">Grumpy Cat</a>, feeling like the bright yellow-colored substance and sensing the heart being broken into thousand tiny pieces. All that, because of one particular gentleman named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Federer" target="_blank">Roger Federer</a>. </div>
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So, today was the Men's Single's Wimbledon Final. Djokovic versus Federer. Given the current form of the latter (who, by the way, was in the Wimbledon finals today after two long years), I had hoped and prayed for an exciting match and a result that skewed entirely in my favor. It did, till the 4th set, and then something happened. Something very very wrong, that pulled the heart out of the chest and tied it around the throat (if it sounds gruesome, imagine how it felt). In a matter of seconds, Federer had lost the game, the set, and the match. It was <i>the</i> end. The expectations, prayers, nail-biting, and the hope to finally see the look of immense happiness on the guy's face when I would tell him that Federer had won- all over. I sat motionless for a while. Then got up, moved around in the apartment contemplating murder of anyone and everyone, and finally sank in the bed and cursed. The feeling of immense disappointment and hurt, however, did not last very long. That, also because of this one particular gentleman named Roger Federer.</div>
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Roger Federer is one of the very few men I am <i>completely</i> in awe of. Not just me, Federer-love happens to run very high in the immediate and extended family too. The brother is a huge Federer fan, so is father. The guy is more of a fanatic than just a fan, and so are a few close friends. I, myself, am somewhere in between. Since ages, I have been fascinated by the sheer genius, poise, style and strength of the man. For me, he is greatness redefined on-field. Evidently enough, today's loss, that too at his most favorite ground, came as a shocker. But soon after, I was reminded of something that took away the pain of <i>virtually</i> watching him fail at the Centre Court today. What, you may wonder? Federer versus Youzhny. Gerry Weber Open, 2012. Halle, Germany. The day, coincidentally, was a Sunday too. And, Roger Federer, was just a few meters away :)</div>
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Long story short, after having uselessly planned for years, spontaneity got the better of us and we went to watch Federer play at the Gerry Weber Open in Halle. The match itself was a dream, and we had to pinch ourselves to believe that we were actually witnessing the greatest player <i>live in action.</i> We watched in awe the maestro, as he maneuvered his way into the Finals. After the match and subsequent press conference, the huge crowd gathered near the exit to catch a glimpse of the man. A while later, he came out, waved at the crowd and started signing autographs. We were crestfallen at that time, having been mercilessly pushed backward every second and hence convinced that our tryst with the great man would die an untimely death. But, we were proved wrong. He continued signing autographs and shaking hands for the next <i>half an hour</i>, stepping out of the barricade to reach the fans at the far end, and smiled and smiled. In that instant, he was not this top-ranked millionaire tennis player with 17 Grand Slam titles, but he was just one of us. It was then that I figured why Roger Federer was beyond on-field success and failure, beyond record-book records and prize money, why Roger Federer was loved and respected by millions, and why that day I experienced a familiar warmth in the heart :)</div>
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So what, if he lost the match today? So what, if he failed to achieve his 18th Grand Slam title? He won hearts, millions and millions of them, and that's what matters in the end. Not sure what I mean? Just watch the replay of today's match (or <i>any </i>of Federer's match) and listen to the intensity of the cheering he receives from the crowd, and you'll know.</div>
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P.S. Some of the pictures from the Gerry Weber Open. Ingredients that recipes of perfection are made of :D</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-56110618044783290662014-06-15T23:33:00.000+05:302014-06-15T23:41:48.759+05:30The World Cup fever in Spain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Indeed the result so far does not look convincing enough.</div>
