Surrealistic Austerity No More

22 04 2013

Surrealistic Austerity No More

A soundless feast for the furious mind at night delivers a pitch-dark bloom. The tender stillness explores several visions, in it flies a blue bird with a sunrise tail. Across mountains, below the oceans, atop the skies with vigour and earrings she flies then finally perches on her gentle arm.

She wakes up a bit earlier not gauging the entire dream sequence. She hardly manages to get past the watery sense of the bird. A sight passes her memory, “Future is a bastard with a smile” her brother had once remarked when he had ‘lost and found’ a pen with the golden nib. She could relate to it now, unable to mentally reconstruct the hazy side of paradise she bitingly pens her chickpea remembrance. A grassy patch overshadows her activities. She’d rather digest the maze model of her dream than piece it all together incoherently.

The next night arrives long after the white balloon shines bright. She’s sliding again in the frothy landscape. There’s a knock at her door, she walks to the door with her earphones on, and a song on her lips. Through the peephole, stands a man with neatly unshaven beard. He apes a monkey, starts dancing in his brown shoes and yellow shirt; she opens the door to see him adjust his pants. He apologises and hands her a small package with her name written on it.

Anew enthusiasm shoulders her, feels she has solved the Rubik’s Cube. The dream she couldn’t quite grasp the first night was not a failure but a test, she has mastered the art of connecting the dots of her dreams. This shows up in calling back her second dream. Shortly, there’s a knock at her door, she walks to the door in her pyjamas like it has happened in her dream without her earphones. The peephole brings her a man, opens the door to receive a package with her name on it. Her horrific jubilance surprises the delivery man. He asks her to sign and says ta-ta, strangely with his four fingers, his thumb hidden under the palm or totally missing doesn’t discomfort her ‘cause she had seen it behind her closed eyes already.

Dreams gather a total conception often spilling the small and the mighty recurrence. Technology, the cow that keeps giving milk incessantly turns on her mind bulb. Office 365, her god mother has all the answers. She directly connects her dreams to the Office 365 applications with no further ado. And the young woman does it on a large scale in a matter of weeks. Her clients are from all rungs of the society. Lync Online helps record the visuals of a person’s dream. Other features assist the client in emailing the dream story to the people he/she would want to. He / she can make voice calls, send and receive pictures of the subconscious mind. Web Conferencing, sharing ideas, problems and silliness are possible like telepathy with Office 365. The bonanza of Office 365 is that it’s available for all – sane, retards, infants and those that breathe and eat at a price even a petty shop owner would jump and do a traditional dance. Privacy is ranked first, nobody can run into another’s mind without the person’s consent. All these and more during the sleep hours, a perfect emotion at your disposal.

Magic lies in the trick, Office 365 is the magician for your mysteries, feuds and cupcake parties.

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Link – http://www.office365.in/





Comes Headless Music

12 04 2013

Comes Headless Music

Wouldn’t it be headless music for a nation to not respect women? What atonement would fix a hole in the heart? Neat erasure of women in the society is equal to a full stop to human race.

Sex selective abortion in India has been a meandering recurrence of devious trouble. What then is the solution for a shameful bale? Completeness isn’t about absence of a certain element, it is the presence of all elements in vital proportions. We lose girls every year to beliefs that state men bring money and women bring misery. Does a wood stick mind know that a woman is as important as a man?

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Walter Astrada, a photojournalist from Argentina has captured the mucus moments of the silhouetted side of India. He has irreproachably mixed the nuisance sentiments of women torture in Undesired: Violence Against Women in India, his exploration of the impacts of sex selective abortions in India. Sadness carpets the episodic rise of even the economically charged country Norway, Walter Astrada documents the violence in the country with an insider’s eye and an outsider’s sympathy. He has also photographed the puddled violence in Democratic Republic of Congo and Guatemala. Women are not blessed with peace by the men folk. While some consider the land mother, some dispense harsh outrages.

His project looks into the violence against women in four continents – Asia, Europe, Africa and North America (India, Norway, Democratic Republic of Congo and Guatemala). Like the sinkhole in Guatemala, there is a ‘psyche hole’ in the countries that do not enjoy gender equality. No country is safe if a woman of the land cannot reach home without a scratch of the mind or the body.