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Indeed my ignorance about football equals that of a certain Sen's in politics.</div>
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But there's no harm in soaking in the World Cup spirit when I happen to be in the port-city of the defending champions, right? :)<br />
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P.S. I found this super awesome <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_V2NaWIBM0" target="_blank">video</a> on the web and was left salivating for hours. What a perfect, perfect way to enjoy the World Cup :D</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-44604263880618661852014-05-20T18:30:00.000+05:302014-05-20T18:30:01.034+05:30Time travel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Do you know the feeling when you come out of an airport exhausted, simultaneously dragging and cursing the mountain of luggage, and your scrutinizing eyes finally rest on a familiar face in the sea of people? When the ears turn red, the vision blurs and the heart skips a beat? When you forget all about the marathon flight, the long delay, the years of separation, and instead just grin from ear to ear?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjAAEyJM93AeBu-7EH8flEk1O_KuFsrW8WzuZMf9XRtlHSO6qt84zqowRsxKYtSQbNZM1IyBdNkS9MIk0BK6ElR_EEoRlCI_4JhCmkmmTjEHViS7nd8rEgGbQQCgIGtfe9cy6YmJFWeF0P/s1600/Neuschwanstein-Castle-Germany.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjAAEyJM93AeBu-7EH8flEk1O_KuFsrW8WzuZMf9XRtlHSO6qt84zqowRsxKYtSQbNZM1IyBdNkS9MIk0BK6ElR_EEoRlCI_4JhCmkmmTjEHViS7nd8rEgGbQQCgIGtfe9cy6YmJFWeF0P/s1600/Neuschwanstein-Castle-Germany.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Source: Google </span></td></tr>
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It was right after my higher secondary exam when Baba brought home our first personal computer. The brother and myself were thrilled beyond words and we spent every waking moment exploring it. Be it late into the night, in the middle of a working day, or right before an exam, there was no way we two could be un-glued from the computer. Besides computer games, one of our most-favorite pastime was browsing through numerous wallpaper websites and changing the desktop wallpaper everyday. However, there was <i>this</i> one particular wallpaper that we both adored, and hence stayed on the desktop much longer than usual. It was a picture of an old castle, in the middle of snow-clad mountains, that looked straight out of a fairy-tale. We had stumbled upon it randomly one day and therefore had no clue of its whereabouts. But it was enough to make a teen-aged me realise what love at first sight meant!</div>
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It has been a decade since then. I have grown from a starry-eyed teen to a (pseudo)mature woman, have traveled extensively, lived some of my dreams, and experienced personal and professional growth. But in all these years, never did I come across the sight that had made me go weak in the knees years ago. Until recently, when I finally experienced my<i> Cinderella </i>moment and realized that it was <i>totally</i> (with as much stress on the word as possible) worth the wait.</div>
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<a href="http://www.neuschwanstein.de/englisch/palace/index.htm">Neuschwanstein Castle</a>. That's what it is called. Built in the nineteenth century under Ludwig II of Bavaria, the enormous neo-Romanesque style castle is located in the hills above the village of Hohenschwangau in Bavaria, Germany. It can be reached within an hour from Munich and therefore serves as a perfect weekend getaway for tourists. <span style="font-family: inherit;">The </span>Hohenschwangau <span style="font-family: inherit;">village, located close to the small town of </span>Füssen, <span style="font-family: inherit;">is set at the foot of the breathtakingly beautiful Bavarian Alps (German Alps). </span>The most efficient form of transportation to reach the castle from the village is walking through the dense green forests, although there are a number of transportation options available. The castle itself is one of the most popular tourist attractions in Europe, drawing more than 1.3 million people each year. In fact many of Disney's movies have implicitly showcased the castle as the epitome of romance, and rightly so. There are not many accommodation options, especially if you are a poor PhD student or a budget traveler, and therefore it is advisable to plan the trip in advance. The official website of the castle also provides detailed information on how to reach, opening and closing hours, transport facilities and other practicalities, which makes the trip hassle-free even for a non-German-speaking solo female traveler.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7f9JhrxLkQOvDKgzreqp4ID80egttmV7v8f2mahW27JG40h6o1vzw2NbXzlgvRa_diZ1AX212iMQSuTuPo8hGPbgd-GVTWt1Fr45VqdIX8kCLYrLgdd2GjmhSKFtPTXTXNolyZmO_arNT/s1600/DSC06214.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>Itinerary aside, the rest is nothing but pure <i>magic</i>! All you need to do is sit on an imaginary time-machine and helplessly fall in love, all over again :)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeGU6M1O93mBHP7c7zWs2iVMtR5cHwmFFYo9MR5kENTxVbaCT3YKIX3eTeGYgij5FPaSEmC820AUkmmG190RJx_n-AENyqIYsgKY_kMnd4VTwrvvBFU1rmO-9nfc2NhlVgdoxVfK1bxG_F/s1600/DSC06108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeGU6M1O93mBHP7c7zWs2iVMtR5cHwmFFYo9MR5kENTxVbaCT3YKIX3eTeGYgij5FPaSEmC820AUkmmG190RJx_n-AENyqIYsgKY_kMnd4VTwrvvBFU1rmO-9nfc2NhlVgdoxVfK1bxG_F/s1600/DSC06108.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from outside</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVK2R8Mcq0C5f749vN_LG5WxWHmwt9g8inbZJEs7JKhGnhncz45Z1BuMbimsRFPbMI3MzTe-DnPghUxK6ARYoez6llY2uHLA5MmflZBGxhE_QdXgnDoEXqw9VunCz9kkRrA6xuc-gWSc4/s1600/DSC06111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVK2R8Mcq0C5f749vN_LG5WxWHmwt9g8inbZJEs7JKhGnhncz45Z1BuMbimsRFPbMI3MzTe-DnPghUxK6ARYoez6llY2uHLA5MmflZBGxhE_QdXgnDoEXqw9VunCz9kkRrA6xuc-gWSc4/s1600/DSC06111.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rotate you head ninety degrees and this is the view you'll get :D </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMKzWMYz8PM6poovbn-RknpQT3FLA4IOZl2PcQ9uk2kjiXgdZOh68CO3DIQ4AYlzg6YHlkPu6KsodpkjeOnvN2rWT54wufaCXF5WjS_g7fVx6AZro-oky2UA6cu1fTMt3EoiMe5z8XeJak/s1600/DSC06121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMKzWMYz8PM6poovbn-RknpQT3FLA4IOZl2PcQ9uk2kjiXgdZOh68CO3DIQ4AYlzg6YHlkPu6KsodpkjeOnvN2rWT54wufaCXF5WjS_g7fVx6AZro-oky2UA6cu1fTMt3EoiMe5z8XeJak/s1600/DSC06121.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The castle entrance. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KikJJFJZsDlnGiNhGKkqZn5xl7wKLLbR__BKLQYV7hpdtMXRvTkRK16vEcJ9D7_rL0xLNot8GQeg-N0Dv5vsApnOlQ3F523WcpKcpg8i3FOKTnwPeUnvKClLSvwK4FO4ha0tI_O6xCtA/s1600/DSC05938.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KikJJFJZsDlnGiNhGKkqZn5xl7wKLLbR__BKLQYV7hpdtMXRvTkRK16vEcJ9D7_rL0xLNot8GQeg-N0Dv5vsApnOlQ3F523WcpKcpg8i3FOKTnwPeUnvKClLSvwK4FO4ha0tI_O6xCtA/s1600/DSC05938.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look behind, and this is the view that meets the eyes. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjLzaGTsQ14gCgE4qNSnkXLrqL2ndJYequBmSj9ROjCztOFVShe1Skwg2LAN5zDt73-3iQY7Gle8YNHsC-yjS8spYc8Fvkfv4t9E9UMukzVxS12c-duL-xyTuiJ3BQWNXX9owY-maaFgc/s1600/DSC06116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjLzaGTsQ14gCgE4qNSnkXLrqL2ndJYequBmSj9ROjCztOFVShe1Skwg2LAN5zDt73-3iQY7Gle8YNHsC-yjS8spYc8Fvkfv4t9E9UMukzVxS12c-duL-xyTuiJ3BQWNXX9owY-maaFgc/s1600/DSC06116.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And this! (I visited the castle twice in two days, <br />
hence the mismatch in the color of the sky :D) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDaN7YU8mlEkZ8shiYbVIB3IzUZCh8k9MUUAuA5D4LzykuMa5DoEmbzVdLyujEtyZl5r9THPSCq5lnufaq0MPZUx_uQfGHITVNRaj_n763G6XUkhgNc2YlxgI_HV3E5bEffjCMVyBXOM-c/s1600/DSC05937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDaN7YU8mlEkZ8shiYbVIB3IzUZCh8k9MUUAuA5D4LzykuMa5DoEmbzVdLyujEtyZl5r9THPSCq5lnufaq0MPZUx_uQfGHITVNRaj_n763G6XUkhgNc2YlxgI_HV3E5bEffjCMVyBXOM-c/s1600/DSC05937.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the inside</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPGRDDsz8-tCOP5Uti-h9QgRh1EtwK1xnwAXW-nvOozKD8u9qnmuQ4kamnmjoJuz8GqXRQq4rHxO0YtcsIRmqET4kukf6uPu-o_TLmq-Ty3xE-g7GjlQAzZIWys5Kfmeu2W472rzB4GjpH/s1600/DSC05934.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPGRDDsz8-tCOP5Uti-h9QgRh1EtwK1xnwAXW-nvOozKD8u9qnmuQ4kamnmjoJuz8GqXRQq4rHxO0YtcsIRmqET4kukf6uPu-o_TLmq-Ty3xE-g7GjlQAzZIWys5Kfmeu2W472rzB4GjpH/s1600/DSC05934.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tourists, queuing up for the guided tours.