Walter Astrada, born in Argentina in 1974, is a freelancer based in Kampala, Uganda, and is a stringer for Agence France-Presse. In 1996, he started his career as staff photographer in La Nacion newspaper (Argentina). In 1999 he travelled in Brazil, Chile, Bolivia and Peru developing a personal project on “Faith.” In September 1999 he joined The Associated Press in Bolivia and later in Argentina. From 2000 to 2002 he worked for the Associated Press in Paraguay. During 2003, he worked as a freelancer in Buenos Aires and Madrid, then at the end of 2003 he re-joined the Associated Press based in the Dominican Republic. From March 2005 until March 2006, he worked as a freelancer for Agence France Presse in the Dominican Republic and was represented and distributed by World Picture News. From March 2006 until December 2007 he was a freelancer in Spain.

He travelled to India to document the effects of the selective abortion of feminine foetuses and the death of women because of complications during abortions carried out in poor hygienic conditions and complications during the pregnancy and giving birth.

The practice of sex-selective abortion is the result of cultural norms that value male children over female children. The Lancet magazine estimates that in the last 20 years 10 million feminine foetuses have been eliminated in the country. Likewise, the numbers of pregnant women that die each year in India from preventable causes are close to 80,000.

His project aims at contemplating violence against women as a historic and worldwide phenomenon and his goal is to create awareness about this violence and its consequences in the life of tens of thousands of women and girls.

He has recently won the Alfred I. du Pont Award for Excellence in Broadcast and Digital Journalism for Undesired.

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(Walter Astrada)

Let us all hope with the wick of the candle that it shall never run out of flame for the darker days may end with disgust and better days may arise with a new shine.

This post is a part of #Soldierforwomen in association with BlogAdda.com





Memories, Growing Up

3 04 2013

Memories, Growing Up

‘Kanika, you forgot this’ Krithika raised her hand to show the lunch box she had nearly forgotten.

‘Ahh thanks. I knew I had missed something. I guess we can go now’ Kanika’s bag opened up to receive the box.

As they walk to the school;
‘Am I alright today? All right?’
‘Yes. You are. You do want the curly haired to hit on you, don’t you? Twin prick?’
‘It’s not like he hits on me and leaves you with teary eyes, if he hits on me mathematically he hits on us. We’re made ‘with’ each other remember.’ Krithika smiled through her minty tongue.
‘Krithi, you don’t understand boys. They are mean, trust me.’
‘Not all men are. ‘George’ Bala is a fine example.’
‘Krithi, he’s our dad. He has to be good. I can’t find a better person than our dad.’
‘I agree. May be someday we’ll get guys at least half as good as ‘George’’ Krithika wasn’t sarcastic. She meant it.
Kanika looked at her mirror. They both were the same, in face, clothes, braids and nails.
‘I still remember the day we visited the planetarium. It was so good, my god, I thought the planets were falling.’
‘Yeah… dad was also awestruck. That’s probably one of the times he interchanged our names. You were crying like a baby.’
‘And what were you doing sister?’
‘I was consoling you.’
‘Krithi, you were pouncing for an ice cream, for a stupid ice cream which you couldn’t finish by the way.’
‘Oh please, you were cursing me, you had that bad cold, you were coughing too.’
‘So, that’s your reason for not putting the ice cream in my mouth but on my head, my beautifully braided hair.’
‘Now that we are in tenth grade and kind of mature, I’d have to say yes. I resisted emulating your hairstyle, you know your hair, those wonderful plaits, long and thick. I hated it yet I loved it. But I just couldn’t sit dad down and braid my hair.’
‘He’d have done it anyway’ Kanika raised her eyebrows for a simple answer.
‘Of course, he’d have done it. The problem is I didn’t want to be you. I wanted people to call me Krithika and you Kanika. I hated when people switched our names. I wanted to be different so that people would recognise me. Although I failed miserably I must confess it’s for the good. It’s for the good.’
‘Krithi, I’m sorry. I didn’t know this.’
‘This was way back. Long back. Not now. Come on, we are best friends now and we have a cool friend too with whom we share everything. Our pride and ruin.’
‘Yes. ‘George’.’
‘Yes. ‘George’.’

It’s almost evening, the fog or the traffic air slowly descends upon the green buried locality. Sisters go to their dad’s room to see him snore on the couch. His one hand mysteriously drawing circles in the air, they see their newly accomplished wall.

‘He’s done it again. Our Bala has done it again. Look, he’s painted another braided George Washington.’ The twins are excited. ‘Dad, we love you. It’s brilliant.’ They wake him up with their hugs and tickles.

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