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJsuPSlfq4-zRPRI7a8hPtd1KTXRgV3CKqbQAwb1HcPtvpYAetvoKXHWOZ4d0UhIXVL-9DX-81Pa-QVsiK6fOG7sS0PHb-kiUa9VUHRhVR630mtR67NQjmqAni0E0kWry0-Yt73M8gacw/s1600/DSC06140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJsuPSlfq4-zRPRI7a8hPtd1KTXRgV3CKqbQAwb1HcPtvpYAetvoKXHWOZ4d0UhIXVL-9DX-81Pa-QVsiK6fOG7sS0PHb-kiUa9VUHRhVR630mtR67NQjmqAni0E0kWry0-Yt73M8gacw/s1600/DSC06140.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The panorama from the castle. If this is not breathtaking, what is? </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKNOowHlcLnzCJuPUsJ3xXLHQI55EYJZNF_w3Bw4R01hsSSSeBg8Wh1S_4OIlHVG36_0nz00Bo-yAy_svwo9kJUpincWvwqRUtvuPU8y0HVAWJu_YOyQ80X-UAo1QvtT-57B7wGvDVZ_yl/s1600/DSC06169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKNOowHlcLnzCJuPUsJ3xXLHQI55EYJZNF_w3Bw4R01hsSSSeBg8Wh1S_4OIlHVG36_0nz00Bo-yAy_svwo9kJUpincWvwqRUtvuPU8y0HVAWJu_YOyQ80X-UAo1QvtT-57B7wGvDVZ_yl/s1600/DSC06169.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Neuschwanstein from the Marienbrucke. *gasp*</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV4MxX57IvDSmy7S3v-zdKNLFpqxIjz8RYHBWV-HdDC5eezp4g9rEVtXF3_WZddWmg_fg_HeEDKuVooxSoV8YiG6MGkj3apUagdG7YCKQfVL3ZK_HogMcAxHYe2ljftXPfqUlkRHKezjGf/s1600/DSC06174.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV4MxX57IvDSmy7S3v-zdKNLFpqxIjz8RYHBWV-HdDC5eezp4g9rEVtXF3_WZddWmg_fg_HeEDKuVooxSoV8YiG6MGkj3apUagdG7YCKQfVL3ZK_HogMcAxHYe2ljftXPfqUlkRHKezjGf/s1600/DSC06174.JPG" height="301" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up close, and dreamy!</td></tr>
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Not only is the castle stunning beyond words, the entire Hohenschwangau village presents mind-numbing panoramic views of the snow-covered Alps and the Alpsee and Schwansee lakes. Hohenschwangau itself boasts a royal <a href="https://www.hohenschwangau.de/556.0.html" target="_blank">castle</a> of its own and a <a href="https://www.hohenschwangau.de/mdbk_en.0.html" target="_blank">museum</a> of the Bavarian kings that are worth a visit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP18r6iEmvfqT6VxU9Qw4dd1GuvQeXOCe4R6Q-KQhJM2gXslHr47EGrUWJ_X7MU1r6KJboD9xd3sHXYU7ukyZ_-FQpPmAKEtz8NvnBtpWcvvBWFxjnTOOu8w23igywMkGZQ7qr6UhyphenhyphenOKme/s1600/DSC06184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP18r6iEmvfqT6VxU9Qw4dd1GuvQeXOCe4R6Q-KQhJM2gXslHr47EGrUWJ_X7MU1r6KJboD9xd3sHXYU7ukyZ_-FQpPmAKEtz8NvnBtpWcvvBWFxjnTOOu8w23igywMkGZQ7qr6UhyphenhyphenOKme/s1600/DSC06184.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hohenschwangau Castle</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6yCC-lRdDz4kzXt-C5A-OP7hLHKQvdHSKvHULcReoCAv6mrUP0VdCEs4Kv9kHtzPT0M69Ajm5G7QXONObmRaIDJ6l5K0eMOimxIyYI8PxDMDrgefGza1d4LUwTw2mfLiSPJYIIZ5tYdHF/s1600/DSC06187.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6yCC-lRdDz4kzXt-C5A-OP7hLHKQvdHSKvHULcReoCAv6mrUP0VdCEs4Kv9kHtzPT0M69Ajm5G7QXONObmRaIDJ6l5K0eMOimxIyYI8PxDMDrgefGza1d4LUwTw2mfLiSPJYIIZ5tYdHF/s1600/DSC06187.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Museum of the Bavarian Kings, located just beside the Alpsee lake. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbpl275f0CsScTkpzUS4EaR1_CS5bI_k6qxh-PqRrTP5IRX7z05LxW2nvy_jH8ob2SFN5pVxyzmjQvm2V3mOezhXKIyCLnUzOZeIdYxvebKLiToCG3Y50jOqBJBDFf5uaqla4vn-MCL-L/s1600/DSC06196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbpl275f0CsScTkpzUS4EaR1_CS5bI_k6qxh-PqRrTP5IRX7z05LxW2nvy_jH8ob2SFN5pVxyzmjQvm2V3mOezhXKIyCLnUzOZeIdYxvebKLiToCG3Y50jOqBJBDFf5uaqla4vn-MCL-L/s1600/DSC06196.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lake Alpsee. Relaxing on a bench by the lake, icecream in <br />
hand, and a clear sunny day- ingredients that recipes of perfection <br />
are made of. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX4IlDbbA6qHRntFsTX9tuygNQWHKKnChll8R5_bm1JpdaoyoAySmhEhNLk1GZdn-ot-oCuZ7NN0SOEdOQZDz_W2lrJmmEoXJsPpK1nna_5PWPoREnk2cRzzb1m5HZqFq7Y86LEey-Jwcb/s1600/DSC06216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX4IlDbbA6qHRntFsTX9tuygNQWHKKnChll8R5_bm1JpdaoyoAySmhEhNLk1GZdn-ot-oCuZ7NN0SOEdOQZDz_W2lrJmmEoXJsPpK1nna_5PWPoREnk2cRzzb1m5HZqFq7Y86LEey-Jwcb/s1600/DSC06216.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And then, all of a sudden, this! Happiness, doubled. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7f9JhrxLkQOvDKgzreqp4ID80egttmV7v8f2mahW27JG40h6o1vzw2NbXzlgvRa_diZ1AX212iMQSuTuPo8hGPbgd-GVTWt1Fr45VqdIX8kCLYrLgdd2GjmhSKFtPTXTXNolyZmO_arNT/s1600/DSC06214.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7f9JhrxLkQOvDKgzreqp4ID80egttmV7v8f2mahW27JG40h6o1vzw2NbXzlgvRa_diZ1AX212iMQSuTuPo8hGPbgd-GVTWt1Fr45VqdIX8kCLYrLgdd2GjmhSKFtPTXTXNolyZmO_arNT/s1600/DSC06214.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lech river just at the border of Austria.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTXPR2L55s5pIGId87skT5iEc6eGzWzDeAeEgWXGN20qkBuAfvcLa5kCmK3eelBFxmpvtHrI0vFkBwxR3iuvqhbnBZ00ZOBfxxTRcouTc7hTBpcQRdf2SYICkpVsNm8zjK6Q_a2NK_Rf-3/s1600/DSC06219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTXPR2L55s5pIGId87skT5iEc6eGzWzDeAeEgWXGN20qkBuAfvcLa5kCmK3eelBFxmpvtHrI0vFkBwxR3iuvqhbnBZ00ZOBfxxTRcouTc7hTBpcQRdf2SYICkpVsNm8zjK6Q_a2NK_Rf-3/s1600/DSC06219.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">The river-beach, captured through the lens of its sole admirer :)</td></tr>
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A place this beautiful is <i>bound </i>to take the breath away and leave one speechless. However, <i>nothing</i> in the world prepares you for the sight when you get up in the morning, look out the hostel window and suddenly catch a glimpse of the fairy-tale castle, radiating in the fresh morning light! <i>Surreal</i>? That's the word.</div>
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<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-WDDn8aKFy3w%2FU3FV_HnwqeI%2FAAAAAAAACnk%2FivfUHkC_e54%2Fs1600%2FNeuschwanstein-Castle-Germany.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjAAEyJM93AeBu-7EH8flEk1O_KuFsrW8WzuZMf9XRtlHSO6qt84zqowRsxKYtSQbNZM1IyBdNkS9MIk0BK6ElR_EEoRlCI_4JhCmkmmTjEHViS7nd8rEgGbQQCgIGtfe9cy6YmJFWeF0P/s1600/Neuschwanstein-Castle-Germany.jpg" -->Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com6Germany51.165691 10.45152600000005840.94185 -10.202770999999942 61.389532 31.105823000000058tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-23671734954121801142014-05-04T10:45:00.000+05:302014-05-04T22:04:19.142+05:30What's cooking?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Of late, I am noticing that the number of cooking blogs being posted on Facebook is growing by leaps and bounds each day. There are days (which happen to be almost everyday) when the news feed overflows with pictures and recipes of food, food, food and more food. Breakfast food- check, lunch and dinner food- check, mid office snack- check, desserts- check, Indian- check, Asian- check, Continental- check, Mexican- check, and the list goes on. No, I am not at all against cooking blogs or posting food pictures on social networking sites. On the contrary, the amount of effort, patience and creativity put into cooking fascinate me to no extent. And ofcourse, it leaves me salivating, putting<i> 'Pavlov's dog'</i> to shame. </div>
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I, perhaps, am the worst cook in the whole world. No, not even the worst cook. Far below the worst. In the last two years that I have lived alone, friends and colleagues have made futile attempts to make me cook. They have made fun of me, threatened me, forced me, tried to teach me. But nothing has worked. I have nonchalantly ignored them and continued eating salad and bread for breakfast, lunch, snacks and dinner. To be honest, I am quite okay with it. More than okay for that matter. People have often wondered how I never crave for home cooked Indian food, given that I always claim that eating is a part of my soul. Agreed, I love to eat. Eating IS a part of my soul. But then there's something else that defines me. <b>Lyadh! </b>Lyadh (which when translated means the highest degree of laziness), is, according to me, THE path to <i>Moksha</i>. Hence, the effort needed to keep the other part of the soul happy has got lost somewhere. </div>
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Having said all that, I can as-a-matter-of-fact make four things. No, not CAN (as it might mean that I am good at making these). I have managed to MAKE four things in the past. Chocolate/Vanilla cake (blindly following the easiest-recipe-on-earth from Ma), pasta (after being spoon-fed by the guy), Chili Paneer (with cottage cheese, that took me three hours instead of the usual 30 mins) and Aloo Dum (again from Ma, and super-simplified given the Lyadh). I am not proud of any of my achievements. Infact I feel nothing but sorry for the person who has been on the receiving end of my cooking expedition. But then, isn't love all about pushing tasteless food down the throat and making the 'wow-it-was-so-good' face? :D<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2mpkl8WPNCIi37dug11bNj9Ro2yw7YVXUHdG0uzvKk1zSdi9XpO5ISNtqNFcI0KikYf6XUoK2fSTbiTDi-R7f9jqPOAPzdBuVJgaqc36NI4bkLvO46GYn1medU5H-uIpfsWar4Dtj56WL/s1600/luchi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2mpkl8WPNCIi37dug11bNj9Ro2yw7YVXUHdG0uzvKk1zSdi9XpO5ISNtqNFcI0KikYf6XUoK2fSTbiTDi-R7f9jqPOAPzdBuVJgaqc36NI4bkLvO46GYn1medU5H-uIpfsWar4Dtj56WL/s1600/luchi.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Enough self-loathing done, this post needs a face-lift now. And what better than to end it with a <i>proper</i> food picture from my stock! Two months ago, I made <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luchi" target="_blank">Luchi</a> for the then-room-mate. It is a traditional Bengali flatbread made of flour, to be had with curry on a Sunday morning. In the beginning, I was all excited at the prospect of making my first ever Luchi. However, by a cruel twist of fate, just before starting I figured that the rolling-pin essential to make the dough was missing. When all attempts to acquire/borrow/buy/.. a rolling-pin ended in disaster, we decided to invent our own method. The end-result: A hilarious looking Luchi, prepared, using <i>a bottle of red wine </i>instead! :D </div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-20558761744434711122014-04-24T15:30:00.000+05:302014-04-24T16:16:09.781+05:30Narcissism<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Being a strong believer of "Stressed when spelled backwards is Desserts", nothing in the world makes me happier than indulging in chocolates and cakes and anything that has either of these two words. As a result, people who know me well enough (or otherwise) invariably end up gifting me variations of these on birthdays, anniversaries and other special occasions. However, while the love for desserts enjoys an undivided attention, personalized gifts come a close second on my happiness-index. Personalized anything- be it a hand-written letter, note or a diary, a self-made card, sketch or a cake, home-made liquor or a pair of gloves- takes away the pain of a not-so-great day/week/month and fills the heart with immense joy. </div>
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The reason for this unabashed proclamation of preferences is the fact that the week happens to be the week of adding another feather to the 'i-am-getting-old' cap! While friends and family haven't left a stone unturned in reminding me that I am fast approaching the very wrong side of twenty, the customized gifts accompanying such nasty remarks have made me wonder if I am the most loved (and not to mention the most materialistic) person in the world! :D</div>
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Indeed, presents make me happy. Very happy. Dancing-in-the-clouds kind of happy. And when they happen to be someone's DIY's (Do It Yourself), the happiness knows no bounds. So, while a tiny hand-painted birthday card with scribbling all over moistens the eyes, a three-page letter about bad-handwriting pulls the cheeks apart. While a collage of 'over the years' pictures becomes the reason of a big lump in the throat , a filled-in diary becomes the reason for many sleepless nights. While a digital testimonial makes the heart fall in love all over again, a hand-made cake with a single candle and a chorus of cheerful voices adds the icing on top. </div>
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Celebrating a special day away from home is never easy. Celebrating a special day attending seminars all day and feeling suicidal afterwards on account of a horrible discussion with the supervisor is perhaps the worst. But then there are certain ingredients that recipes of contentment are made of. Thankfully, I have some.</div>
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On another similar note, I came across this phrase today on Facebook (originally by Audrey Hepburn): "I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls". A few sadnesses here and there, no wonder I looked the prettiest when I looked at myself in the mirror tonight. Also, no wonder I have named the post Narcissism :D</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-80575782691278092722014-04-06T09:30:00.000+05:302014-04-06T00:26:04.749+05:30Pencil on paper<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Last month while visiting home, I came across a wooden sailing ship, casually displayed on the window of an interior decoration showroom. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and all I could do was stand outside and ogle the 'magnum opus' with lustful eyes. And then, as all my dreams came crashing down with a single look at the price tag, I decided to own it nevertheless, by hook or by crook! :D</div>
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Reviving the old habit. Pencil-shade, after ages. Happy feelings. <div style="text-align: justify;">
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-41458817188439367232014-04-02T17:30:00.000+05:302014-04-02T15:17:17.471+05:30Memories in March<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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They say, home is where the heart is. I say, heart is where the home is. The last one month has been all about that.</div>
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I visited Calcutta after a year and a half. Amidst the usual pampering and spoon-feeding, night-outs, weekend trips, sudden plans and the nostalgia, writing took a back-seat (as did work, the PhD, conference deadlines, Skype discussions with supervisor). But then, as an angry child desperate to regain the lost attention, it fought its way back into my priority-list and forced me to serve its demands in these wee hours :D</div>
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Home, as always, was great. However, the highlight of the trip apart from the usual madness, was the three-days trip to the land of Rabindranath Tagore, with the best friends, during the festival of colors. That *life-is-beautiful* kind of feeling, experienced.</div>
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Santiniketan is a small town in the Birbhum district in West Bengal, India. Internationally, the place is known for its association with the famous Bengali Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore, and attracts thousands of tourists each year. Although numerous cultural events are organized throughout the year, the place is best known for its Poush Mela (in December) and Basanta Utsav (in March, during Holi) celebrations. Luckily this year, we were part of one such :)</div>
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The train journey from Calcutta to Bolpur, Santiniketan takes approx. 3 hours. So the place serves as a perfect weekend getaway for many. There are also several accommodation options, from cheap hostels to fancy guest-houses, and can be booked at short notice. However, visiting Santiniketan during one of these festivals can be tricky (and annoyingly messy) and therefore it is advisable to plan the itinerary well in advance. Alternatively, if you believe in spontaneity (can also be read as stupidity by some), you can ofcourse do what we did- pay an unplanned visit :D</div>
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We stayed at the Bharat Sevasram, located in a small village called Muluk, some 5-6 kilometers from Santiniketan. This required us to travel daily, back-and-forth. But what seemed like an ordeal in the beginning, turned out to be the most enjoyable part of the trip. </div>
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The color festival, with its utter mismanagement, was not overly impressive. Also, the fact that most of Santiniketan, including the entire Visvabharati University campus and the famous deer-park remained closed during this time, left us disappointed. However, the ambiance in and around Santiniketan, the enthusiasm of people, the breathtaking handloom and handicraft collections, the mesmerizing Baul singers, the peaceful sunset on the banks of the Kopai river, the mindless strolls taken along the deserted village roads and the not-always-perfect conversations on the balcony on a full-moon night gave us memories of a lifetime. </div>
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The famous laal-mati (red soil) of Santiniketan. *mentally humming country-roads-take-me-home while writing this* </div>
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Sanibarer Haat- a weekly craft fair organized by the West Bengal Tourism, that presents outrageously beautiful and inexpensive collections of traditional Bengal handicrafts, decorative items, hand-made jewelry, textiles and more. </div>
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Muluk being explored, on foot, on a hot Summer day, and later, rest under the shades of the palm trees. Breather. </div>
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Often, people ask me if I consider myself fortunate to have been given the opportunity to travel to new countries each year. I always answer in the affirmative, given that I consider traveling synonymous to breathing. However, one doesn't need to visit Europe or the US to experience the joys of traveling. Small happinesses of life can also be discovered in a tiny village, from the indecipherable yet serene look on a Grandma's face :)</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com4Germany51.165691 10.45152600000005840.94185 -10.202770999999942 61.389532 31.105823000000058tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-89264011172241115192014-03-05T04:43:00.000+05:302014-03-04T15:24:57.625+05:30Catty<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I am not a cat person, and would prefer any other pet to cats any day. But when these bundles of joy happen to be the first things you see in the morning, and realize that a random stray cat has chosen the deserted store-room in your garden to be the birth-place for her babies, you can't help but feel proud. And happy. Very very happy :)</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156559194416988359.post-25776024918261563232014-02-28T12:30:00.000+05:302014-02-27T23:22:56.487+05:30Lost in Transit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Amidst marathon packing, distorted luggage, submission deadlines and the sudden realization that so much needed to be done at the last minute, I came home. </div>
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Calcutta, and the new airport. Calcutta, after more than a year. Calcutta, on a month-long vacation. Calcutta, with the entire family and extended family around- I had enough reasons to rejoice. But then I was given a bonus- a minuscule visit to a Middle-east country while in transit. That *walking-on-the-moon* kind of a feeling, in Dubai!</div>
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On the day of the travel, our flight got delayed by more than six hours in Munich and we missed our connecting flight from Dubai. As a result, we were offered a place in the next flight to Calcutta and given the treatment only royalty could expect :-)</div>
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Dubai airport happens to be the largest in the world, spread over an area of thirty-five kilometers. It's beautiful, immaculate and breathtakingly expensive. Every time I fly home from Germany, I stop in Dubai, browse through the shops and outlets while never looking at the price tags, ogle the casually displayed Porsche's and Ferrari's and Rolex's, gape at the grandeur and then fly to Calcutta. This time around, we were pretty exhausted by the time we reached Dubai after a long and delayed flight from Munich. Added to that, the fact that we had to wait for another seven-eight hours before the next flight to Calcutta. We were almost preparing to blow up, when the airlines offered us a hurricane trip inside the city- with paid meals, accommodation and transport. Oh how quickly the frowns turned into big wide-mouthed U's!<br />
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We spent an hour in the airport strolling through the terminals, a starry-eyed me gazing at the magnificence and a pragmatic he complaining about so much being spent on luxury items. Shortly afterwards, we were taken to the hotel, through the city, where WE (to be read as its mirror image!) behaved like never-been-in-a-hotel-or-for-that-matter-inside-a-room type of school children, giggled stupidly, took infinite photographs, checked out every single item with lustful eyes, ate ex(t/p)ensive breakfast and, well-oh-well, slept! Hours later while boarding the flight for home just on time, the guy asked me, "We didn't even manage to see the city, only a few buildings and sights on our way to and from the hotel. How come you are still so happy?" To that, I said, "It was never about seeing the city in the first place", and the guy added, "..which was evident from the look on your face!" and burst out laughing. </div>
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It was, infact, never about seeing the city. It was always about the things we were offered, *free* being the key-word here :P. I had never set foot on a middle-east country outside the premises of the airport before, which had been exciting enough. However, the fact that it was accompanied with an "all-expenses-paid" trip made it even more special. It took away the pain of flights being delayed by more than 12-hours, of dragging the luggage indefinitely and made me realize that the best things in life are indeed free! :-)</div>
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Ipsita Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05599755465302607108noreply@blogger.com2